Chapter Four
Navy SEAL Benjamin “Montana” Raines leaned against the side of the nondescript building in downtown Washington, DC. Anyone looking at it would guess it was nothing more than another office building filled with businessmen or lobbyists there to buy a congressman or senator into their way of thinking.
Montana liked being outside, even if it was on a busy street in DC. He preferred the open air and big skies of his home state, Montana, but this city was a nice change from the heat, humidity and mosquitoes prevalent at his duty station in Stennis, Mississippi. Not that he minded Mississippi all that much. That little backwater town was home to the Pearl River and some of the best riverine training in the country.
For the past four years, Montana had been with SEAL Boat Team 22, or as he and his team called it, SBT-22. The men on the team were more family than his own family back home. He’d been to hell and back with his fellow SEAL teammates and he’d give his life for each and every one of them.
Trained to conduct covert operations in river and jungle environments, Montana was feeling a bit out of his element and naked in DC. Instead of trees, brush and bugs, his surroundings consisted of concrete, cars and pavement. What bothered him most was that he couldn’t openly carry a weapon, and he wasn’t wearing any kind of protection—no Kevlar helmet or body armor. Civilian attire was the uniform of the day, with orders to try to look like he belonged in Washington, DC. Most of all, be on the lookout for his new partner.
His team had picked him for this operation because he was good at camouflage and he had experience with bombs. Whether it was in a desert, forest, golf course or city, he could blend in. From what he’d been told, his partner had similar skills. Which could be why he hadn’t spotted her yet.
The need to blend in would be useful in a city where blending in normally wasn’t the goal. Everyone in DC was, or wanted to be, someone. From the politicians always aware of the next election, to the lobbyists or leaders of the political action committees. All mingling with the rich and famous who hoped to manipulate the lawmakers with promises of campaign funding and vacations on fully staffed, luxury yachts.
None of that appealed to Montana. He’d rather be riding a horse on the prairie or staring up at the big sky on a starry night. He couldn’t even see the stars in DC. The light pollution was off the scale and visible from the International Space Station like a gaudy jewel in a long chain of similarly gaudy jewels lining the East Coast.
A bicycle courier stopped on the sidewalk at the corner of the building Montana leaned against. The basket on the front of his bright yellow bicycle was overloaded with small packages and thick envelopes, precariously stacked. He toed the kickstand and dismounted. One by one, he removed the larger packages, lining them up against the building. Then he carefully rearranged them in the basket. A moment later he mounted his bicycle and rode off.
The courier passed Montana and crossed the street.
Montana glanced back the direction from which the cyclist had come and frowned. A small package lay against the brick of the building.
Montana spun toward the cyclist and yelled, “Hey!”
The young courier either didn’t hear him or ignored him, hurrying toward his next delivery. Which could have been to deliver the package he’d left behind. Already he was too far away to hear someone shouting at him over the sounds of the traffic on the street, or for Montana to catch him on foot.
Montana turned back to the package and walked toward it. Perhaps it had an address on it, or the phone number of the delivery service. He could call and have them send the courier back to retrieve it.
He had just about reached the package when a flash of motion made him look up in time to see a jean-clad female, with shoulder-length, straight blond hair, flying at him.
The crazy woman bent over and plowed into him, her shoulder hitting him square in his gut, sending him staggering backward. She didn’t stop plowing until he’d been pushed several yards along the sidewalk, tripped over his feet and landed hard on his back. He lay still for a moment, the breath knocked out of his lungs, not only from the fall, but from the woman landing on top of him.
When he could drag a breath of air in to fill his lungs, he grabbed the woman’s shoulders and pushed her to arm’s length. “What the hell?”
“Stay down!” she shouted, and covered the back of her head with her arms, burying her face in his chest.
Not sure why he should keep down, he recognized the command in her voice and remained on the ground. He even threw his arm over his face.
Several seconds went by. People passed them on the sidewalk. A woman giggled, a man snorted and a child asked, “Mama, what’s that woman doing to that man?”
“Shh,” the woman said. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”
At that point, Montana opened his eyes and looked around. “Is something supposed to happen?”
His assailant leaned up on her arms and looked behind her. “The cyclist left a package. It could be full of explosives.”
Montana
