Intimate Danger. Amy J. Fetzer

keyboard slid out, the screen coming on. He made a loud noise and slowly descended, curious and hunched, his knuckles scraping the dirt floor. He looked at her, snubbed the air, drawing his lips back and showing large incisor teeth. She remembered those claw hands reaching for her, and quickly she keyed the program, then edged back to watch. If the nanopod was really doing its job, he should be able to do the next test without trouble.

      She was bending to pick up the chocolate when she heard the locks click. She turned as the door swooshed open. Colonel Cook strode in and her heart did a little trip. He really was a dashing man, she thought. Tall, erect posture, he had just a touch of silver in his dark brown hair. He was never without his uniform—well, almost never, she thought, smiling.

      “Have you found her?”

      “You asked me that this morning. Don’t you think I would have said something?”

      “I never know with you.”

      “Yes, you do,” he said and she moved toward him, tossing the data sheets on the table, then was against him, kissing him wildly. When she pulled back, her hand slid down the front of his trousers, molding his quick erection. All she did was arch a brow and smile as he trembled. She loved power over powerful men.

      “The camera is on,” he said, exhaling through clenched teeth.

      “It’s not panning here, only the cage.”

      He glanced to make certain. “How is he progressing?”

      “His skills and strength have increased measurably.”

      “Then he can break that cage.”

      “It’s titanium, Carl, and he’s been calm for days.” Almost sad, she thought, annoyed that he was so attached to Clancy.

      The computer chimed, and Francine whipped around, looking from the orangutan to her screen. It showed his attempts to complete the matching puzzle. “Oh my God.” She hurried across the room.

      Cook moved to her side. “What’s that?” He gestured to the screen and leaned over. In the corner it said Trials initiated. Beside it was the ratio.

      “He did it all.”

      “All what?” Carl asked.

      “All of the program, in ten minutes. He completed the whole thing.”

      “Certainly, he’s done the test before.”

      “No, not this one.” She told him about the primate doing the shape test without stopping and was keying up another level. “I tried another, a new one Clancy had just created for him. Look at his score.”

      In the lower right corner red numbers blinked: 100/100.

      “My God. Watch him, Carl, watch.”

      The animal stared at the screen, watching the instructions, which were simple patterns like the last one, but this was a rudimentary human IQ test. After a moment, the orangutan lifted one finger and started tapping keys.

      “Increase his steroid injections,” Cook ordered. That test was proof enough.

      While Francine was smiling like a parent at a piano recital, Carl was scowling. “This stays with you and me,” he said and she looked at him, frowning. “No more interns, no assistants.”

      “There’s Clancy.” He shook his head. She recognized the look and what it meant. “Oh no, Carl. You can’t cut her out, she created it.” When he just stared, her skin went pasty as she understood. “You can’t be serious.”

      “I am and you’re either with me or not.”

      She looked at Boris. “I’m in.”

      Carl kissed her cheek and thought, this was going to be big. And now McRae was a true liability.

      Richora rushed to the other boat, climbing in and grabbing an oar from the bottom. He ordered two men to join him and they were barely inside when he pushed off. His gaze was on the pair moving past the slight curve of the stream, and he hurried to catch up.

      “Shoot them!” he ordered and they fired without true aim.

      The woman was low in the boat, taking her time and then firing. The bullet hit the side of his boat, passed through, and hit his soldier. The man screamed, sharp and abrupt, and Richora reached to check the wound, and realized his sister’s son was dead. I’ll torture the little bitch for this. And for what she’d seen, if anything. Then she fired again, wounding another, the impact sending a man rolling in pain in the bottom of the boat. Richora looked between the female and his troop, weighing his options. Then he ordered his men to row faster.

      Mike pushed the pole into the water, but it was useless. It was like stirring soup and he grasped an oar, digging in hard. “Good shot, McRae.”

      She just waved a hand over her head.

      Mike felt a twinge, something he didn’t want to examine, when she pressed her head to the rim of the boat. Shooting was easy for him, always cut-and-dry. But she’d done the job. He admired that push-comes-to-shove attitude in a woman, though he’d met a few who were far more ruthless. His gaze traveled over her dark reddish hair, choppy and wildly layered. She was a little thing, pixie compact, with beautifully expressive whiskey-brown eyes. His hands almost itched with the memory of her tight, firm shape under his palms. He wouldn’t mind exploring it a little more.

      He dragged his gaze from her to the terrain, shoring up his guard. No involvement with civilians, ever. Ditch her and get on with the mission. “Don’t relax your guard.”

      “Relax? I just shot a man.”

      “Two, but who’s counting?” She looked at him, horrified, and he regretted his bluntness. “Keep your hands out of the water. This is piranha country.”

      Clancy jerked back from the edge, staring at the water for a second.

      His gaze flicked to the shore, into the trees. “We’re too out in the open.”

      The boat suddenly shifted, moving faster and to her right. She looked around and spotted the bow of the other boat.

      “Shouldn’t he be sinking by now?” she said, aiming.

      “He should. Never mind shooting. Get an oar.” The water boiled hard beneath the boat as the river widened, and Clancy rowed.

      “Right, go right.” He was steering backward, watching Richora’s approach. They neared a sharp bend. “Time to get the hell outta here, Clancy. Stand up.”

      She did, rocking the boat.

      “Get ready to jump on my back.”

      “We’re in the middle of open water.” With things in it.

      “Not for long.” He gave the long oar a hard shove, moving the gondola-like boat into the dark overhang of trees. “Grab on.”

      Clancy hopped on his back a moment before he reached and caught a thick branch. Vines choked the gnarled twisted trees and Mike did a chin-up, his feet leaving the craft. The boat sailed down the river without them.

      She clung to his big shoulders, her legs around his waist. “I really don’t see how this is better.”

      “Give me a minute. I’m just glad you’re a lightweight,” he grunted.

      They dangled over the water, creatures slithering into the stream and heading toward the offer of fresh meat as Mike inched along the branch. It started to crack.

      “Grab the branch, my left!”

      Clancy reached, the limb so broad her hands scarcely wrapped it.

      “Can you hold on?” Her legs were still wrapping his waist.

      “If my choice is being piranha entrée? I think I’ll manage.”

      Beneath her, small broad fish stirred the water as if scenting a meal. Mike swung