––––––––

“Hello?” Omar Fadli asked in Arabic, as he answered his cell phone.

“Three months you make me sit in this hellhole scanning millions of airport pictures every day. I swear, this is the most monotonous job I’ve ever been forced to endure,” said Melvut Amri, a young man Fadli was grooming to be part of the Islamic State’s inner circle.

“Is that why you called? You should be enjoying the vacation. Anyone can do your job, it just takes patience.”

“That’s the problem,” Amri said.

“All young men need to learn patience before they can truly be moved into the limited realm of the elite.” Fadli sipped his coffee. “I sense this isn’t a social call.”

“No. We finally had a hit. Henrietta Anderson flew out of Saint George, Utah on a private jet this morning.”

“To where?”

“That’s the strange thing. There’s no flight plan logged in the database.”

A tic twitched above Fadli’s eye. Something wasn’t right. “Was she alone?”

“No. She was with a man. I’m running his picture for facial recognition now.”

“Anything?”

“Still waiting.”

The coffee in his gut churned. “I want to know where that plane is headed.”

“Wait a minute....”

“You got something?”

“Not sure. It’s an old picture from 2003. Computer says it’s an 80% match...”

“With?”

“It’s an SAS officer. British...that doesn’t make any sense.”

Fadli’s gut squeezed. It made sense all right. It meant Miss Anderson was back in business. “I need to know that woman’s location. Make sure our people are on full alert at every airport in the US, Europe and the Middle East.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Amri?”

“Yes?”

“It’s time to hand the reins over to your assistant. I have a more important task for you.”

***

Henri should have guessed headquarters was in Iceland. Mike had even told her Anders Lindgren was an Icelander. He’d also let the word “ice” slip a couple of times, so it didn’t surprise her to discover that ICE was the acronym for the International Clandestine Enterprise, an elite world spy association to which she now belonged. What did surprise Henri was the high-tech environment converted from an underground Cold War bunker in the remotest part of the island country. The world could suffer a nuclear holocaust and ICE would be unaffected—at least until supplies ran out. Literally everything was state-of-the-art from the situation room, to the command center, to the training center, to Henri’s suite.

That’s right. She had a suite as if she were staying in a five-star hotel. Everyone did.

Aside from the food being outstanding, it was like something out of Star Wars—a sprawling, underground city complete with a PX-type store, a bar and a movie theater.

When Henri boarded the private jet with Mike back in Utah, she’d had her misgivings about traveling to Iceland with him. Still, she’d been at ICE a week and hadn’t seen the country. The jet hadn’t stopped in Reykjavik or in any town. They’d landed on a glacier between mountains. Batman would have been impressed when they drove a RaptorTrax—a pickup with tank tracks for wheels—into an ice cave. Once inside, they stopped on a frozen platform that looked like it was part of the cave floor. Then Asa, the driver who turned out to be a mega cyber genius, pushed a button and down they went, truck and all. No one on the planet could possibly know ICE ran an entire underground city in the middle of Iceland, forty-five meters beneath a glacier. In fact, not many people even knew of ICE’s existence.

Just like the military, they’d thrown Henri into the thick of training as soon as she’d passed the physical. But unlike the military, a fast-track program had been developed specifically for her. At the moment there were a half-dozen computer programmers in training for the cyber counter intelligence division. It was a new dynamic to be training among a bunch of nerdy wiz-kids, but Henri liked it. Since she could run circles around them in military tactics, the trainees looked at her like she was a rock star.

Thus far, mornings were spent on surveillance, gadgetry and languages with the nerds. Surprisingly, Rose was still there. Until he was reassigned, Mike had taken over Henri’s afternoons to give her the fast-track, which she quickly learned included lifelike situational traps and involved bruising. Adding to the pain, they always ended the day in the sparring ring.

Henri wasn’t about to admit it to anyone, but she hadn’t regretted her decision to take the job. Yet.

Of course, her feelings had nothing to do with her trainer being Mr. Stunner. And, better, Rose had shown her moves she’d never seen before. When Henri graduated from spy school she was going to be one badass Paiute.

This afternoon was a little different because her training with Mike would include the cyber nerds. The greenhorns had progressed enough for a face-off in the paintball court. The gym-sized room was military-like, with derelict buildings, stairs, cement columns and it even had a car shot up with a psychedelic pattern of paint. Today’s exercise was lights out, using night vision. It was Mike and Henri against Asa and her six cyber trainees. The goal? Eliminate their targets and secure Building 1.

They were suiting up in the blue dressing room while the whiz-kids were at the other end of the paintball court in the red dressing room. “Test,” said Mike into the comm.

The sound came through like a blast from a rock concert speaker. Henri clapped a hand over her earpiece. “Hey, whisper, dude.”

The big Scot winked. She’d been doing her best to ignore his charm, but Rose was damned irresistible—especially when he winked. And how the man could make a paintball getup look sexy was bewildering. But he pulled it off just like he pulled off the whole redheaded too-sexy-for-his-shirt thing.

He scrapped his teeth over the corner of his lip and looked down, picking up a whiteboard marker. Jeez, part of what made him attractive was he’d throw a cavalier wink and then blush and look away. Yeah, he knew he shouldn’t be flirting, the rogue. “Here’s the plan,” he said, his voice now deep and commanding. He drew a quick diagram of the paintball court and made an X. “We’re here. Building 1 is halfway. But across from it is a platform we call the treehouse.”

“I’m heading there, right?” asked Henri.

“Yeah. I’ll cover you. Make a beeline straight for it, climb up and hide behind the barrier—it’s a wall meant to be bulletproof. Once you’re in place, give a ready signal.”

“Let’s tango?”

“Sounds good.” Mike drew a line to Building 3, which was nearer the red dressing room. “My guess is the rookies will head directly for Building 1, try to take control and ferret us out from there.”

“But we’re not going to let them get close.” Henri picked up a marker, nudged him out of the way with her shoulder and circled her lookout point. “From here I have a direct shot at Building 1. No one will be able to get inside unless they take me out.”

“You got it. And once they realize it’s not going to be easy, they’ll try to get to you.”

“But you’ll head them off.” Grinning, Henri examined the whiteboard. “It looks good. What are the pitfalls?”

Mike capped his pen. “Their numbers, mainly. Trevor’s a pretty good shot.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please.”

“Well, he’s better than the others.”

Henri gave him a playful smack on the arm. “They don’t have a chance.”

He clapped a hand on her shoulder, squeezing his fingers. “I ken.”

Sparks of electricity tingled beneath his palm. Henri’s breath caught as she met his gaze—blue eyes shinier than a swimming pool in the sunshine, and so very off limits. Tensing, she slipped from under his grasp and shrugged as if he hadn’t made her knees turn to Jell-O. “Can’t stand to lose, you?”

“Absolutely abhor it.” He gave her a long don’t-let-me-down look before he put on his helmet and moved to the door. “You ready?”

Taking a deep breath, she pulled back the bolt on her paintball rifle. “Ready yesterday, dude.”

As soon as the buzzer sounded, they slipped into the arena. In a crouch, Henri started for the treehouse. Movement to the left caught her eye. Holy hell, the newbies were catching on. They’d split up and fanned out. Not what was expected but, if nothing else, a soldier was trained to improvise. She ducked behind a barrier made to look like a cinderblock fence. Pointing her weapon toward the movement, she locked on her target and took a shot. One down. More movement. Shot two.

“Five to go,” Mike said over the comm.

“They’re quick studies.”

“What did you expect from a mob of glasses-wearing MIT hounds?”

“Heading to the treehouse now. Cover me?”

“I’m all over you like a flea on a rat.”

Henri checked 360, then headed off. “You need to work on your analogies, dude.”

“I have hundreds of them...it’s just some wouldna be workplace appropriate.”

Henri almost laughed out loud, but that would have given away her position—way too rookie a move for an ace. The light taps of the enemies’ footsteps rang out from the direction of Building 2. No one came close, but the nerds were maneuvering, no doubt. The sooner she got to her spot, the sooner she could eliminate the rest.

Arriving at the bottom of the ladder, she reached for a rung.

Crack!

A ball of paint exploded right above her hand.

Pop, pop. Two more shots came from behind.

Henri hit the ground and rolled behind the ladder. At her six, Mike took out one of the attackers. “A little late on the trigger,” she sniped.

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“Smartass.” After checking to ensure no one else had their laser sights trained her way, Henri climbed the ladder. “Let’s tango.”

“On my way.”

Slipping her rifle over the barrier, she used her scope to home in on Mike moving toward Building 3. As she zoomed out, another flicker drew her attention. One of the skills that made an elite sniper was the ability to sense activity by using her peripheral vision. Most humans couldn’t perfect it, but Henri had earned the moniker, Psychic Mama by her Delta Force squadron because she was a peripheral vision ace. Could she see things before they happened? No, but she could see them before most everyone else. She shifted the rifle barrel to the right. Before she blinked, she took out enemy number four. The perp stumbled backward, discharging his weapon. Paint splattered on the wall above and behind Mike’s head.

“Now who’s lagging on the trigger?” he whispered into the comm.

“That one missed you by a mile. Three to go, sport.”

Mike disappeared into Building 3 to the sound of ambush fire.

Henri focused, panning her gun across the scene. “Report!”

The big Scot didn’t respond, but someone dashed out of Building 3. Henri homed in. Red-vested enemy, target acquired.

Crack.

Number five down.

“Mike?”

Still no answer. She could only assume he was down. And by the gunfire from Building 3, she guessed there were at least two red teamers in there.

Henri caught a flicker at Building 1.

Crack. Six down, one to go. Henri’s heart rate spiked.

Now it’s just you and me, Batman.

The problem was whoever was out there knew she was on the tower. The perp knew she was a sniper. Worse, the mastermind had to take Henri out before he or she could take Building 1.

The hair rose on the back of her neck, the sensation warning her to duck behind the wall. How to stay alive in hell? Henri always, always trusted her intuition.

Pop!

A bullet of paint smacked her hideaway, right where she’d been scoping. She closed her eyes and envisioned the enemy’s angle in her mind’s eye. Whoever fired the shot had to be near the car. That’s right, the perp must have slipped out the back of Building 3.

Henri held her breath and listened. Then she continued to breathe soundlessly while she waited for the perp to move. Ready to pounce, in her mind’s eye, she focused on the green, glowing NV image of the vehicle. The shooter was waiting her out.

But Henri was patient. She could wait all day.

“Time to make a move,” a deep voice boomed over the loudspeaker. It was Garth Moore, Head of Field Operations. No one in the compound sounded as menacing as the boss. Henri looked to the rafters. If only she’d known the big cheese was watching the exercise go down, she might have been a bit more aggressive. Especially since waiting all day had just been nixed.

Not about to lose against a handful of new recruits, Henri tightened her grip on her weapon. She knew where her target was hiding. Silently slithering to the far corner of the platform, she inched over the wall with her rifle. Firing a barrage of repeating shots, she rose high enough to spot the tip of her target’s helmet.

Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack.

The perp didn’t have a chance.

The lights flickered on.

Nearly blinded by the sudden burst of fluorescents, Henri slipped her NV goggles up and rubbed her eyes. “What the hell happened to you, Rose?”

“Ambushed.” He walked out of Building 3 with a massive splotch of red paint in the center of his vest and another on his thigh. “I think they bugged the blue dressing room.”

“Too right,” said Trevor from the car while his helmet dripped blue. “The first rule of war is to use spies.”

“That’s the third rule,” Garth barked over the loudspeaker. “But I’m impressed. Rose, you’ll have to step it up a notch.”

Henri had to laugh. Mike was the best damned combat ad libber she’d ever seen. He had an answer for everything, and the respect he received from the seasoned veterans during meetings in the situation room confirmed it.

Asa sat up from where she’d been shot, blue paint covering her helmet. “That was amazing.”

“We’ll make a field agent out of you yet,” said Garth.

One of the few Icelander’s on the team, Asa looked up to the observation window where Garth was still standing. “Who will monitor all the chatter?”

“Multitasking.”

Mike gave Henri’s elbow a nudge as he headed back to the blue room. “Ready for your sparring session?”

Tingles crackled up her arm and across the back of her neck. Sparring with Rose was invigorating and unbearably frustrating. But it was the best part of every day—the part she looked forward to—the part that made fire thrum through her blood. She sensed today’s sparring would contain an added challenge. Then those darned tingles fired across every inch of her body, even in places where they had no freaking business being remotely worked up.