Way of the Warrior (Troubleshooters #17.5)(124)

Neither of us accepted it.

“We’re making s’mores,” I insisted, my resolve strong. It had been a hellish week, and I wanted something chocolate. We had driven all the way out here; we weren’t turning back now.

Calvin rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he said, steering himself sharply toward the right. “Cookies and crackers. Aisle seven.”

I followed behind him, breaking into a trot to keep up with his chair.

But Calvin pressed his brake and we nearly collided. “There she is again,” he hissed, tapping my hand furiously. “Doesn’t she creep you out, even a little?”

Little Miss Sunshine, as Calvin had called her, was busy inspecting the nutrition information on the backs of two different bags of corn chips. Her long, blond hair was swept up in an elegant French chignon. She hadn’t bothered to take off her sunglasses.

I scooped up a box of graham crackers and left the aisle. Calvin followed me this time.

Once the woman was out of earshot, I told him, “The only weird thing about her is that she looks like she’s rolling in dough, unlike most Sav’A’Buck customers.” I shrugged. “But we probably stick out here too.” I found the aisle for candy and grabbed a humongous bag of chocolate. “So give her a break.”

Calvin acknowledged his two-hundred-dollar polo shirt and shrugged. “Eh, you’re right,” he replied, and popped his collar.

“That’s lame, by the way,” I said, and found an empty basket to dump my purchases into.

“What?” Calvin replied, his expression one of mock offense. “Girl, you are just jealous because you can’t pull off the look.”

“Sooo jealous,” I replied sarcastically. I was perfectly happy in my jean shorts and plain black tank top. Nobody needed to know my mom had spent a fortune for both articles of clothing. If it were up to me, I’d wear clothes from the local consignment shop, thank you very much. People were going hungry these days, and obviously many of them were right here in Harrisburg. That was way creepier, IMO, than Little Miss Sunshine jonesing for cheap, salty grease.

Calvin poked his nose into my basket. “Would you mind telling me exactly how white girls from the north make s’mores? Where I come from, we use marshmallows.”

“Dammit!” I’d forgotten to grab a bag when we were in the candy aisle.

“Come on,” Calvin replied, and reached for my basket. He set it atop his lap and followed me as I sprinted back toward aisle eight.

“Skylar, slow your ass down!” Calvin whined, but when I did, he zoomed past me, laughing.

“Oh, it’s on,” I said, pushing to keep up. “I could totally beat you in a race.”

It was Calvin’s turn to roll his eyes when we both had to slow for oncoming traffic. “Oh, yeah? How much you wanna bet?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” I answered, and that’s when the screaming started.





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Free Fall





CATHERINE MANN


Even as the yawning entrance to the cave came into sight, Stella refused to relax her guard. She pulled back on the throttle. Entering slowly, she scanned while her quiet companions held their MP5s at the ready. Would an Interpol operative, four CIA agents, six SEALs, and two PJs be enough to face anything that waited inside? The low hum of the motor echoed like a growling beast in the cavern, one light strobing forward into the darkness.

Illuminating a waiting U.S. fishing boat.

Her final contingency.

Her plan had to work; otherwise, she would screw up her hard-earned chance of working in Africa before the mission barely got off the ground. She flung open the door to the small forward cabin of her speedboat. The clang of metal hitting metal echoed in her mind like the closing of her mother’s coffin. Melanie Carson’s daughter would not give up on day one.

Digging around in the hull, Stella pulled out small duffel bags, one after the other, tossing them to each of the men in wet suits.

“Change, gentlemen. We’re about to become American tourists on a sightseeing excursion. Mr. Jones,” who could blend in best with the locals and even spoke a regional dialect thanks to his mother, “will be our guide. We’re swapping boats, then splitting up at the dock. Blend into the crowds. Report at the embassy. You’ve got a duress code if you need to call in. Any questions?”

Only the sound of oxygen tanks and gear hitting the deck answered her.

“Good.” Her heart rate started to return to something close to normal again.

The sound of zippers sent her spinning on her heels to take care of her own transformation. She unrolled a colorful rectangular cloth, an East African kanga, complete with the standard intricate border and message woven into the red and orange pattern.

It would be hot as hell over her black pants, top, and bulletproof vest. But a little dehydration was a small price to pay for an extra layer of anonymity.

“Need help?”

She turned and there were those coffee dark eyes again. Static-like awareness snapped when she looked back at the intense gaze that had held hers earlier as he’d lifted his face mask. Except now he was more than eyes and a wet suit. He was a lean, honed man in a pair of fitted swim trunks he must have worn under the diving gear. He was glistening bronze with a body trained for survival anyplace, anytime.