Torsten leaned forward, asking Avi, “What have your people got on Mahmoud and Yousef?”
“Nothing recent that I’m aware of. Not until I caught up with your...operative...earlier after she raced out of the village without scanning out properly. She’s the one who brought Mahmoud Akhtar to my attention and claims to have seen him.”
“Claims to have seen him?” Rebel echoed in annoyance. “I know what I saw!”
Torsten intervened smoothly. “Avi believes you. And so do I. Where did Mahmoud and Yousef go?”
She answered more calmly, “I followed them out of the Olympic Village to a discotheque. They entered from one street, crossed the club and must have exited onto another street. I lost them when your buddy, here, tried to detain me and prevented me from following them.”
“I was just doing my job,” Avi protested.
Rebel glared at him. Damned if his dark eyes and darker soul didn’t light up with amusement in response. He seemed to think she was hilarious. As long as he didn’t think she was a joke—and he stayed out of her way next time—she could live with him laughing at her.
“Did they act like they were fleeing you or moving toward a specific destination?” her boss asked.
“Unknown.” She shot another disgusted look in Avi’s direction.
Torsten followed up tersely with, “Where in the village did you first spot Mahmoud and Yousef?”
At least her boss was taking her seriously. She answered, “They were standing beside the north pool. I don’t know if they saw me and I spooked them or if they just turned and left. But either way, they left the pool and headed for the nearest exit. Interestingly enough, they turned their faces away from every surveillance camera they passed.”
“Which suggests they know the security layout of the village,” Torsten replied. “Have they been added to the Iranian delegation?”
Avi jumped in. “I cannot believe the Iranians would try to slip terrorists into the games on official credentials. The scandal if they got caught would be humiliating.”
Rebel shrugged. “In my experience, the Iranians will suffer a humiliation or two if it means they can destroy an enemy.”
Avi met her gaze head-on. “Truth.”
“Possible targets?” Torsten threw out.
Rebel ticked off, “American athletes, Israeli athletes, a large public venue containing lots of athletes, a large venue containing lots of spectators—”
Avi interrupted, “In other words, everyone and everything at the Olympic Games.”
Torsten drummed his fingers on the tabletop, a rare sign of tension from her excessively self-disciplined boss. “When Zane gets here, we’ll see if his people have any chatter on what Mahmoud might be up to.”
Zane’s people being the CIA.
A spear of jealousy for Piper stabbed Rebel. Zane and Piper were wildly in love, and he was about to come join her for possibly several weeks in a beautiful, romantic locale. Lucky dogs.
Rebel’s last boyfriend had dumped her when he found out she’d agreed to join some kind of special team that was going to involve her traveling all over the world for several years to come. As long as she’d been stationed at a desk and never deployed, he’d been all over her naval career. But as soon as it had interfered with his convenience and comfort, she was history.
Jerk, she thought tiredly. Not that she could blame him entirely. She’d volunteered for the Medusas knowing full well it might break them up. Maybe she’d taken the job partially because she thought it might break them up. Which made her a coward, at least in the romance department.
But how often did a woman get a chance to be on one of the most classified—and cool—teams on the planet? To serve her country in a direct, meaningful way? And to fulfill a lifelong dream of doing something awesome?
That had been her main reason for joining the Medusas. Dumping the loser had been a side benefit.
Avi was talking, and she yanked her attention back to the discussion at hand. “...will touch base with my Mossad contacts and see if they’ve heard anything about Mahmoud Akhtar. How should I let you know what I find out?”
Torsten answered, “Why don’t you liaise with Rebel, since you two already know each other? I’m up to my elbows in alligators chasing down other rumors and threats, but I want to give this possible sighting of Akhtar highest priority. I’ll pull Lieutenant McQueen off her other security rotations for now so she can follow this up specifically.”
Avi nodded, the ghost of a grin flitting across his face. Was he pleased that she would be working with him? Or was that indulgence for the little girl playing commando with him? God, he was as hard to read as Torsten.
The Israeli glanced at his watch. “It’ll take me an hour or so to find out what the Mossad knows and to take a shower and change clothes.” He glanced at Torsten. “On the way here, I took a beer down my back defending the honor of your girl. Had I known she was an operator, I’d have let her take the beer in the face.”
The men traded grins, and she bit her tongue. She was standing right here, while they talked over her head and called her a girl. Of course, she knew Torsten actually thought highly of her, or else he wouldn’t have invited her to be a Medusa in the first place, nor would he have passed her through the rigorous training program. He’d washed out plenty of other women without any compunction.
But it bothered her that when he was around a male counterpart he reverted to Neanderthal talk about her and her sisters-in-arms. Of course, it was entirely possible he was speaking in sexist terms intentionally to relax Avi about the whole idea of working with a female special operator. Torsten was fully that calculating a guy.
Avi stood, and she was vividly aware yet again of how big a man he was. He had to be pushing six foot three. And every inch of him was solid, functional muscle. He wasn’t thick, but he wasn’t exactly a beanpole, either.
His face was a wee bit on the long side for Hollywood, but his nose was proportional to his face, his cheeks and jaw were just the right amount of craggy, and his smile was wide and beautiful when he shook hands with Torsten.
All in all, he was a ruggedly handsome man in an understated way. Like most special operators in her experience. They didn’t draw attention to themselves, and a person’s eye tended to slide past them without stopping to really notice them. But then, she supposed she could be accused of the same thing. She never wore makeup and left her hair its natural mousy brown color. She wore boring clothes that hid her figure, and in general, she worked hard not to be noticeable.
Avi glanced at his watch and then speared her with a penetrating look that made her feel positively naked. “What say we reconvene at ten o’clock for a late supper? Have you eaten tonight?”
Supper? Him and her alone? Her stomach leaped against her ribs until she silently admonished it to behave. She managed what she hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “Okay. That’ll give our guy in Washington some time to track down any intel from our end—”
Torsten’s
