Intimate Danger. Amy J. Fetzer

paper. Satellite photos.

      “Ecuador–Peru border?”

      Hank Jansen was always impressed that the man could read topography so well, but then he’d spent two years searching the mountains for an American charged with selling weapons to terrorists. It was always the little nuts that caused the big problems, in that case, treason. “Look at the Peru, north Andes.”

      Mike tipped the pages toward the light.

      “Central intel believes those are missile launchers sitting in the mountains.”

      Tactical ballistic missiles? Mike wanted to contradict, but waited to hear the whole report. “The U.S. is on good terms on both sides of the border. What do they say?”

      “Peru says not ours, and Ecuador is neutral, guarding her borders from the Colombian drug smugglers. They say it’s not in their territory and won’t go in to find out. For fear of a conflict they can’t handle. The Peruvian Army dispatched a squad, but it’s rough country.”

      “DEA in the loop?”

      “Yes.”

      “CIA is wrong. They’re too small to be Scuds.”

      “I would agree. But Shining Path is making a resurgence and DEA thinks they are involved with drugs. We sent a UAV to get closer and if confirmed, take it out. Except that the UAV surveying the area was shot out of the sky.”

      Mike arched a brow. “We know where it came from. Mark the target and take it out.”

      “Before marking the target with a laser, we had to recover the armed UAV first, so we sent in a team.”

      “My guys?” Why else would Jansen be here? He had other teams on standby and none of them recently injured.

      “Yes, Krane led, with one other, Corporal J.J. Palmer.”

      Mike’s expression tightened. He’d kicked Palmer off his team because the kid was a hothead. Not a hard charger, but a loose cannon. He’d jeopardized two missions, even after a reprimand. Orders and caution meant little to Palmer. He was bucking for a hero’s grave. “Pardon me, sir, but you sure that ass bag didn’t fuck up the mission?”

      If you were on Mike’s shit list you didn’t get off it, Hank thought. “No, we had a radio link. They were hit.” The colonel played the tape.

      His elbows on his knees, Mike stared at the spot between his boots. “They survived the crash. But there was no tracer, no warning?”

      “No, and the GPS beacon isn’t sending, either.”

      Mike looked up, scowling. “None of them? This was covert?”

      “No. The Peruvian government was informed of the recovery mission. They’re just as interested in this as we are, but the chopper was technically in Ecuador’s airspace. Ecuador insists they didn’t fire, didn’t crash there, and frankly, they don’t have the arsenal to go after it. We had one contact with the team. Under an hour later.” Hank played the tape again.

      Mike’s breathing locked in his lungs. God. It was horrific. Screams, gunfire, a gurgling plea for help from Nathan Krane. Marines didn’t scream like that. Not his men. They’d cut off an arm before showing the enemy a shred of weakness. “When do I leave?”

      “Pick a team and—”

      “No. Alone.”

      The colonel shook his head. “Negative.”

      “Hear me out. A Scud didn’t hit that chopper. Not only is that overkill, there would be nothing left and you’d hear it for miles.”

      Hank nodded. “Agreed.”

      “And if missiles are in the jungle, why there? For what purpose and, mostly, who the hell would they fire them at? They don’t have the range. Five hundred miles at best. South America bombing South America?” Mike shook his head, his forehead tight. “I’d say if anything it’s SAMs.” Surface-to-air missiles were shoulder-launched and, lately, damn easy to come by. “If it’s drug smugglers, they don’t come out in the open enough and they’re smart.” Or they wouldn’t be getting drugs into the U.S. “Shooting down an aircraft over any territory in that area will bring the Army, so why risk it?”

      Drug factories were underground so they couldn’t be seen from the air. This made no sense. But then, crime rarely did.

      “We send in another team and they’ll end up like that.” He flicked a hand at the recorder. “Or get nothing. A crowd will scare them off. Besides, some people down there owe me some favors.” Mike sat back. “Permission to speak freely?”

      Jansen chuckled. “When have you not?”

      “Scuds? Without DEA or CIA seeing cargo transportation to that area? Nothing stolen? No intel on who’s got new hardware or what’s in the warheads? Come on, Hank. Cut the bullshit, what’s going on? You didn’t tell me this because it’s my team.”

      Mike could smell a smokescreen before it hit the breeze, Hank thought, and he knew Mike as well as the man allowed anyone to know him. They’d served together when he was a young, eager Marine and Hank had made certain Gannon came with him. Hank trusted him completely, and was honored that the trust was returned. But Mike’s true attributes weren’t his special tactics and skills, but that he didn’t need anyone to issue orders. He knew what had to be done and how to do it, no matter the risk.

      Hank sighed. “Nothing but small arms has flowed through that area. We just don’t know what hit the UAV or the chopper.”

      Mike scowled. Intel knew what the premier of the Soviet Union had for breakfast, but they didn’t know this?

      “There wasn’t a heat signature before the blast.”

      “There has to be.” All weapons radiated heat. A muzzle flash when fired, a warmup to launch.

      The colonel handed him sequential satellite photos in closer detail. Mike studied each carefully. The only spot that resonated white on the page was the fire in the chopper’s tail. The next photo was a still from the UAV. Same thing. A nose cone, then nothing. The previous photos showed no launch heat. None.

      “Jesus. A rocket, small and highly accurate.” Mike handed the photos back and looked out the window, thinking of the security risk and the damage just one could do.

      A surface-to-air missile without a heat signature would be invisible to radar and thermal tracking. Hell. They’d have no possible means to counterattack before impact.

      And we have no clue who fired it.

      Three

      There were some things about a wild youth that never leave you, Clancy thought. Distrust of authority, of herself, the vigil over your own moral standards—and knowing when someone was following you.

      Not close or overtly, but as she left the Starbucks with a double Mocha Latte caffeine fix locked in her grip, her senses lit up. She glanced up and down the street, her gaze flickering past the pale green car before she crossed to her own.

      She slid behind the wheel, secured her cup, then pulled into traffic. A moment later, so did the green car. Why follow her? They couldn’t know about her snooping. She’d covered her tracks well.

      Unless Cook was staring at his computer at the time, she reminded herself. If that was true, why not haul her in?

      Just to be sure she wasn’t coming up with a paranoid worst-case scenario, she got on the Beltway and drove in the far right lane. Her speed backed up traffic behind her for a couple of hundred yards, and when drivers were ticked enough to blow their horns, she slipped off the exit. A few blocks down, she pulled into a parking lot behind a strip mall, got out, and looked around the edge of the building. The green car appeared on the off-ramp. She couldn’t see the driver behind the tinted windows, but when he turned away from her direction Clancy jumped in her car and drove across the lot to the far west side