Spy Games (Tarnished Heroes #1)
Sidney Bristol
Chapter One
Rand Duncan sat cross-legged in the dark, eyes closed. His every fiber strained to hear the one out of place sound that would mean this location was compromised. The North Korean Ministry of State Security was circling, closing the noose in their effort to discover the United States’ objective and Rand’s mission. He’d spent the last several years working with an asset inside the North Korean borders, putting all of their lives at risk. Even in his current hideout in Seoul, he was still in danger from the MSS operatives.
One more week, maybe a couple days to set up the extraction for his asset-informant, and Rand was home free. This gig would be over, and he could be Stateside sipping a beer and watching hockey in time for the playoffs. He was hoping the Bruins did something interesting. He’d never say that around Dad, a diehard Red Wings fan.
The cell phone perched on his knee lit up, bathing the tiny, windowless apartment in LED light. His stomach dropped and his throat constricted. He pried one eye open to catch the number.
A phone call was never a good thing in his line of work.
“Hello?” Rand stood, stretching the kinks out of his muscles.
“The courier has been made.” The speaker’s voice was monotone, devoid of inflection. And yet those words were made from the stuff of nightmares.
The courier.
His courier.
Her.
Rand didn’t know her identity, only her handwriting. She was part of his team, the crucial element that ferried information and resources from his handler to him. And now she was most likely in danger.
“What should I do?” He crossed to the wardrobe and paused.
The rifle case—assassinate the woman he only knew through scribbled notes.
Or the pack—everything he needed to run and maybe save her.
“Hold.” The line went silent.
Courier Girl.
She’d been leaving packages for him at a variety of dead drops all across the city for the last year, maybe longer. Sadly, it was the most legitimate human interaction he’d had since settling into this gig. Solo missions overseas were more about blending in, becoming invisible and being in the right place at the right time. Things he excelled at. Still, that bit of human connection had gotten him through some touch-and-go moments. The idea that there was someone out there who knew what he did. That might miss him. Though, why would she miss someone she’d never met and had only written a dozen or so sentences to?
The first note had been in haste. A changed drop, some trouble, he’d never really known what happened. The words scrawled on the envelope hadn’t made sense to him at first—because they were in English—and he’d been living, speaking, and thinking in Korean for a year.
Sorry about the blood.
Crimson had stained one corner of the envelope.
Rand shouldn’t have known her gender, but at the three-month period, it’d slipped out in a briefing with one of the analysts. A new guy who hadn’t known better. Knowing her gender wouldn’t put her in jeopardy, but it was a detail Rand could have lived without. In the dark, alone, his mind concocted the strangest narratives to keep him occupied.
He’d burned the envelope but kept the strip of paper her words were scrawled on, and the next time he dropped a package, he’d included a note for her—and a Band-Aid.
It was silly, but he’d been going stir crazy. Rand hated these deep-cover, sit-and-wait, watch-the-paint-dry gigs.
He slung the pack on, secured his headset into place, and gathered what he thought he might need.
Getting kidnapped by the MSS would be a death sentence. Killing Courier Girl if she wound up in their hands would be a mercy. A short, painless end. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, but if it did, he’d do that for her. Just as he would wish someone to do for him if the tables were turned.
“Rand.” Hector’s voice was an electric charge after whoever the hell he’d been speaking to.
“Thank God. What’s the call?” Rand had worked with Hector since his recruitment as an off-the-books CIA operative. A contractor, technically speaking.
“Find her. She’s not a field agent, she won’t last, and if they catch her, we lose everyone in Asia. Everyone, Rand. This is bad.” Hector rattled off an address and the name of a noodle bar.
“You got it.” Rand switched the call to his headset to free his hands for arming the apartment. “Is there an extraction planned?”
“No. Go to ground. Keep her safe. We’ll get a team there soon to pull her out.”
“Will do. Leaving now.” Rand set the tripwire for his homemade claymore bomb and slipped out the door.
Hold on, CG. I’m on my way.
…
Sarah Collins hunched against the wall. The restaurant was clearing out. It was just her and the package. She’d ditched her cell phone, her bag, everything except her clothes, the scarf to disguise her hair, and the envelope for the dead drop.
She checked the time again.
The rendezvous should have happened two hours ago, but she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of being followed. In all the years she’d been a courier for the CIA, she’d never had a true close call. No funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. Not a single one. Until tonight.
At first, she’d thought she was being paranoid, which was common in this line of work. But then she’d spotted the same man tailing her with another guy. She’d cut through short cuts and across busy sections of the city without losing the two men until a little bit ago. Now, she needed to stay breathing and keep moving until her contact found her or she ran out of options. If she had to decide between giving up the package and her life, she knew what the right choice was. She’d never thought it would come to this.