Special Forces: The Operator Page 19

  Truth be told, he desperately hoped the Iranians were not behind this attack. The diplomatic incident and scandal would be horrendous if a nation known for harboring, aiding and supplying terrorists was linked to a terror attack.

  As the night aged, he brought cups of coffee to Rebel and Gia, and as the women began to rub their eyes and squint at the computer screens, he brought them bottles of eye drops to moisten their fatigued eyes. Beyond that, there wasn’t much he could do but stay out of their way.

  As morning finally broke, he called the IOC security chief and asked for five minutes of the guy’s time. He was granted three minutes before the morning security briefing, which started in twenty minutes.

  Avi hurried over to Rebel’s workstation. “I’m going to need those briefing slides as quickly as you can build them. I’m due at IOC headquarters in about fifteen minutes.”

  Dark circles under her eyes announced her exhaustion, but she nodded resolutely. “I’m on it. Give me five minutes.”

  “Come with me and give the briefing,” he muttered to her.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s your work. You should get credit for it.”

  “Oh.”

  Not used to men letting her have the spotlight, was she? He snorted. When was she going to figure out he wasn’t anything like the jerks she’d grown up around?

  Chapter 16

  Rebel had only gotten a single tour of the IOC security center upon her arrival in Australia several weeks ago, well before the games had begun. The communications center had been quiet then, mostly deserted. Not so, now. Every station was manned, and the tension in the room was electric after last night’s shooting.

  “This way,” Avi murmured. His hand came to rest in the small of her back, as he guided her through the maze of workstations to a closed door. He knocked on the panel.

  “Enter!” a voice called.

  Avi introduced her to a silver-haired man, who looked unusually fit for his age. “This is Otto Schweimburg. Chief of Olympic Security. Otto, this is Rebel McQueen. Photo intel analyst from the American security team.”

  Schweimburg nodded tersely. “As you can imagine after last night, I’m in a hurry. What’ve you got?”

  “Rebel?” Avi said.

  “Shall we sit?” she suggested, setting her laptop on Schwiemburg’s desk and opening it up. Quickly she showed him the satellite photo of the Iranian training mock-up, and her comparison slide showing how the dimensions of last night’s plaza and the estimated size of the mock-up were very similar.

  Schweimburg looked up at her and Avi sharply. “So, you’re suggesting the Iranian government launched last night’s attack? Why would they attack a target out in the city and not one attached to the Olympics officially?”

  Rebel replied, “It’s not my job to speculate, sir. It’s merely my job to point out the similarities between a piece of recent intelligence and a more recent attack.”

  “Duly noted,” the German replied. “What do you suggest I do by way of response to this information?”

  She blinked, not accustomed to being asked for her opinion. She took a deep breath and answered, “I would recommend relocating the games to the emergency backup facilities immediately.”

  “You do understand the upheaval that would cause, don’t you?” Schweimburg snapped.

  She shrugged. “You asked for my recommendation. I didn’t say it was convenient. We’ve had two credible attacks on the games, and both attacks have at least circumstantial links to the Iranian government.”

  “We’ve had one attack on a rock concert not officially affiliated with the games,” the German snapped.

  “I have to respectfully disagree, sir. I was at the swimming pool the night of the chlorine incident, and I saw two Iranian men by the pool at the exact spot I believe the chlorine was released into the water.”

  “Bronson briefed me on your theory. But it’s only a theory.”

  The German’s tone was dismissive at best, and insultingly condescending at worst. Nonetheless, she stood her ground. She was sick and tired of no one listening to her when her gut shouted that she was exactly right. Even Avi treated her like a cute little kitten to be petted and amused by, but not taken seriously.

  “You’re not paying attention to me,” she ground out. “I don’t make any analysis lightly or without reasonable certainty that I’m correct. And I’m telling you, something stinks about these two incidents.”

  “Like what?” Schweimburg demanded, openly hostile, now.

  “Like why weren’t more people killed last night?” she challenged baldly. “I’ve identified three probable directions of sniper fire in the plaza. Three snipers with ninety seconds to shoot, and they only took ten shots, total? Why not spray three hundred rounds in that time and take out dozens, or hundreds of targets? It’s what I would have done if I were a terrorist looking to make a statement.”

  Schweimburg and Avi both stared at her, looking shocked.

  “And why a stupid little chlorine attack? Why not release something really caustic that would have peeled the skin off everyone in that pool?”

  “Follow the logic,” Avi said tersely, interrupting what appeared to be Schweimburg opening his mouth to kick her out of his office. “Keep talking, Rebel.”

  She frowned. “Speaking as an intelligence analyst, the worst-case scenario is to assume that both attacks were perpetrated by the same person or persons. Starting with that, the next step is to put myself in the head of the attackers. One attack in the Olympic Village, that resulted in greatly increased security in and around athlete housing. A second attack in the city, near the games but separate from the games. It, too, has resulted in significant police resources being diverted to protecting tourists. I can only conclude that both of these small attacks were either test attacks to gauge reaction, or more likely, attempts to draw off security assets from the attacker’s ultimate target.”

  “What’s the ultimate target?” Schweimburg blurted.

  “Unknown,” she answered. “I would need more data to form a hypothesis. But it’ll be much larger than either of these warm-up attacks.”

  “Warm-ups?” Schweimburg echoed. He shuddered visibly.

  “Like I said,” Rebel pounded home, “I’d move the Olympics now, and pray the terrorists are not attached to a delegation and don’t end up moving with the athletes and officials.”

  “You want me to load up twenty thousand athletes, nearly as many officials and coaches, and all of their gear on a fleet of passenger jets. Then I’m supposed to fly them to Los Angeles to the facilities under construction for the next Olympic Games. And I’m supposed to resume the games—leaving behind all the spectators and media here to watch and cover the games?”

  She shrugged. “That would be my understanding of how an emergency evacuation would happen. Why else do you have forty 747s sitting on the ramp at Sydney International Airport? Aren’t they here for exactly that purpose?”

  “That’s supposed to be classified information.”

  She retorted dryly, “It’s hard to hide forty jumbo jets. And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why they’re hanging around the Olympic Games, doing nothing.”

  Schweimburg scowled and notably did not dispute her claim.

  He did, however, counter, “What if these attacks are unrelated, and furthermore, they’re all that the attackers could manage to do in the face of the overwhelming security around the games?”

  “Then that’s the best-case scenario, and you’re darned lucky the attacks weren’t worse. Believe me, sir, I would love to be wrong. But you asked for my professional opinion. I gave it.”

  “The IOC and all the Australian tourist councils would argue stridently against moving the games,” Schweimburg said heavily. “I would be shouted down immediately if I even broached the subject of moving the games.”

/>   Rebel shrugged. “Your responsibility is the safety of the athletes and spectators, not the profitability of the games.”

  “Easier said than done,” he snapped. “I’m late for another meeting. I’ll take your analysis under advisement.”

  Which meant he was going to round file her briefing in his trash can and ignore her. Frustration roiled in her gut as she silently filed out of the office behind Avi. Even worse was her sense of being ignored. Again.

  When they were completely outside the building, Avi finally broke the thick silence between them. “Are you okay?”

  She whirled to glare at him. “No. I’m not okay. I’m sick and tired of not being taken seriously. Is it because I’m not experienced enough? Or because I’m under the age of forty? Or because I’m short? Or is it just because I don’t—” she emphasized her next words with a jab of her finger to Avi’s chest with each word “—Have. A. Penis?”

  He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I don’t have any problem with you being a woman! Personally, I’m thrilled that you’re a woman!”

  “And yet you didn’t think I could take care of myself in that park. You keep protecting me like I’m some hand-wringing, delicate flower? When are you going to look at me and see a soldier? When are you going to look at me and see your equal?”

  He sputtered as if he had no idea how to respond to that concept.

  “I may not have twenty years of Spec Ops under my belt, Avi Bronson, but the United States Armed Forces are pretty damned good at training special operators. And I’m one of them. Stop patting me on the head and treating me like I’m a weak, helpless kitten!”

  “Uhh, got it,” he said as he took a cautious step backward, away from her. “No kittens.”

  “I happen to be one of the top-rated real-time, photographic intelligence analysts in the United States government. I know my job, and I stand by every word I said in there. You tell me why last night’s shooters only took ten lousy shots!”

  “I’m sure I have no idea,” Avi said carefully.

  “My analysis is spot-on,” she snarled.

  “I believe you.”

  She snorted. “Right now, you’re scared of me because I’m pissed off. You’ll say anything to appease me.”

  That brought him up short. He stopped backing away from her and his spine straightened. “Actually, no. I won’t lie to appease anyone. I do believe you. I think your analysis is exactly right. I also think Otto Schweimburg is a political hack who needs to grow a pair of cojones.”

  Rebel stared at Avi, surprised. “Seriously?” she asked with slightly less heat.

  “Swear to God. He’s an ass and you’re right.”

  Some of the wind went out of her tirade. She asked more calmly, “What do you suggest we do next?”

  “You and the Medusas and I have to go back to the drawing board. I’m inclined to believe you and trust your analysis of the situation. It hadn’t occurred to me to wonder why more people weren’t killed in the plaza, but as soon as you mentioned it, it made total sense that something is off about that attack.”

  “Do you think I’m correct that security resources are being drawn away from the real target?” she asked.

  “It’s as good an explanation as any. And it’s worth following up on. What places have had their security contingents reduced because of the two attacks?”

  “Easy,” she answered. “The event venues. Particularly the big ones with large security teams. Otto and his people deemed them well enough protected to be able to spare some of the warm bodies patrolling them for other duties.”

  “Great. There are ten venues that seat more than a thousand spectators—some of them in the tens of thousands. How are we supposed to cover all of those with our little working group?” Avi groused.

  “No idea. We’ll just have to keep an eye out and hope to catch a break. If we could get decent surveillance on Mahmoud and his crew, we might stand a chance of thwarting whatever they’re planning.”

  Avi shook his head. “The bastard’s gone to ground and no one’s seen even a glimpse of him since you saw him at that swimming pool.”

  At least Avi believed her when she said she was sure it had been Mahmoud Akhtar she’d seen.

  “I need to get back to my desk,” she announced. “There’s still video to comb through.”

  “You worked all night,” Avi responded. “You need a bite to eat and to take a nap. Once you’ve rested, you’ll be much more effective.”

  She snorted. “I wasn’t effective at all in that meeting with Schweimburg.”

  “Hey, you called it correctly. He’s just stuck between doing the cautious thing for security and pressure from the business interests around the games. It’s a hard balancing act, and he made his best call. You and I just happen to disagree with him. Regardless, we still have to do our jobs and actually protect the event.”

  Avi steered her toward the dining hall, and she let him order her an omelet and stack her plate with toast, bacon, fruit, potatoes and stewed tomatoes.

  “I couldn’t eat half of this if I tried!” she exclaimed.

  “Fine. I’ll eat the rest. And then you sleep. After that, you and I need to have a talk.”

  She looked up at him sharply, then her gaze skittered away from his. That was a whole lot more intensity in his eyes than she was prepared to deal with right now. Not when she was exhausted and frustrated by Schweimburg’s failure to take her seriously, and she felt terrible about those six innocent people killed in the plaza last night.

  * * *

  To say that he was frustrated was an understatement. Avi went to the head of the Israeli security team with Rebel’s pictures, and he put forward her theory that many more people should have been killed in the plaza.

  As a result, the Israelis doubled up the security on their athletes and posted more armed guards around the athlete’s quarters, but that was about all they could do without the cooperation of the International and Australian Olympic Committees.

  It also meant Avi spent every waking minute pulling security details for the next several days. Rebel moved back to her own room and answered his text with one-word replies that were completely uninformative. Dammit. She’d retreated all the way into her emotional shell and wasn’t planning to come out anytime soon.

  She’d slipped away from him.

  Or maybe he’d never really had her in the first place.

  But he’d really thought they’d forged a connection. Something that went deeper than just dynamite sex. He’d really thought he’d broken through her ridiculous notions of happiness being a myth.

  He sent her ridiculously expensive handmade chocolates, and he even had the best pizza in Sydney—a deep-dish concoction a full two inches tall—delivered to her room.

  He got back single word texts. “Thanks.”

  That was it. Just thanks.

  What the hell was wrong with her? He was clearly indicating to her that he still wanted to be with her. That he missed her. That time was slipping away from them. They only had three weeks together, here, and nearly two of them were gone. He felt the end of the games approaching far too quickly; each day that slipped past was one less day he had to win her back.

  But how was he supposed to win her back if she wouldn’t even speak with him, let alone be in the same room with him?

  And it wasn’t as if his schedule was completely free, either. Every time he tried to arrange some time off to correspond to Rebel’s downtimes, something always went wrong or fell through, and he never got off work at the same time she did. It was almost as if the Fates were conspiring against him to keep them apart.

  He was growing desperate enough that he actually considered approaching Gunnar Torsten and confessing how he felt about Rebel and asking Gun to arrange their schedules so Avi could spend some time with her.

  But the Americans had q
uietly stepped up their security measures, too, and nobody on the American security team had any more time off than he did. Everyone was scrambling to anticipate and prevent the next attack before it happened. For the one thing both nations’ security teams were in agreement on was that another attack was coming.

  He felt an external clock ticking down to disaster as inevitably as his internal clock was ticking down the impending loss of Rebel for good.

  And nothing he said or did seemed to slow down either clock, let alone stop them.

  Chapter 17

  Rebel sat listlessly through the morning American security briefing as the speaker went through the day’s assignments and special details. The main events were drawing toward their conclusions, and the finals of numerous competitions were drawing the largest crowds of the already-record-breaking attendance at these games.

  Great. Just what Mahmoud and his team needed. The largest crowds in history, all crammed together like sheep for the slaughter. It was good of the IOC to line up such juicy targets for the Iranians.

  Not a soul would listen to her warnings that something terrible was about to happen. Otto Schweimburg had not even brought up the idea of moving the games to the emergency backup site. She was convinced the only reason the head of the American security contingent had taken any action at all was as a personal favor to Gunnar Torsten and not because the guy seriously believed anything bad was in the offing.

  People in the operations center looked at her like she was a nut ball and avoided even speaking to her as she sat at her desk, combing through the video feeds of the games and its surroundings hour after hour, day after day.

  The briefing ended and she trudged back to her desk to resume the mind-numbing and hopeless task of trying to spot Mahmoud or one of his known associates in the hundreds of thousands of faces passing across her monitor every day.

  She’d been at it for maybe an hour when her computer beeped an incoming email message. Please let it not be another passionate entreaty from Avi to give him a chance to explain himself to her, to express his feelings for her, to make things right between them.