Special Forces: The Operator Page 5

  “What does the CIA have to say on the subject?”

  She shrugged. “Zane is due to land in about an hour. I’ll let you know what he says.”

  Tonight, Avi had chosen a more formal restaurant for them. He’d made a reservation for seven thirty, and it wasn’t the kind of place that held a table for a party if it was late. “We need to go,” he announced.

  Rebel stood up, and he glanced at her dark, tailored business suit. It was expensive fabric and well made, but it did nothing to enhance the body beneath it.

  They were outside the village and close to the restaurant before he asked, “Why do you wear suits like that? Do you want to make yourself look like a man?”

  “I find that men are easily distractible creatures. Also, as a group, they’re not generally taught to judge a woman by her intellect or skill at her profession, but rather to judge her by her looks. If I want them to think of me as a professional, I have to look like one. And that means not girl-ing up.”

  “You don’t think it’s possible for a woman to be attractive and do a job?”

  “Of course I think it’s possible. I just don’t think it’s possible for men to perceive an attractive woman as a professional.”

  “That’s a pretty dim view of men, Ms. McQueen.”

  She shrugged. “I call it as I see it.”

  “You really have been surrounded by stupid chauvinist jackasses, haven’t you?”

  Her gaze jerked up to his.

  “Why do you look surprised that I might have liberated views of women?” he asked. “Women have served side by side with men in the IDF since the founding of Israel in 1948.”

  “Apparently, I was born in the wrong country,” she responded dryly.

  “A mistake that can be rectified. I’m sure there’s a place in my country for a woman with your special abilities.”

  She laughed. “Thanks, but I’m good with where I’m at. The Medusas are unique.”

  “Other countries are training women Special Forces operatives.”

  “True. But none of them are fielding entire teams made up of women who do the same sorts of missions as men. Most add a single woman to a team here and there. Also, not many countries are giving women full SF training. They’re modifying the training for women and not making them meet the same standards as men.”

  “You had to meet men’s standards?” he exclaimed, startled.

  “What would be the point if we didn’t?” she snapped.

  He absorbed that in silence as they reached the restaurant. He held the door for her, and as she slid past him he muttered, “All the men’s standards?”

  “All of them.”

  “But...you’re so tiny.”

  “Lower muscle to weight ratio for me to overcome. And I fit into small spaces my male counterparts don’t. Makes for great sniper nests that hostiles don’t spot.”

  “You’re a—” He broke off, realizing belatedly that they were standing in a posh restaurant, and it probably wasn’t the ideal place to blurt out that his dinner companion was an assassin.

  “Not my specialty,” she murmured. “I’m mainly a photo intelligence analyst. I look at live video images from drones and interpret them in real time.”

  “So you have an eye for detail?”

  “You could say that.” Her voice was as dry as the Negev Desert.

  Their table was ready, and he followed Rebel and the maître d’ into the private dining room Avi had reserved for them. The decor of the room was dark, with paneled walls and burgundy carpet. Crisp white linen covered their candlelit table, though, and the places were precisely set with Limoges china and Lalique crystal. The table looked like a glittering jewel nestled in a bed of dark velvet. It was impossibly romantic.

  Which was exactly the point. He’d set a personal goal of teaching the overly serious American commando how to loosen her collar a little and enjoy the finer things in life.

  The maître d’ seated Rebel and then retreated, leaving the two of them alone. He sat down across from her and unfolded his crisply starched linen napkin, spreading it across his lap in anticipation of the culinary delights to come.

  “Where have you brought me?” she asked in alarm. “I’m afraid to breathe hard, lest I break something.”

  “The food is outstanding, and we can speak in private, here. And my government is picking up the tab, so don’t worry about the cost.”

  “Cost? I bet his place doesn’t even put prices on the menu.”

  He smiled. “They don’t. Shall I choose a wine for us?”

  “You’d better. All I know about wine is it’s bad if it’s still bubbling.”

  He laughed, shocked. “Still bubbling? That’s obscene.”

  “That’s Boone’s Farm in a box.”

  “Boone’s Farm? That’s not actually wine. It’s—” he searched for a proper description “—corn syrup, food coloring and rubbing alcohol.”

  She laughed, and he stared, shocked at what happened to her face when her customary intensity gave way to actual joy. Her eyes sparkled, color came to her cheeks, and the fineness of her bones, the soft perfection of her skin came to life. It was as if her entire being smiled for a moment.

  “You should laugh more often,” he declared.

  The laughter faded from her eyes, and determination to make her laugh again came over him. But first, their waiter arrived, and Avi ordered a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine to go with the chef’s choice.

  The waiter left and Rebel leaned forward, looking distressed. “What are we eating tonight?”

  Avi shrugged. “Whatever the chef serves to us. I’ve eaten here several times and he has never disappointed me.”

  “But what if it’s something weird?”

  “I thought you Americans do a half-decent survival school. After eating bugs and worms, are you really that worried over what a Michelin three-star chef is going to make for you?”

  She leaned back, looking disgruntled. In a heartbeat, she’d gone from stunningly beautiful to fluffy kitten cute.

  “You’re quite the chameleon, Rebel.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve identified at least four versions of you so far, and each one is entirely different.”

  “Do tell.” She sipped the wine the waiter had poured for her, and abruptly, her attention riveted not on him but on her glass. “Holy crap,” she muttered.

  “Is it ruined?” he asked quickly. “Cork in the wine? Soured?”

  “No. I had no idea wine could taste like this. I don’t even like wine. But this is...amazing.”

  He leaned back, grinning. “Ahh. Welcome to the civilized world. Where pleasure is more than fleeting and people achieve actual happiness.”

  She scowled at him, back to being a hedgehog—prickly, but still adorable.

  He sipped at his wine, savoring the complex bouquet. “So tell me this. Why would men like Mahmoud and Yousef bother dumping chlorine in a pool? It’s a far too low-level attack—too amateur for men of their training and skill.”

  “Agreed. Unless it was some sort of test run. Maybe they were checking the emergency response. Or maybe they wanted to see if any sophisticated monitoring and detection equipment was brought out and used.”

  An interesting theory. He replied, “It’s not as if poisoning a bunch of people with a chlorine attack is likely to succeed without being detected. It stinks to high heaven, and people have some time to run away from the fumes, and in this case skin burns, before they’re seriously injured or killed.”

  “Obviously,” she retorted. “But what if they’re planning to use some other poison gas in a larger attack? Why go to all the trouble of setting up a lethal attack if you know the Olympic security team is prepared to detect it and stop it?”

  “But we are prepared to identify the usual nerve gasses.”


  She shrugged. “I know that, and you know that. But do the Iranians know that? Or are they testing the edges of our defenses to measure what we can and can’t respond to?”

  “Or maybe a few drunk hooligans thought dumping a bunch of chlorine in the pool would be a funny joke.”

  She studied him long and hard enough that he began to wonder what she was thinking about him. Only perverse stubbornness stopped him from asking. The same stubbornness frustrated his parents to no end, but had also saved his life on countless occasions when he refused to give up in the face of impossible odds. Hell, he was beginning to think getting this woman to relax and enjoy herself a little was one of those damn near impossible tasks.

  Clearly, she intended to keep the talk over dinner entirely business. So be it. For now.

  “Fine,” he conceded. “If it was, in fact, an attack, you’re likely right. It probably wasn’t random drunks. Have you considered the timing of the attack? Could it even have been your terrorists?”

  She shrugged. “Mahmoud and Yousef left the pool about thirty minutes before everyone started reacting to the chlorine. They would have had to use some sort of dissolving packaging or pellets that melted slowly for the timing to work.”

  “Okay,” he replied. “That’s a plausible hypothesis. Do you have any proof of it?”

  “There are no lights in that pool, hence no underwater video. I’ve checked the security cameras for last night, but the crowd is so dense around the pool I can’t make out anyone who might have dumped anything in the water.”

  “So your theory will have to remain just that. A theory.”

  “A scary theory that you and my bosses would do well to take seriously,” she retorted.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry,” he murmured.

  “I’m not angry. Just worried.”

  “Fair enough. If you’re worried, I’m worried,” he responded gallantly.

  “Really?”

  He met her gaze squarely. “Yes. Really. Even if I don’t know you that well, yet, I do know Gunnar Torsten. And anyone he trains is someone to take seriously.”

  They waited in silence as the first course of their meal was served, hors d’oeuvres of wild mushrooms stuffed with crab, escargot and truffle paté.

  He silently took pleasure in watching the orgasmic expressions crossing Rebel’s face with each new flavor she encountered. She was a great deal more expressive than she likely thought she was. But then, a man like him was adept at catching every nuance of facial and body language, too.

  Eventually, he leaned forward. “I did get one interesting piece of intel from my people this afternoon.”

  She looked up expectantly from her potato-leek soup, abruptly all business, food forgotten. He sent a silent mental apology to the chef.

  “I’ll share it with you, but on one condition,” he murmured.

  “What’s that?”

  He stood up, went around the table and held out his hand to her. “Dance with me.”

  Chapter 4

  Rebel gulped. If there was one thing in the whole world she was terrible at, it would be dancing. “But, there’s no music,” she protested, praying the excuse would divert Avi.

  He walked over to an intercom panel on the wall and pressed a few buttons. Lilting violin music suddenly blared. He turned the volume down and then turned to her, holding out a hand.

  She looked around in panic. The room was plenty large enough to accommodate dancing. There were no apparent cameras to make an embarrassing record of her clumsiness. She resorted to confessing, “I’m a terrible dancer.”

  “Well of course you are. Dancing is about expressing joy. And we’ve already established you need a lot of work in that department.”

  She frowned, not appreciating being called a failure at anything, even if it was true.

  He captured her hand, which she realized in some shock was waving around nervously, and tugged her to her feet.

  “You’re going to regret this,” she warned him as he drew her into his arms.

  “Put your right hand on my waist and your left hand on my shoulder...assuming you can reach my shoulder.”

  She snorted. “Very funny. I’m not that short.”

  “In my world, you’re practically a midget.”

  Her eyes narrowed in challenge. “You’d be surprised the things I can do that a giant lout like you can’t even begin to do.”

  “Sounds like a fascinating conversation for another time. But right now, I’m giving you a lesson in waltzing. First, listen to the music. One-two-three. One-two-three. Do you hear the downbeat?”

  “Yes.”

  “On each ‘one,’ I’m going to step forward with my right foot, and you’re going to step backward with your left foot. Like this. I’ll take it slow.” He placed both of his hands on her waist and guided her through the step.

  Thank goodness. He just did the back step several times, and she caught on quickly.

  “Now, we’re going to step to the side on the second and third beats. Like this. Step-together.”

  She nodded after a few repetitions.

  “And now we put them together, and we find the rhythm of the music. Just relax, and let me lead, okay?”

  “Since when is this a trust exercise?” she blurted.

  He smiled down at her a little ruefully. “Leave your left hand on my shoulder and put your right hand in mine.” She grasped his hand, as always stunned by the electric energy flowing from him.

  “I have to say, Rebel, I didn’t expect you to discover my real motive so quickly. This is entirely about trust. That and loosening you up a little. You are a smart one, aren’t you?”

  She might have answered, but he whisked her backward and into a whirl around the room that took her breath away. His hands moved her with effortless power, but still, she had to concentrate on relaxing and releasing the habitual tension from her body.

  Ahh, but when she did, they were suddenly dipping and swooping, turning in light, swift circles until she felt like a swallow in flight. It was actually a rather fantastic sensation. The music lifted them off their mortal feet, spinning them into a breathless world of candlelit magic.

  Or maybe it was the big, graceful man staring down at her, his eyes as dark as midnight, the expression in them bemused. If there had been any humor in his expression when they started the waltz, by the time the song ended, it was long gone.

  The music shifted into some other, more formal rhythm, and they came to a stop beside the table. His hand was warm and firm on her waist, and his fingers flexed, tightening momentarily against her side.

  He released her abruptly, stepping back almost as if startled. She knew the feeling. She was shocked to her toes. That had been an almost-sexual experience. And it had been wonderful. Which begged the question of why he’d insisted on dancing with her. Had trust and getting her to chill out been his only motives, after all? Or had he been subtly demonstrating to her that he knew how to woo a woman?

  For no doubt about it, he most definitely knew what he was doing in that department.

  It almost made a girl wonder if maybe the problem with sex in her life prior to this had been men of inadequate knowledge rather than the sex itself.

  Hmm. Sex with Avi Bronson. A suddenly fascinating concept.

  The door opened, and their waiter wheeled in a cart loaded with what turned out to be the most delectable food she’d ever tasted. Quail roasted to tender perfection with herbed skin that was crispy and savory, oyster stuffing that made her groan in delight and tender asparagus that was so fresh and light she wanted to ask for more—and she didn’t even like asparagus, normally.

  She refrained from licking her plate, but it was a struggle. She looked up at Avi in regret. “You do realize you’ve ruined me for ever enjoying an MRE again.”

  “You like dehydrated milit
ary food?” he exclaimed.

  “I did. But now... I shudder to think what it will taste like in comparison to this.”

  He smiled indulgently. “My work is done, then.”

  Something disappointed landed with a thud in the bottom of her stomach. Drat. She’d really hoped he might be interested in showing her more of these sophisticated pleasures she’d heretofore had no idea existed.

  “Why the sad face?” he asked quickly.

  “I’m sorry this meal has to end.”

  “Never fear. We have several more courses to go.”

  “Where am I going to put more food? You do realize I’m going to have to work out like mad for a week to burn off all these calories.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll go for a run with you tomorrow if you’d like. After all, it’s my fault you indulged like this. I’m obligated to help with damage control.”

  Hmm. That would be interesting. She enjoyed running and was one of the fastest Medusas. “You’re on.”

  She was done with dessert and sipping a cup of coffee so good it nearly brought her to tears when she finally remembered to ask, “By the way, what was the piece of intelligence you said you’d gotten?”

  He sighed. “And, the pleasant interlude ends. Back to business, eh?”

  She smiled a little at the disappointment in his voice. “Sorry.”

  “When you apologize like you mean it, I’ll know I’ve broken through that workaholic exterior of yours.”

  “Good luck with that.” She set down her coffee cup. “The intel?”

  “Right. A source in Tehran reports that Mahmoud has spent the past six months or so training with a team of approximately eight operatives on a military base. They were seen going in and out of mocked-up buildings repeatedly.”

  “Sounds like they were training for a specific attack,” she commented.

  “That’s how I would interpret it, as well.”

  “Any information on what the buildings looked like?”

  “No. Our source isn’t that highly placed.”

  “Still. Are you going to take me seriously now when I say I saw Mahmoud and Yousef and that I’m convinced they dumped the chlorine in the pool?”