Take No Prisoners. Gayle Wilson

during the last ten years, but it had been the most personal for all of them. Certainly the most bitter. At least until New York.

      Eventually both the country and Congress had begun to ask why no one had been aware of the threat from Al-Qaeda. Maybe, Dalton thought, because they’d all been too busy getting rid of the very people who might have been able to tell them. And that would certainly have included Landon James.

      The Middle East had been his area of expertise. Just as it was Grace Chancellor’s. She’d been an intelligence analyst rather than an operative, but despite the fact that the two had struck sparks off one another on a number of occasions by supporting conflicting opinions about operations there, Dalton knew Landon had respected her opinions.

      Whether that respect would translate into the ex-CIA agent taking action in this situation was something neither he nor Griff had been willing to predict. Neither had they been willing to bet against it.

      If Landon refused, then Griff would move on to Plan B. With Cabot there was always a Plan B. They had agreed, however, that Landon James was their best hope.

      And Grace Chancellor’s best hope, as well.

      “Apparently she phrased it strongly enough that it’s gotten her into trouble,” Landon said. “I’m just not sure what you expect me to do about it.”

      “I don’t believe the trouble she’s in right now can be blamed entirely on her testimony,” Dalton said carefully.

      He didn’t want to suggest too much, but he also knew that the only chance he had of convincing James to undertake this mission was to be absolutely straight with him. Landon was too perceptive not to recognize when he was being played.

      “The company despises whistle blowers,” Landon said. “Even those compelled to testify under oath.”

      “So much so,” Dalton agreed, “that as a result of her testimony, the powers-that-be found Chancellor a new assignment.”

      “Let me guess. Reading satellite images.”

      “Something slightly more challenging.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, Dalton found himself smiling at the reminder of how hated that particular assignment was among Cabot’s agents. “They put her in charge of stopping the heroin traffic out of Afghanistan.”

      Landon laughed, the sound short and harsh. “I’m surprised they didn’t give her a spoon and a bucket and point her toward the nearest ocean.”

      Again Landon was on target with his assessment of the task Chancellor had been given. Halting the exportation of heroin from Afghanistan was an impossible job, considering the entrenched culture of poppy production. It had been made even more difficult now by the lawlessness of the vast areas that lay outside the direct control of the Afghan government or the forces of the international coalition.

      “Chancellor wanted to see the extent of the problem for herself,” Dalton went on, “as well as every aspect of the process by which the drugs are transported out of the country.”

      There was a noise from the other end of the line that sounded like derision. Unsure, Dalton decided to ignore it.

      “The Army provided her with a military escort, some lieutenant colonel who was supposed to know the ropes and show her around. Chancellor probably knew more about what was going on before she arrived in the country than he did after several months there.”

      “And knowing Chancellor,” Landon said, “she didn’t tell him that.”

      Probably not, Dalton thought, but he ignored the interruption to go on with his story. “The Kiowa they were riding in was hit by small-arms fire. Fortunately the pilot was able to set the chopper down, but…”

      “Go on,” Landon urged when Dalton paused.

      The voice on the other end of the line had become very soft. It was a timbre anyone who had worked in the field with Landon James would have recognized immediately. The more tense the situation, the quieter he became.

      “The body of the colonel’s aide was found with the helicopter. Lt. Colonel Stern, the pilot and Grace Chancellor were not.”

      “Where did they go down?”

      “The mountains just north of Kabul.”

      “Son of a bitch.” The expletive was again soft, but obviously heartfelt. “How long ago?”

      This was the part Dalton had most dreaded. So far the Agency had been tight-lipped about the incident. There had been a brief report in the media, no names provided. If Neil Andrews hadn’t contacted Griff, they might never have known Grace was involved.

      “Nearly two weeks.”

      The expletive Landon uttered this time was expressive of his contempt. “And of course, no one at Langley has a clue who took them. Or where.”

      Those were not questions. They were assumptions, flatly articulated and based on Landon’s lack of respect for the kind of information gathering that had passed for intel in that area for years.

      “Not a clue. At least, according to Griff’s sources within the Agency.”

      “Griff wants me to find her?”

      The hesitation this time was Dalton’s. “He recognizes that he has no right to ask you to do anything. He simply wanted me to make you aware of what had happened.”

      “Okay,” Landon said. “Tell him I’m aware.”

      Which didn’t sound promising. Nor did it reveal what the ex-operative intended to do. If anything.

      Dalton suspected his boss wasn’t going to be satisfied if he brought back that enigmatic answer. He knew Griff well enough to know that if James didn’t accept the task, Cabot would find someone who would.

      His loyalty toward those he considered the good guys within the CIA extended beyond the agents who had worked for him. Apparently, it covered Grace Chancellor, as well. And Griff would damn well want to know if the rescue mission he’d been hoping for was going to take place.

      “Are you going to find her?” Dalton asked.

      “If she’s still alive.”

      “We have no reason to believe she isn’t.”

      And none to believe she is.

      “Anybody had an offer?”

      “For ransom, you mean?”

      “Someone in that region is holding a senior CIA analyst, an American colonel and an American pilot, and they aren’t trying to negotiate a deal for their release? Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

      “It’s a pretty remote area. A lot of tribesmen—”

      “You just made the same kind of mistake our former employer so frequently makes,” Landon interrupted. “Don’t judge sophistication by lifestyle. Just because someone lives in a cave doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what’s going on in the outside world. That should have been one lesson we all learned from 9/11.”

      “Then…why wouldn’t anyone have been approached for ransom?”

      “I don’t know, but I can tell you that single fact bothers me more than anything else you’ve told me.”

      Dalton swallowed his own misgivings over the way the capture of the three Americans had played out reinforced by Landon’s certainty that something was wrong with the entire scenario.

      “Someone mentioned the possibility that this has been organized by the drug lords,” he said. “Something designed to show that no matter how many people Washington sends out, they’re still in control.”

      “If there’s to be any chance of Grace Chancellor being returned alive, you better hope whoever told you that is wrong.”

      Dalton had no idea what to say to that. It sounded ominous. And absolutely assured.