Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

S he was crazy. At least Maggie Ellis feared that was the case, though the in-house psychiatrist at the CIA called it PTS, Post-Traumatic Stress?—not necessarily a disorder unless it never went away. She shook her head, lamenting her weakness. One bad experience, and suddenly she was falling apart? Ellises were made of sterner stuff than that. But Dr. Richards had prescribed a twelve-month hiatus from casework, and Maggie had been given an analyst’s job at Langley.

Just two months in paperwork purgatory was enough to make anyone go nuts; Maggie couldn’t fathom doing another ten. Gritting her teeth the entire time, she became a nine-to-five desk jockey while doubling down on convincing Dr. Richards that she was all healed from her nightmare in Morocco.

And apparently, he’d fallen for it, for she’d received instructions this last week to pack a suitcase for an overnight in New York City to meet with her boss’s boss. This morning, she’d taken the Amtrak from Union Station in D.C. to Penn Station in Manhattan. She went straight to the hotel to check in and to change. And now she was braving the August heat by walking to the clandestine CIA station instead of taking a taxi.

Her destination was just six blocks from the hotel and only one block from the United Nations Headquarters. A brisk walk past the latter would dispel her jitters.

She wouldn’t have been summoned here unless she was about to get briefed on a new assignment. Buíochas le Dia . Funny how she never forgot Jake’s Gaelic phrases. But what if she wasn’t ready?

To bolster her confidence, Maggie wore a black sheath dress under an emerald-green cropped jacket that matched her eyes. It was a little too warm for the jacket, even one with three-quarter sleeves. To compensate, she wore her long raven hair in a ponytail that twitched behind her as she walked.

The staccato of her leggy stride turned the heads of men and women alike, assuring her she looked her best. But even with a newly purchased Ruger strapped to the inside of her left thigh, her gaze darted nervously toward every door and alley as she coursed the sidewalk.

Farid was dead. He couldn’t hurt her again. How many times did she have to tell herself that?

Maggie checked her watch?—the same one that had saved her in Morocco and even in Venezuela, for that matter. Perfect. She would arrive at the scheduled meeting exactly on time because the United Nations Headquarters was straight ahead of her, with all those colorful flags snapping in the hot breeze. Who wouldn’t be inspired by the visible sign of countries working toward a better world? And here was the tall, steel building she was looking for, labeled with a brass placard that read: U.S. Department of the Treasury . That, of course, was a front.

As she marched toward the double glass doors, Maggie took her CAC card from her purse while checking the door’s glass reflection to confirm she wasn’t being followed. She swiped her card under the scanner, and the doors popped open. The cool marble foyer stood empty, apart from a security guard who stared at her entrance.

Standing at five-feet-nine-inches tall, with a face she’d inherited from Miss Venezuela 1990, her mother, Maggie resembled a fashion model more than a case officer, especially now that she’d lost seven pounds from all the running she’d been doing.

“Afternoon, miss. Can I help you?”

“Maggie Ellis. I have a meeting with Deputy Director Hinton.”

The portly guard consulted the screen of his laptop, sliding a finger down it until he saw her name. “Oh yes. Well then, you know the drill, ma’am. Surrender any electronics or weapons, look into the retina scan, then come on through the metal detector.”

While the guard politely averted his gaze, Maggie reached under her hem to withdraw the Ruger from its holster. Vulnerability assailed her as she placed it in the plastic tub with her purse. She’d left her phone in the hotel so no one could track her movements. Bending over the retina scan, which recognized her emerald-green eyes, she was cleared to step through the metal detector next, then collect her purse. The guard would hang on to her Ruger for the time being.

“Have a good meeting, Miss Ellis. Head to the eighth floor. Turn left off the elevator, and it’s the last door on your left.”

“Thanks.” Could the guard tell her stomach was full of butterflies?

Pull yourself together, Maggie! Her heart trotted as she proceeded toward the elevators. It’s not like you’re going to the electric chair.

Even so, by the time she reached the eighth floor, a cold sweat filmed her upper lip, and she was hoping she still had time to use the restroom. She bolted out of the elevator as it opened, turning left per the guard’s instructions and colliding with a very solid individual coming up the hall.

It took everything in her not to startle like a cat with its claws out, fur spiked. “Jake!”

Gentle blue eyes regarded her from a height of well over six feet. Not even a trace of surprise lifted his dark-brown eyebrows, suggesting he was expecting her. “Lena.”

The way he said her nickname stirred up dormant feelings. His gaze glossed over her ponytail, swept the length of her body, then rose again, centering on the thin scar that hatched her lower lip, a memento from Morocco. “How are you?” Concern laced his voice.

He couldn’t possibly know about her diagnosis. “I’m great.” She raised her chin to lend assertion to the statement. Then ruined it by adding, “Do you know where the restrooms are?”

He gestured with his chin up the hall behind her. “I’m headed that way right now.”

“Thanks.” She wheeled away, aware that he was watching her stride ahead of him. The solidness of his frame was still imprinted upon her senses. In college, he’d been lean and lanky. But now, dressed in a heather-gray suit with a white shirt and no tie, he looked like an advertisement for the Special Operations, all broad shoulders and muscle-corded neck.

Without glancing back, she pushed into the restroom, determined not to encounter him again when she came out, but suspecting she was going to.

As she washed her hands a moment later, she noted with dismay the ring on her fourth finger?—the promise ring Jake had given her. Had he seen it on her? She always wore it when she was stateside because she loved it, but Jake might get the wrong idea.

Wriggling it off, she dropped it into a zippered pocket on her purse. After drying her hands and patting away the nervous perspiration on her face, she blew out a breath and left the bathroom for her meeting.

Please, let me have a new assignment. Another day stuck in the office, and she’d really lose her mind. But am I ready? Squelching the uncertain voice, she left the bathroom.

Jake was not in the hallway. Relieved, Maggie hastened to the office at the end of the corridor. The door on the left stood open, with four men inside, blocking her view out the window, and one of them was Jake. Her heart began to dance a jig.

“Ah, there she is.” Her boss from back home, a burly Black man with a megawatt smile, stepped in her direction with his hand outstretched. “How was the train ride, Maggie?”

“Good, Gordon, thank you.” Her hands were still cool from just washing them. “No delays.”

“Excellent.” Gordon turned and guided her toward the other three. “Let me introduce you to the present company.”

Jake’s gaze folded over her, but he gave no outward sign of knowing her.

“Everyone, this is Magdalena Ellis. Maggie is originally from Venezuela, which is why she’s our top choice for this operation.”

Top choice? Was she headed back to Venezuela ? Her mouth went dry, and her palms turned clammy.

“Maggie, you’ve met Deputy Director Hinton before, haven’t you?”

She sent the silver-haired, rather hefty man a practiced smile, withholding her hand lest he guessed how nervous she was. “Only over conference calls. How do you do, sir?”

“Good to see you again, Maggie.”

Gordon gestured next to a slim gentleman with a hooked nose, dark hair and eyes. “This is Charles du Lac, assistant director of the Department of Peace Operations overseen by the United Nations Secretariat. At least that’s his cover. Charles is with DGSE, the French Secret Service.”

“Enchanté.” The Frenchman held out his hand, forcing Maggie to touch her damp palm to his. He clasped her hand firmly. “I hear you went to school in Paris for a time, mademoiselle.”

“Yes.” She waited for Jake to mention he had been there with her, but he did not. “What part of France are you from, sir?”

“Please, call me Charles. I am from La Ville de Fontainebleau.”

Memories of giddy laughter and bone-deep contentment rocked Maggie. It was all she could do not to meet Jake’s eyes to see if he remembered that perfect day when they’d toured the castle and hiked in the nearby forest. “I’ve been to the chateaux there. It’s just lovely.”

Gordon interrupted. “Maggie, this is Navy SEAL Lieutenant Jake Carrigan. He’s a member of our Special Operations Group.”

As Charles released her hand, Maggie faced Jake, expecting him to say that, as a SOG, he’d already rescued her?—twice. Instead, he just nodded, sketching her the world’s smallest smile.

She nodded stiffly back. “Lieutenant Carrigan.”

The deputy director inserted, “Charles will be working with you two on a special project.”

Oh? Maggie’s heart did a backflip as euphoria tangled with trepidation. I’m working with Jake?

The director gestured toward the briefing table. “Let’s all take a seat, shall we?”

Homing in on the seat near the end of the table, Maggie remained off-kilter when Jake took the chair directly across from her. If she extended her foot, she would touch the toe of his dress shoes?—size thirteen, unless his feet had grown. Hinton settled into the high-backed swivel chair at the head of the table with Charles and Gordon on either side of him.

The fact that Hinton would be briefing them told Maggie this assignment was top tier. Normally, Gordon supplied her assignments.

After slipping on a pair of silver-framed reading glasses, Hinton regarded Maggie over the top of them. “Ms. Ellis, do you remember Mike Howitz and Jay Barnes? You worked with both men on your first assignment in Colombia.”

Two youngish men who’d worked closely with her on her first assignment at the U.S. Embassy in Bogotá came to mind. “Of course.” They’d been like brothers to her, showing her the ropes and making her tour in Bogotá a wonderful experience. Alarm arrowed through her. “Why? What’s happened to them?”

Hinton grimaced. “I’m sorry to say they were both abducted by the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia in March of this year.”

Maggie frowned and glanced at Jake, whose poker face suggested he knew this already. “I thought the FARC disbanded years ago. Wasn’t there a peace agreement with the government, giving them seats in the House and the Senate?” She clearly remembered that happening while she was in college.

“It did.” Hinton tipped his sparse head of hair. “But a handful of dissidents, including the FARC’s second-in-command, fled to the mountains in northeast Colombia, allied themselves with the drug lords there, and have sworn to punish anyone associated with the Havana Accord, which they claim is a fraud. They’re funding themselves with drug sales and ransom money.”

Unbelievable. All that had been accomplished in the peace agreement was for naught. Poor Mike and Jay! What would happen to them?

“Howitz and Barnes were kidnapped right off the streets of Bogotá last spring. Their families have been told to wire five hundred thousand dollars apiece to pay for their release. Of course, the FBI has asked them not to pay a cent and to let intermediaries negotiate for their loved ones’ release. That’s where you two come in.”

Finding her mouth hanging open, Maggie clicked her teeth together.

“The UN’s Department of Peace Operations is sponsoring a team to spearhead negotiations for their release.” Hinton gestured toward the Frenchman. “Mr. du Lac is a member of said team. Other volunteers include the lead negotiator, who is German, as well as an Italian, a Turk, and a French couple.” His gaze went to Maggie, then Jake. “That’s going to be your cover.”

Maggie’s blood pressure spiked. Wait, a couple ? And Jake, a Frenchman? His French hadn’t been all that good twelve years ago.

Gordon seemed to read her mind. “Lieutenant Carrigan has just completed an advanced language course at The Farm. Moreover, we have a liaison agreement with the French Secret Service, who are the only folks who’ll know your true identities.”

Charles, Maggie’s CIA equivalent, sent her an encouraging smile.

“Here’s the cruncher.” The deputy director laid a pudgy hand over the documents in front of him. “We don’t have much time to prepare. You’ll need to fly to Bogotá on Monday.”

Monday! So no returning to her office in Langley next week. Maggie’s relief faltered. She’d better be ready for this. What’s more, she’d be working with Jake , who would be posing as her husband . Was this someone’s idea of a practical joke?

Gordon cleared his throat. “This being a humanitarian mission, Maggie, you won’t be able to carry any weapons or any overt communication devices of any kind.” His chocolate-brown eyes conveyed apology. He, of course, was well aware of her diagnosis.

Hinton tacked on, “The FARC are going to march you deep into their territory in a remote mountainous region. They may strip you of any possessions you carry, so weapons and cell phones are out. However, our intel suggests they’ll let you keep your passports and your boots.”

Maggie’s lips started to tingle?—a telltale sign of an impending panic attack. Keep it cool. Glancing at Jake, she found him frowning at the tabletop.

Gordon added, “You don’t have to take this assignment if you’re not ready, Maggie.”

Her cheeks flamed as she fixed a chagrined stare at her boss and grappled with her rising panic. She had to be ready.

“Barnes and Howitz were colleagues of yours.” Gordon’s words echoed the thoughts in Maggie’s head. “So I thought I’d give you first crack at this.”

A thought occurred to her. “Is Lieutenant Carrigan accompanying me for my protection ?” If she was going to get her moxie back, she had to do this on her own.

Gordon cocked his head at her indignant tone. “As it happens, Maggie, we’re also liaising with the Southern Command on this matter. SEALs from Team Six have already deployed to Bogotá. They’ve been setting up a Joint Intelligence Center at the American Embassy where they’ll track your progress via microchips implanted under your skin. While your job is to discover everything you can about the FARC, including Howitz and Barnes’s exact location, the SEALs’ job is to extract the hostages, if and when UN negotiations fail.”

Jake finally spoke up. “How do I pass on this intel without a phone or radio?”

Hinton gestured dismissively. “We’ll cover that later. In addition to finding Barnes and Howitz’s location, we want all the intel you can acquire on the FARC’s present circumstances. Do they have any allies? How well-armed are they? How many do they number, and what are their vulnerabilities? Go ahead and open your envelopes.” He slid two envelopes across the glossy table, one for her and one for Jake.

Quelling the tremor in her fingers, Maggie freed the flap on her envelope and shook out the passport inside. After cracking the cover, she assimilated her new legend with a thrill of excitement and a renewed sense of calm. This was a familiar process, taking on a fresh identity fraught with nuanced details, quickly internalized, and then worn like a second skin.

The name beside her photograph was Madeleine Martin Cotillard. At least she would respond immediately to someone calling her name. She glanced up at Jake. What was his name? The pages of her passport, heavily stamped, indicated extensive service to the United Nations Department of Peace Operations. According to the legend sheet that came with the passport, she was an associate human affairs officer working for the UN Secretariat and living in New York City, married to Jacques Matis Cotillard?—so that was Jake’s new name.

How ironic they were posing as a married couple. She shot a glance at his left hand?—no ring, thank goodness. At least she wouldn’t be filling another woman’s shoes.

The resignation in Jake’s otherwise deadpan expression suggested he’d already known what his legend would be.

So be it. She and Jake were professionals with a job to do. Even if he were married, that wouldn’t change anything?—except he wasn’t married, Buíochas le Dia.

Hinton sat back in his chair while eyeing them over his reading glasses. “Well, I’m sure you have a million questions, so let’s get started.”

An hour later, Maggie followed a grimly silent Jake down the hall toward the elevators. He hadn’t said much more than a “yes, sir” for the last half hour, yet after reaching the elevator and stabbing the down arrow, he swung around to face her, and the worry carving a line between his eyebrows was apparent.

Maggie drew a tight breath, marshaling her courage. They needed to clear the air if they were going to work together, let alone act like a loving married couple. “Would you like to go out for a drink or something? We have a lot of catching up to do.”

His gaze narrowed slightly. “We’re going to dinner in two hours.” Charles had instructed them to meet him at the restaurant in their hotel, which told her Jake was staying there, too. Over dinner, they would practice their new roles as Monsieur and Madam Jacques Cotillard. She hoped Jake’s French was better.

Rebuffed, Maggie tried a different tactic. She notched her hands at her waist. “What’s the matter, Jake? Never worked with a woman before?”

His gaze slid over her. “Why are you so thin?”

The unexpected question shocked her into silence. Heat seared her cheeks, no doubt turning her face beet red. “I run.” She spoke the words through her clenched teeth. Not even her therapist knew how much she ran?—fifty miles a week, sometimes more.

Jake’s frown grew less severe. “You can’t run in the mountains, Lena?—they’re too steep. So what are you going to do ?”

Did he know about her diagnosis? The concern in his gentle gaze made her stand taller. She shrugged dismissively. “Not run, I guess.”

To her surprise, Jake raked a hand through his brown hair, betraying frustration. “I want you to turn down this assignment.”

The words had her taking a tiny step backward. “Do what?”

“You’re not ready, Lena.”

She gasped, offended, even though his words echoed what her own mind was telling her. “You don’t know me. You don’t know if I’m ready or not!”

His mouth firmed. Calm as always, he spoke without raising his voice above a murmur. “I know what you went through in Morocco. I can tell just by looking at you that this assignment is going to set you back. Please , turn it down.”

Was he only worried about her? Maybe he thought she would blow the operation for everyone?—not just for Howitz and Barnes, but for the SEALs, too.

What if he was right? Discouragement threatened to undermine her wavering confidence. Unwilling for him to see it, she whirled away from him, eschewing the elevator in favor of the fire exit immediately adjacent.

“Lena!”

Behind her, she could hear Jake muttering something to himself in Gaelic. Tears clogged her throat as she practically flew down the echoing stairwell.

Jake did know her. He had just articulated what the fearful voice inside of her was saying. But she had to be ready. Mike and Jay were her colleagues. It could have been she who’d been kidnapped by the FARC, her life and her future snatched away from her. Not seizing this chance to help them smacked of cowardice.

Pushing out of the stairwell a moment later, she glimpsed the back of Jake’s head through the double glass doors as he left the building. A sigh of relief escaped her. She needed to pull herself together before running into him again.

Forcing a smile for the security guard, Maggie collected her Ruger. What now? She didn’t need two hours to get ready for her dinner with Jake and Charles. She would find somewhere to sit by the East River and use the time to silence her uncertainties.

If she didn’t want to be a liability in this rescue operation, she needed to get over her experience in Morocco and move on.