I think you’re an heiress who was conned.”
Yes. Paul had given her the full-court press after she’d met him at a fund-raiser. Phone calls. Roses. Yellow roses, her favorite. And more. “He told me he was dying of a brain tumor.”
Rico shook his head. “No brain tumor.”
It took Jenna a moment to get her teeth unclenched. “The SOB. I want him arrested. I want—”
“He’s dead.”
She had to fight through her fit of rage to understand what he’d said. “Paul’s dead?”
Cal Rico nodded. “He was murdered about an hour ago. That’s why I’m here—to stop the same thing from happening to you.”
Her heart fell to her knees. “Wh-what?”
“We have reason to believe that Paul left instructions. In the event of his death, he wanted others dead, too. You included. Those rebel soldiers out there are after you. And they have orders to kill you on sight.”
International Security Agency Regional Headquarters
San Antonio, Texas
One year later
Special Agent Cal Rico checked his watch—again. Only three minutes had passed since the last time he’d looked. It felt longer.
A lot longer.
Of course, waiting outside his director’s door had a way of making each second feel like an eternity.
“Uh-oh,” he heard someone say. Cal saw a team member making his way up the hall toward him. Mark Lynch was nicknamed Hollywood because of his movie-star looks. He was a Justice Department liaison assigned to the regional headquarters. “What’d you screw up, Chief?” Lynch asked.
Chief. Cal had been given his moniker because of his aspirations to become chief director of the International Security Agency. Except they weren’t just aspirations. One day he would be chief. Since that was his one and only goal, it made things simple.
And in his mind, inevitable.
“Who said I screwed up anything?” Cal commented. But he was asking himself the same thing.
Lynch arched his left eyebrow and flashed a Tom Cruise smile. “You’re outside Kowalski’s office, aren’t you?”
Cal had been assigned to the Bravo team of the ISA for well over a year, and this was the first time he’d ever been ordered to see his director. Since he’d just returned from a monthlong assignment in the Middle East and wouldn’t receive new orders within seven duty days, he was bracing himself for bad news.
He’d already called his folks and both of his brothers to make sure all was well on the home front. That meant this had to do with the job. And that made it more personal than anything else could have been.
“If you have a butt left when Kowalski quits chewing it,” Hollywood continued, “then show up at the racquetball court at 1730 hours. I believe you promised me a rematch.”
Cal mumbled something noncommittal. He hated racquetball, but after this meeting he might need a way to work out some frustrations. Pounding Hollywood might just do it.
The door to the director’s office opened, and Cal’s lanky boss motioned for him to enter.
“Have a seat,” Director Scott Kowalski ordered. There was no mistake about it. His tone and demeanor confirmed that it was an order. “Talk to me about Jenna Laniere.”
Cal had geared up to discuss a lot of things with his boss, but she wasn’t anywhere on that list. Though he’d certainly thought, and dreamed, about the leggy blond heiress. “What about her?”
“Tell me what happened when you rescued her in Monte de Leon last year.”
That was a truly ominous-sounding request. Still, Cal tried not to let it unnerve him. “As best as I can recall, I entered the hotel where she’d checked in, found her hiding in the bathroom. I moved her from that location and got her to the rendezvous point. About a half hour later or so, the transport took her away, and I rejoined the Bravo team so we could extract some American hostages that the rebels had taken.”
Kowalski put his elbows on his desk and leaned closer. “It’s that half hour of unaccounted-for time that I’m really interested in.”
Hell.
That couldn’t be good. Had Jenna Laniere filed some kind of complaint all these months later? If so, Cal had her pegged all wrong. She had seemed too happy about being rescued to be concerned that he’d used profanity around her.
“Wait a minute,” Cal mumbled, considering a different scenario. One that involved Paul Tolivar, or rather what was left of Tolivar’s regime. “Is Jenna Laniere safe?”
Translation: had Tolivar’s cronies or former business partners killed her?
The FBI had followed Jenna for weeks after her return to the States. When no one had attempted to eliminate her, they’d backed off from their surveillance.
As for Tolivar’s regime, there hadn’t been enough hard evidence for the Monte de Leon or U.S. authorities to arrest Tolivar’s partners or anyone else for his murder. In fact, there hadn’t been any evidence at all except for Justice Department surveillance tapes that couldn’t be used in court since they would give away the identities of several deep-cover operatives. A move that would almost certainly cause the operatives to be executed. The Justice Department wasn’t about to lose key men to further investigate a criminal’s murder. Especially one that’d happened in a foreign country.
“Ms. Laniere’s fine,” Kowalski assured him.
The relief Cal felt was a little stronger than he’d expected. And it was short-lived. Because something had obviously happened. Something that involved her. If Jenna had indeed filed a complaint, there’d be an investigation. It could hurt his career.
The one thing he valued more than anything else.
He would not fail at this. He couldn’t. Bottom line—being an operative wasn’t his job, it was who he was. Without it, he was just the middle son of a highly decorated air force general. The middle son sandwiched between two brothers who’d already proven themselves a dozen times over. Cal had never excelled at anything. In his youth, he’d been average at best and at worst been a screwup—something his father often reminded him of.
His career in the ISA was the one way he could prove to his father, and more importantly to himself, that he was worth something.
“After you rescued Ms. Laniere, the Justice Department questioned her for hours. Days,” Kowalski corrected. “She didn’t tell them anything they could use to build their case against Tolivar’s business partners. In fact, she claims she never heard Tolivar or his partners speak of the rebel group that they’d organized and funded in Monte de Leon. The group
