The Espionage Effect(66)
My stomach growled at the mere thought. But he didn’t notice as he focused on another black window that popped up on his laptop screen.
Deadly viper? When I left the room, I eyed the once-harmless atrium down the hallway with suspicion, but paused in front of the closed door across from Alec’s office. The only closed door I’d encountered. He’d suggested I had the run of the house except for said atrium, so I reached for the metal door handle. When it gave without resistance, I nudged open the door with my shoulder.
I stepped barefoot into a room colder by at least ten degrees as overhead lights automatically flickered on at my movement. The low hum of the fluorescent tubes became the only background noise.
I stood inside a nondescript three-car garage, pale-gray paint coating the blank walls, floor covered in a darker gray, speckled with black-and-white flecks.
His Jeep was parked on the opposite end. Another larger vehicle, a Range Rover, sat diagonally in the middle, its front corner leaving only a three-foot gap between front bumper and wall. Directly in front of me, two stout black containers made of heavy-gauge plastic were stacked, one askew atop the other.
Gut instinct—or possibly some triggered memory fragment—screamed these were weapons cases. Only one way to find out. The latches were also black plastic, and although stiff, were smooth to open once I leveraged the heel of my palm against the edge. Two successive clicks echoed before it popped open an inch.
Breath held, I lifted the lid and peered inside. My lips began to curve into a satisfied smile before I let out a low whistle. They were ballistic cases, all right. Protective pale-charcoal foam cradled a shoulder-style missile launcher on the far side. Two smaller pieces were snugged down into their own custom foam nooks.
“Impressed?”
Startled, I jumped so unexpectedly I nearly dislodged my hand propping the case open. I expelled a steadying breath before glancing over my shoulder at him. “Who wouldn’t be?”
Alec had soundlessly entered the garage and crossed half of the eight-foot distance from the doorway. An instant later, he invaded my personal space, the mind-scrambling heat of his body hovering a mere inch from mine. I swallowed hard, then mentally shook off the disorientation. If I stood a chance at being trained by the man, I needed to be able to withstand the storm of sexual chemistry charging between us.
“Ever fired a weapon before?”
“Yes.” Another part of my self-training. “Gun club.”
“Which weaponry?” he asked.
“Various handguns. Seven days of sniper training, basic and advanced.”
He fell quiet. Likely pondering why I hadn’t disclosed that earlier. The only reasonable explanation I internally deduced involved instinctual secret keeping. Why reveal until necessary?
Reluctant to supply that personal tidbit of self-preservation, I swept a second gaze over the gleaming metal weaponry. “You collect military-grade weapons?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He pulled out the missile launcher “These are EtherSphere One creations, modified for our purposes. The bluish sparkle of the alloy in the housing itself is nanotechnology, making the weapon traceable from our satellites.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“No.” He replaced the launcher into its foam nook and pulled out one of two football-shaped missiles. “The ammunition is crafted with nanotech too. Only, these babies also have a unique guidance function. If the bad guy aims and fires this at a target we don’t approve of, we have the ability to redirect its trajectory, or destroy it…in flight.”
“Wow. Now I’m impressed.” A factoid pinged into my brain about the military’s being either guided or reloadable, not both, as I ran a fingertip down the cold shaft of the weapon, impressed by its size. “I’ve never been this close to a handheld missile launcher.” The note of awe in my voice surprised even me.
Okaaay. Apparently I like big sophisticated weapons.
Our gazes locked and held for a beat before his attention drifted down to the base of my throat. Can he read me? Are my pupils dilated? My breathing had shallowed and my pulse pounded in my ears. Not from fear, not quite arousal…but close. Adrenaline. Gripping a weapon was akin to holding unreleased lightning in the palm of your hand.
He took a deep breath, chest expanding until his skin just brushed against my upper arm. Then he fitted the missile back into its foam housing, grabbed a thin black cloth from atop another stack of cases I hadn’t noticed, and wiped down the grip of the launcher, removing any trace of prints or oil.
Needing a distraction from the intoxication of his close proximity, I scanned the room, realizing there were many stacks of ballistic cases. The containers nearest us were the largest, with a handle at each end and needing two men to move, but others were more reasonably sized, some footlocker shaped, others like large suitcases, all the rest manageable by a single person. The entire cache? Enough to arm a small army.
“Planning an attack?”
“Supplies.”
“For…?”
The deadpan look he gave me almost made me laugh. Like I was supposed to know what the weapons stash was for?
Then it dawned on me. “Escobar,” I whispered. The ramifications of supplying weapons—such sophisticated weapons—to a madman blew my mind. “For how long?”
“Almost three years.” He gave a nod, as if that covered it, then began closing the lid, forcing me to step aside. He secured each of the fasteners with a loud click.