“trigger.” They believed the terrorists had blown up the yacht either to destroy it, or to conceal evidence that would lead them to it.
Alex was to lead the search. Which meant there was no way possible for her to avoid working with him.
For the rest of the morning, every time she felt he was on the verge of bringing up the whole can-I-stay-with-you subject again, she’d managed to head it off at the pass. But she knew her moment of reckoning would soon be nigh and he would demand an answer, whether she was ready to give it or not.
Did she mind his presence in her apartment? Possibly in her bed? Was she really ready for this?
What on earth should she say? More importantly, what on earth should she do ?
Meanwhile, she was stuck sitting thigh to thigh with the man in the tight confines of her cubicle, feeling embarrassment creep up her neck at his deliberate study of the pictures and other personal items she had pinned to her partition walls. Thankfully, she hadn’t put up her favorite photo of him—determined to have a fresh start and all that—which she’d had prominently displayed in her New York cubicle before transferring south four months ago. How mortifying would that have been?
Mentally she steeled herself and sat down in the chair crammed next to him, indicating the file she’d just plopped onto the desk. “This is everything we’ve been able to dig up on the owners of Allah’s Paradise and her ports of call over the last ten weeks.” Perhaps not surprisingly, her last stop had been in Louisiana. The state seemed to be a favorite of al Sayika for some reason. “No reports of a missing nuclear trigger in the U.S. or anywhere else,” Rebel told him. Despite two other agents plus herself working diligently on information-gathering for the past few hours, the jacket was depressingly thin. “How ’bout your people? Any luck?”
Alex picked up the file but didn’t open it. “A bit. Nothing on a missing trigger, either. But Darcy was able to run the fingerprints from the dead guy’s gun you picked up, as well as our wounded prisoner’s. Found matches.” He slid a pair of printouts over to her. “Their names are Hassan Mina and Gibran Allawi Bakreen.”
She looked at the reports in surprise. “But we ran both those sets of prints here at the Bureau, and nothing came up. Not from AFIS, the military, or NCVIC.” The usual fingerprint databases.
“STORM has other resources,” he said.
“Like what?” She’d dealt with STORM Corps briefly during the Gina Cappozi rescue back in December, but everyone associated with the outfit had been pretty tight-lipped. Especially Darcy Zimmerman. Her respect for the woman’s abilities rose considerably.
He regarded her for a moment, as though even he was weighing how much to say. “STORM Corps is one of the best PMCs—private military contractors—in existence. We’ve been hired by nearly every major international company at one time or another, and a couple dozen foreign governments. Rescue and retrieval missions, mostly, but also sensitive strategic operations that possibly corrupt local military or law enforcement can’t be trusted to carry out. Part of our contract is a clause that gives us absolute access to all clients’ intelligence databases.”
Wow. “And these companies and governments trust a PMC enough to allow that?”
“They have no choice. STORM Corps isn’t just any random PMC. We’re in big demand worldwide and can pick and choose our jobs. It’s a deal-breaker clause.”
Incredible. Her bosses would kill to have access to that level of information. No wonder he’d hesitated before telling her. “Don’t your clients cut you off after the mission is over?”
He smiled. “Darcy is really good at her job. So are all our other comp specs.”
“I’m beginning to see that.” But better she didn’t. “And what else has Darcy found out about our unsubs? Are they al Sayika?”
“Suspected,” he said. “France had the
Alex was to lead the search. Which meant there was no way possible for her to avoid working with him.
For the rest of the morning, every time she felt he was on the verge of bringing up the whole can-I-stay-with-you subject again, she’d managed to head it off at the pass. But she knew her moment of reckoning would soon be nigh and he would demand an answer, whether she was ready to give it or not.
Did she mind his presence in her apartment? Possibly in her bed? Was she really ready for this?
What on earth should she say? More importantly, what on earth should she do ?
Meanwhile, she was stuck sitting thigh to thigh with the man in the tight confines of her cubicle, feeling embarrassment creep up her neck at his deliberate study of the pictures and other personal items she had pinned to her partition walls. Thankfully, she hadn’t put up her favorite photo of him—determined to have a fresh start and all that—which she’d had prominently displayed in her New York cubicle before transferring south four months ago. How mortifying would that have been?
Mentally she steeled herself and sat down in the chair crammed next to him, indicating the file she’d just plopped onto the desk. “This is everything we’ve been able to dig up on the owners of Allah’s Paradise and her ports of call over the last ten weeks.” Perhaps not surprisingly, her last stop had been in Louisiana. The state seemed to be a favorite of al Sayika for some reason. “No reports of a missing nuclear trigger in the U.S. or anywhere else,” Rebel told him. Despite two other agents plus herself working diligently on information-gathering for the past few hours, the jacket was depressingly thin. “How ’bout your people? Any luck?”
Alex picked up the file but didn’t open it. “A bit. Nothing on a missing trigger, either. But Darcy was able to run the fingerprints from the dead guy’s gun you picked up, as well as our wounded prisoner’s. Found matches.” He slid a pair of printouts over to her. “Their names are Hassan Mina and Gibran Allawi Bakreen.”
She looked at the reports in surprise. “But we ran both those sets of prints here at the Bureau, and nothing came up. Not from AFIS, the military, or NCVIC.” The usual fingerprint databases.
“STORM has other resources,” he said.
“Like what?” She’d dealt with STORM Corps briefly during the Gina Cappozi rescue back in December, but everyone associated with the outfit had been pretty tight-lipped. Especially Darcy Zimmerman. Her respect for the woman’s abilities rose considerably.
He regarded her for a moment, as though even he was weighing how much to say. “STORM Corps is one of the best PMCs—private military contractors—in existence. We’ve been hired by nearly every major international company at one time or another, and a couple dozen foreign governments. Rescue and retrieval missions, mostly, but also sensitive strategic operations that possibly corrupt local military or law enforcement can’t be trusted to carry out. Part of our contract is a clause that gives us absolute access to all clients’ intelligence databases.”
Wow. “And these companies and governments trust a PMC enough to allow that?”
“They have no choice. STORM Corps isn’t just any random PMC. We’re in big demand worldwide and can pick and choose our jobs. It’s a deal-breaker clause.”
Incredible. Her bosses would kill to have access to that level of information. No wonder he’d hesitated before telling her. “Don’t your clients cut you off after the mission is over?”
He smiled. “Darcy is really good at her job. So are all our other comp specs.”
“I’m beginning to see that.” But better she didn’t. “And what else has Darcy found out about our unsubs? Are they al Sayika?”
“Suspected,” he said. “France had the
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