D.C., steamed in the late afternoon July heat. On a quiet side street just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of the embassy district, the chestnut trees drooped like tired old women and tar bubbled in the cracks of the sidewalk. The broad-shouldered man who emerged from a Yellow Cab took care not to step in the sticky blackness as he crossed the sidewalk and mounted the front steps of an elegant, Federal-style town house located midway down the block.
He paused for a moment, his gaze thoughtful as he studied the discreet bronze plaque beside the front door. The inscription on the plaque identified the three-story town house as home to the offices of the President’s special envoy. Most Washingtonians considered the special envoy’s position a meaningless one, created years ago for a billionaire campaign contributor with a yen for a fancy title and an office in the nation’s capital. Only a handful of insiders knew the special envoy also served as the head of a covert agency whose initials comprised the last letter of the Greek alphabet, OMEGA. An agency that, as its name implied, was activated only as a last resort in instances when other, more established organizations like the CIA or the Department of Defense couldn’t respond for legal or practical reasons.
This was one of those instances.
Squaring his shoulders, the visitor entered the foyer and approached the receptionist seated behind a graceful Queen Ann desk.
“I am Colonel Luis Esteban. I’m here to see the special envoy.”
“Oh, my! So you are.”
Elizabeth Wells might have qualified for Medicare a number of years ago, but her hormones still sat up and took notice of a handsome man. And Colonel Luis Esteban, as OMEGA agent Maggie Sinclair had reported after a mission deep in the jungles of Central America, was gorgeous—drop-your-jaw, boggle-your-eyes gorgeous.
Elizabeth managed to keep her jaw from sagging, but the colonel’s dark, melting eyes, pencil-thin black mustache and old-world charm did a serious number on her heart rate.
“I believe the special envoy is expecting me.”
“What? Oh! Yes, of course. Mr. Jensen’s in his office. With Chameleon, as you requested.”
“Ah, yes.” A small, private smile played about the colonel’s mouth. “Chameleon.”
Elizabeth’s pulse tripped again, but not with pleasure this time. Having served as personal assistant to both Maggie and her husband, Adam Ridgeway, during their separate tenures as director of OMEGA, Elizabeth wouldn’t hesitate to empty the Sig Sauer 9 mm tucked in her desk drawer into anyone who tried to come between them. With something very close to a sniff, she lifted the phone on her desk and buzzed her boss. Her gaze had cooled several degrees when she relayed his reply.
“Go right in, Colonel.”
“Thank you.”
Luis walked down a short hall, opened a door shielded from attack by a lining of Kevlar, took one step inside and plunged into chaos. There was an ear-shattering woof. A flash of blue and orange. A chorus of shouts.
“Dammit, he’s doing it again.”
“Radizwell! No!”
“Shut the door, man!”
A hissing, bug-eyed lizard the size of a small hound darted between Luis’s legs. A second later, a huge sheepdog tried to follow. Knocked sideways, Luis grabbed the door handle while the furiously barking hound raced after the iguana. Doubling back, the lizard leaped for the safety of a polished mahogany conference table. Once there, it whipped out a foot-long tongue and spit at the jumping, madly woofing hound.
“Nick!” Half-laughing and wholly exasperated, Maggie Sinclair shouted an appeal to OMEGA’s current director. “Get Radizwell out of here.”
The man who answered her plea sported a lean, well-muscled body under his elegantly tailored suit, but it took all his strength to drag the vociferously protesting hound out of the office. Deep, mournful howls followed him when he returned. Closing the door to muffle the yowls, he smoothed his blond hair with a manicured hand and shot Luis a wry smile.
“Nick Jensen, Colonel. I’d apologize for the noisy reception, but…” He glanced at the still hissing giant iguana. “I understand you were the diabolical fiend who gave Maggie her pet in the first place.”
“Yes, he was.” A smile lighting her eyes, Maggie Sinclair came across the spacious office and held out both hands. “Hello, Luis. How are you?”
Esteban’s gaze took in her glowing face, dropped to her gently rounded stomach. Regret punched through him. He’d had his chance with this woman a number of years ago. She slipped away from him then, as changeable and lightning quick as her code name implied.
Luis had come to Washington on urgent business at the request of the president of Mexico. Only he knew that he also brought with him the half-formed idea of reigniting the sparks that had once flared between Maggie and him. He’d heard she’d left OMEGA to finish writing a book and raise her two small daughters. He’d thought perhaps she might be bored and ready for a touch of excitement. He could see at a glance that wasn’t the case, however. Maggie Sinclair wore the look of a woman well and truly loved.
Swallowing a small sigh, he lifted her hands and dropped a light kiss on the back of each. “I’m well, Chameleon. And you… You are as lively and beautiful as ever.”
“I don’t know about the beautiful part, but my family certainly keeps things lively.” Rueful laughter filled her honey brown eyes. “I thought you might want to see how your gift has grown over the years. Unfortunately, Terence won’t go anywhere these days without his buddy, the sheepdog you just met. They’re best of pals until Radizwell, er, well…”
“Gets the hots for the damned thing,” the third person in the room said. He strolled forward, his blue eyes keen in his aristocratic face. “Adam Ridgeway, colonel.”
“Ah, yes,” Luis drawled, returning both the strong grip and rapierlike scrutiny. “Maggie’s husband.”
“Maggie’s husband,” he affirmed with a smile that sent an instant and unmistakable message. “Hope you don’t mind if I sit in on your meeting. I’m told it involves one of the agents I recruited for OMEGA.”
Instantly all business, Luis Esteban nodded. “Yes, it does. Jack Carstairs. I understand he’s on his way to San Antonio.”
“He left a few hours ago,” Nick Jensen replied, gesturing the other three to seats well away from the conference table occupied by the wary, unblinking iguana. “What we don’t understand, however, is how Renegade’s mission concerns you.”
“Allow me to explain. When I first met Chameleon, I was chief of security for my country. I’ve since retired and established my own firm. I do very private, very discreet work for a number of international clients. The President of Mexico is one of them. He asked me to run a background check on Jack Carstairs.”
Nick’s brows lifted. “Did he?”
“Yes. You know, of course, that Carstairs once had an affair with President Alazar’s niece.”
“We know. Which made us wonder why he requested Carstairs for this mission in the first place.”
“He didn’t, actually. The
