Undercover Bride. Kylie Brant

wife to complete his hold on the new union he’s creating. He’s considering candidates from all over the nation. I assume you’ll have no difficulty arranging an introduction. And then in convincing him that you are a woman worthy of bearing his seed to propagate his empire.”

      Having reached the top of the rope, Rachel heaved herself to sit astride the beam, then rose to balance, arms outstretched. “Sure, Jonah,” she murmured, as she tiptoed the length of the beam. Constructing a spin on pirouette, she crossed back to the rope and began her descent. “Pretend fiancée to a man handsome as sin who just happens to be Satan’s counterpart? No problem.”

      “I knew I could rely on you.” Was that a hint of amusement she heard in Jonah’s voice? Not for the first time, she had the uneasy feeling that the man in charge of SPEAR was extremely familiar with the way she thought. An incredible feat for someone who was, for all intents, a stranger to her.

      “We know it’s Carpenter’s stated intention to unite all the militia groups in the nation into one army capable of taking down the U.S. government.” Jonah’s voice hardened. “Obviously, he’s positioning himself to become the new national leader. I need details, Angel. Who’s he dealing with, and how does he hope to bring about the revolution? And finally, what tie does Simon have with The Brotherhood? His involvement, I’m certain, is critical.”

      She released the rope and dropped lightly to the floor. The tape was now silent, save for a faint whirring sound as its automatic destruction mechanism activated. Picking up the towel, she looped it around her neck, before reaching for the photo and recorder. She was accustomed to the abrupt end of Jonah’s messages. Once he’d described the mission, the details were left to his agents. It made sense. She’d be the lone agent in the Idaho compound, and the danger of the assignment was such that she’d have to think on her feet. Any plans made were subject to split-second changes, depending on the circumstances.

      The loft area held only her workout room, bedroom and bath. She walked through the bedroom now, tossing the equipment on the bed, and stripping on the way to the bathroom. She bypassed the oversize tub and stepped into the shower, setting the temperature just shy of frigid.

      After the shower she rummaged through the kitchen for the makings of some sort of dinner. Her refrigerator held a pound of margarine and a bottle of wine. Since she’d been living in the Comrades’ stronghold, she’d spent little time at home. She finally had to settle for a can of heated soup and a handful of stale crackers. After she finished, she poured herself a glass of wine. Now was the time to think about those details. Physically soothed, with the edge of adrenaline still humming, her mind would be sharper, her instinct more certain. First, though, she went to her office and shredded the picture of Carpenter. The slim celluloid tube the picture had been encased in, along with the recorder cartridge, went into the fire she’d started in the fireplace.

      Her gaze fell on the flowers arranged in a vase and set on a table in front of the couch. A special courier had delivered them, with Jonah’s message and the photo concealed inside. There was no use saving them. She’d be returning to the Comrades’ stronghold in the morning. But she could enjoy their fragrant beauty for a few hours, at least. Picking up her glass of wine, she sank down on the black overstuffed sofa to think.

      She let her mind drift, ideas half forming, to be analyzed, rejected, re-formed. Her gaze focused on the large sword prominently displayed above the fireplace. Its blade was still sharp, its point still keen. She’d carry the scar it had inflicted across her chest to her grave.

      It served as a reminder. Training, intelligence and caution weren’t always enough. Luck, or the lack of it, could be a powerful factor in any assignment. On that particular occasion luck had saved her life.

      She tipped the wine to her lips and drank. The memory gave her no particular chill. Rachel had accepted the danger of her job soon after she’d been recruited by SPEAR on the college campus.

      SPEAR. Stealth, Perseverance, Endeavor, Attack and Rescue, was an agency so guarded that most members of the government didn’t even know it existed. Founded by Lincoln during the Civil War, the head of the agency answered only to the current president. SPEAR was called in when hope was lost, or the odds too great to be chanced by another agency. Death before dishonor was the inviolable code all SPEAR agents lived by. She was no longer amazed by the ferocity with which she embraced the doctrine.

      Rachel rested the cool side of the goblet against her cheek. It had ceased to seem ironic that she’d become as much a zealot for her beliefs as had her father, although their views could not be more diametrically opposed. Had it not been for her miserable childhood, for her father, SPEAR would never have sought her out. She accepted that twist of fate, and poured everything she had into the agency which represented all she believed in. Truth. Justice. Loyalty.

      It certainly wouldn’t be fate she’d rely on as she considered her new mission. It wouldn’t be luck. As darkness fell, she made no move to turn on a light. She’d operated in the shadows for long enough to be comfortable in them. And as the flames in the fireplace flickered to charred embers, she considered the best way to get close to Caleb Carpenter. Close enough to learn his secrets, to discover his strategy.

      Close enough to destroy him.

      At 0900 the next morning Rachel was in uniform seated at the conference table of Donald Parker, Commander of Comrades. Six other advisors were also in attendance. The meeting was a ritual, held twice weekly. Rachel wasn’t certain how much input the more senior officials had into Parker’s decisions, but from what she’d observed, the man preferred to keep most of the power for himself. That was the case with many of the militia groups she’d infiltrated. Paranoia was so rampant within the organizations that the leader did little delegating. It was a weakness that worked to the advantage of the government. Once the militia leader was removed, without another officer capable of salvaging the organization, its threat was eliminated. She supposed it was too much to hope that Carpenter had a similar leadership style. It would make the destruction of the Brotherhood all the more final.

      “Take a look at this.” The advisors were silent as they perused copies of a fax Parker handed out, the same fax message Rachel had arranged to be delivered to his machine that morning. “Any thoughts on it?”

      Rachel was silent as she skimmed the information she’d sent. The message was a copy of the mass mailings sent from The Brotherhood’s Compound in Idaho. She never doubted that Carpenter’s name would be recognized. The man had been making ripples in the white-supremacy movement for over two years, purportedly financing The Brotherhood’s stronghold with his considerable personal wealth. The Brotherhood of Blood was one of the fastest growing militia operations in the nation, a source of grave concern to the U.S. Civil Rights Division.

      “What’s it to us if Carpenter wants a wife?” Lee Crandall, one of the senior advisors, said finally. “Seems to me with his money he could buy himself just about any woman he wanted.”

      “I heard he’s got a real fancy compound out there,” another man noted. “Using his own money to build it, too. Maybe we should start paying more attention. A guy with unlimited resources could be a threat.”

      “Or an ally.” All heads turned in Rachel’s direction. Here was the opening she’d planned for. “If The Brotherhood has that kind of financial backing it might not hurt to have someone there on the inside. Someone with ties to Comrades who gets close to Carpenter might be able to do us some good in the long run.”

      Parker leaned back in his chair and let his advisors debate the issue. Rachel said no more. She knew the commander was listening closely, despite the fact that his heavy eyelids were almost closed. With his crew-cut hair, square face and barrel-chested body, he still looked like the Marine drill sergeant he’d been over twenty years ago. He ran the organization like his own personal kingdom, and perhaps it was. A kingdom that bred on hatred for all people of color.

      His beliefs were abhorrent and his tactics often shockingly violent. She’d wondered more than once if the man wasn’t a psychopath. When he was spewing his organization’s dogma his eyes would become a bit glazed and his face red as the hate-filled words seemed ripped from his throat. It was