Commando. Lindsay McKenna

Randolph.”

      Jake sized up the lean, restless-looking businessman, taking an immediate dislike to him. It was an intuitive thing, Jake thought as he extended his hand to shake Travers’s manicured one. Intuition had saved his life on a number of occasions, and he wasn’t about to dismiss a gut feeling.

      “Mr. Travers.”

      Jake turned to Morgan, whose face showed no expression. Not unusual, Jake thought—Morgan knew how to keep his feelings hidden until the proper time. Jake noted Travers’s expensive suit, his perfect haircut, the gold watch on his wrist—and his arrogance. Hiding a wry smile at the thought, Jake realized that he must look like a country bumpkin by comparison. He wore jeans, rough-out boots and an off-white fisherman-knit sweater. November in Washington, D.C., was cold, and there was a threat of snow today.

      “Have a seat.” Morgan gestured to a wing chair positioned to one side of his desk.

      Jake nodded, his attention still on Travers. There was a feeling of electricity in the air, and it was coming from him. Jake had learned a long time ago to say little and observe a lot. Travers was pacing like a caged animal, his hands behind his back and his brow furrowed. His full mouth was set in a line of decided aversion. But aversion to whom? Morgan? Him? Probably both of them, he surmised.

      Marie, dressed in her tasteful and conservative navy suit with white piping, came in moments later bearing a silver tray that contained coffee and a plate of cookies for the three men. She set it on the coffee table in front of the couch.

      “Please call my wife,” Morgan told her, “and tell her I have to cancel my luncheon date with her.”

      “Yes, sir. Shall I order in the usual lunch from the restaurant?” Marie asked.

      Morgan glanced over at Jake. “Would you like something to eat?”

      “No, thanks. My stomach’s still on Peruvian time.”

      Morgan grinned. “How about you, Ken? Hungry?”

      “No!”

      “Just bring me the usual,” he told his assistant.

      “Yes, sir.” Marie gave Travers a deadly look, turned and left.

      Jake was fascinated by Travers’s snappish mood. He was like a pit bull waiting to eat someone alive. Fighting jet lag, Jake got up and ambled over to the coffee table, where Morgan was already helping himself to a cup of coffee. He needed help keeping himself awake. Originally he’d planned to drop his report off at Morgan’s office and then make his way home to his condo in Alexandria, Virginia, not far from the office that he used only when necessary. Jake’s real home was located in Oregon.

      Travers paced while the two men got their respective cups of coffee and sat down again. Jake saw amusement in Morgan’s eyes, and he realized the look was for him alone. With a slight nod, Jake spread out his long legs in front of him. Holding the dainty gold-edged white china cup in one of his large, scarred hands, a cookie in the other, he leaned back and relaxed.

      “Ken, why don’t you start from the beginning?” Morgan suggested, sipping the black, fragrant Brazilian coffee.

      Agitated, Travers came to a halt, his hands planted imperiously upon his hips. “I just don’t like having Mr. Randolph here. This is strictly private.”

      “Mr. Travers,” Morgan told him, his voice a deep rumble, “if you want Perseus to help you, we need to know the facts. Furthermore, I’m not sure we can help you. You’re in luck that Jake is here, because, if we decide to take your case, Jake will be the man sent on the mission. So why don’t you sit down and start from the beginning?”

      Jake watched as Travers vacillated. The man acted as if he were going to explode.

      “Very well.” Travers strode to the couch and sat down, his spine as rigid as the rest of him.

      “My daughter, Shah Sungilo Travers, is down in Brazil. She’s thirty years old, and a damned fanatic!”

      Morgan tipped his head. “Fanatic? In what sense of the word?”

      Grinding his closed fist into the palm of his hand, Travers snapped, “She’s a damned ecology fanatic. She’s down there in the midst of all the hell breaking loose about the Amazon Basin trees being cut down. Global warming, and all that scientific garbage. Shah could be killed!”

      “How long has she been down there?” Morgan asked.

      “Three months.”

      Jake raised his eyebrows. “And you’re just getting around to asking for help?”

      Travers scowled, and his gaze dropped to his expensive-looking black leather shoes. “I didn’t know. I—Oh, hell, I’m divorced from Shah’s mother. I happened to be in Rapid City, South Dakota, on business, and I decided to drive out to the Rosebud Sioux reservation to visit Shah, who lives with her mother. But she wasn’t there. That’s when I found out she’d galloped off on another damned windmill-tilting adventure. Only this time it’s to Brazil, and it could get her killed.”

      Travers stood up, his voice tight. “I want her out of there. She’s in danger. It’s that Sioux blood of hers. She loves a fight. She sees herself as a protector. A steward, she says.”

      Jake sat up, his interest piqued. A woman with Sioux blood and an unusual name like Shah interested him. But the picture Travers was painting didn’t sound quite accurate. He gave Morgan a searching look.

      “You can ask him anything you want,” Morgan said, reading the question in Jake’s eyes before he could voice his request.

      “Mr. Travers, if your daughter is thirty years old, she’s old enough to realize if she’s in danger or not,” Jake pointed out.

      Travers gave him a withering look of pure disgust. “You don’t know my headstrong daughter, Mr. Randolph. This isn’t the first time Shah has been in the thick of things. Her mother named her Shah Sungilo, which means Red Fox in the Sioux language. She’s got a temper to match any fox’s red coat, and she’s as clever as the damned animal she’s named after.” And then, with a snort, Travers added, “You’d think she would pick some worthwhile cause, and not put her life on the line for some lousy trees in Brazil!”

      “What’s her educational background?” Jake asked, realizing he wasn’t going to get many facts from Travers under the circumstances. The man was clearly fit to be tied. But who was he angry at? Shah? Jake could understand a father being concerned about his daughter possibly being in danger, but where was this anger coming from? His gut told him there was a hidden agenda here, but could he get it out of Travers?

      “Although she was born on the Sioux reservation, my daughter has had the finest education my money could buy. She has a master’s degree in biology from Stanford University in California. I tried to persuade her to go after her Ph.D., but she said there was no time left, that Mother Earth was dying. Hell!” Travers raked his fingers through his hair again. “She’s got her mother’s firebrand temper and stubbornness. She’s bullheaded and won’t listen to anyone!”

      He turned away and stared out the windows at the distant city. “Shortly after I divorced Shah’s mother, I went to court to have my ex-wife pronounced an unfit mother. I didn’t want my daughter raised on a Depression-level Indian reservation. Unfortunately, my ex-wife won. Shah spent the first eighteen years of her life on a damned reservation. What kind of place is that? They’re backward there. Shah’s mother is a medicine woman, and she forced Shah to live the old ways of her people. She was raised a heathen—never baptized. I should have—”

      “Your daughter is a biologist down in Brazil,” Jake said impatiently. “Is she on an assignment?”

      “Yes. For a television station in Los Angeles that has paid her to investigate the destruction of the tropical rain forest in Brazil. Shah is an environmental activist. She thrives on confrontation.” He shook his head. “She just won’t back down.”

      Jake cast a look at