Special Forces: The Operator

In the bright light of the office, he got a good look at her face. She had smooth, soft-looking skin, regular features that grew more pretty the longer he looked at them, and those big, blue eyes of hers. They were her best feature, for sure. Her hair was a soft chocolate brown shot through with strands of gold, like she spent a fair bit of time outside. He already knew she was stronger than her small stature suggested.

She pulled out her credentials again and this time he did the same. Silently, they exchanged badges.

“Rebel McQueen,” he read aloud. “That’s an unusual name. Did your mother dislike you?”

“No. She was a fanatical Steve McQueen fan. He was an actor—”

“I know who he was. The Great Escape is one of my favorite movies.”

She mused, “Allied prisoners break out of Nazi prison camp. I could see why that movie would be popular in Israel.” The woman continued, “Anyway, McQueen’s nickname was ‘the American Rebel.’”

He commented sympathetically, “You must have to explain that a lot.”

“You have no idea.” She rolled her eyes, and they traded brief smiles of commiseration.

She glanced down at his identification. “Avi Bronson. Israeli Defense Forces? Mossad?”

“Sayerat Matkal,” he replied. Not that she would have any idea what that was. Which was the point. His team didn’t advertise their existence, let alone their presence at a venue as public as the Summer Olympics.

“Unit 269?” she blurted.

“You know who we are?” he blurted back, shocked that she’d heard of his special operations unit. It wasn’t the sort of thing most civilians knew about.

“Yes,” she replied impatiently. “You guys are the primary hostage rescue unit for the Israeli Defense Forces. I’d have thought most of you security types here would be Mista’arvim—counterterrorism units.”

He shrugged. “I did a stint with them a few years back. I also rolled with Shayetet 13 early in my career.”

“The Navy SEAL equivalent, huh? Well, aren’t you the overachiever?”

He frowned down at her “Okay, so you know more about Israeli Special Forces units than the average bear. How is that?”

“It’s my job?”

“Don’t be cute with me. What do you do as a member of the American delegation, Miss McQueen?”

“Lieutenant McQueen. US Navy. Roving security for the American delegation. Sometimes it’s handy to have female security guards. We can go places men can’t.”

He frowned. “Regular US military personnel aren’t assigned to Olympic security details.”

She shrugged, offering no further explanation of why she, a military member, was here on a distinctly civilian assignment.

His mental antennae wiggled wildly. She wasn’t telling him the truth. Or at least not the full truth.

“Why did you flee the village without scanning out properly?” he tried.

“I told you. I was following someone. I didn’t have time to mess with scanning my ID.”

“And who were you following?” he asked gently when she didn’t continue.

She huffed. “I thought I saw a guy named Mahmoud Akhtar.”

“Akhtar? Here?” Mahmoud Akhtar was the kind of guy who made men like Avi lose sleep at night. Akhtar was highly trained, highly intelligent and highly radicalized. He was a known agent of the Iranian government and believed to be a wet operator—meaning his skills and missions covered everything up to and including terror and assassination. It could not possibly be good news for the Israeli delegation if Akhtar was here in Sydney. “Are you sure?” Avi asked the woman curtly.

“No. I’m not sure.” She sounded exasperated. “I was trying to get close enough to make a positive identification when you decided to go all Neanderthal and tackle me.”

“I didn’t tackle you. I merely stopped you for questioning.” She opened her mouth, obviously to argue, and he took an aggressive step forward to loom over her. He had nearly twenty-five centimeters—ten inches—on her in height. “If I had tackled you, you would have been smashed flat on the ground. And I would have handcuffed you.” He added, “As it was, I probably should have tackled you. But I was exceptionally restrained.”

She snorted. “You should have been even more restrained. Mahmoud and his buddy, Yousef Kamali, got away, thanks to you.”

He frowned, reluctant to believe her claim that an international terrorist had been strolling around the grounds of the Olympic Village. But caution dictated that he take her seriously, of course.

She didn’t seem delusional.

And the fact that she even knew who Mahmoud Akhtar and his sidekick, Yousef Kamali, were, meant she had some sort of access to classified material—also indicative of a not delusional female.

Still. Akhtar here? It would be a huge risk for a terrorist of his notoriety.

She interrupted his skeptical train of thought, demanding, “You said you could get me video from that nightclub. I want to see it right away. I might be able to make a positive ID from that.”

“Come with me.” He led her into the main room and gestured for her to sit at his desk. Reaching past her shoulder, he typed into his keyboard quickly, calling up the Israeli link to the entire Sydney CCTV—closed-circuit television—system.

Clicking on the map of downtown Sydney that popped up, he selected the nightclub. It took a moment, but then his screen flashed up black-and-white imagery of the exterior of the disco where Rebel had finally stopped running.

“Do you have interior video feed?” she murmured up at him.

He glanced down at her and was close enough to see that her eyelashes were long and silky, a soft brown that matched her hair. And she smelled good. A gentle, sweet scent like vanilla, warm and inviting. A study in contrasts, she was turning out to be. Sharp words, sweet mouth. Hard elbows, soft skin. Tough attitude, gentle eyes.

“Interior video?” she repeated.

Oh. Right. He shook himself out of staring at her and typed again. Planting both hands on the desk, he leaned forward beside Rebel to study the crowd gyrating on-screen. He hit the pause button and froze the image. Face by face, he scanned all the people in the frame. He didn’t see anyone resembling the Iranian terrorist.

Rebel leaned back. “This is hopeless. The crowd is too thick to spot my guys without a full forensic analysis of this video. What if we run the video in real time and see if we can spot Mahmoud and Yousef entering the club?”

He estimated it had been fifteen minutes since he’d detained her, and he backed up the video twenty minutes to be safe. He hit Play.

He pulled up a rolling chair from the next desk over and sat down beside Rebel. Their shoulders rubbed together as they both leaned forward, staring intently at the moving images in front of them.

Both of them jolted at the same moment as two men wearing black tracksuits entered the frame. They bumped into each other, and Avi mumbled an apology at the same time Rebel did. Their gazes met, startled, and she looked away immediately, a blush staining her cheeks. Was she shy, or did she find him attractive, or both? Hmm. Interesting.

She stabbed at the video monitor. “Those are my guys.”

“Unfortunately, that’s only the back of their heads,” he commented. “Let me see if there’s another angle.” He advanced the video frame by frame in search of a good facial shot of the men.

Nothing.

He pulled up the second camera in the club, and damned if the men weren’t moving through the space with their heads turned to the side, avoiding being seen clearly on that camera, too.

Rebel leaned back in disgust. “They did that same trick when they were leaving the village. They turned their faces away from the surveillance cameras as if they knew exactly where they were.”

He pushed away from the desk and leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head as he stared at her. “Let’s say you’re correct, and that’s Mahmoud Akhtar. How did he get into the Olympic Village?”

“Obviously, the Iranians gave him credentials.”

“Their entire delegation undergoes thorough background checks by the International Olympic Committee. And my people run our own background checks above and beyond the IOC’s. We would have spotted him.”

She threw him a “duh” look. “Obviously, the Iranians substituted him after the fact in place of someone who passed the background check.”

“Or he could have stolen the credentials. But either way, the next question is why?” he asked reasonably.

“Because the Iranians have something planned to disrupt the games.”

“Like what?” he asked, interested to see how she answered. The Israelis had spent the past four years running possible scenarios of their own and preparing to stop each one.

She shrugged. “He won’t be operating alone. Last time we had contact with him, he was the leader of a six-man cell. The man I saw with him tonight, Yousef Kamali, was one of those men. My guess is Mahmoud has reconstituted his team.”

Avi jumped all over her slip of the tongue. “We? We who? What group are you really a part of?”

She threw him a withering glare. “A group you don’t need to know about.”

He arched a skeptical eyebrow at her. “Did you not hear who I work for?”

She shrugged. “I stand by my statement.”

Huh. So she worked for some superclassified security team the Americans had put together—that included women. His Mossad buddies would find that interesting.

“You never answered my question,” he pressed. “What do you think Mahmoud and this hypothetical team of his are up to?”

“I have no idea. But I know a guy who might be able to make an educated guess.”

“I know several guys who’ve spent the past few years making educated guesses,” he snapped. “Give me more than that.”

“I don’t have more. But I can tell you one thing. If Mahmoud Akhtar is here, he’s up to no good.”

“On that, we are agreed.” He met her gaze grimly, and this time her big blue eyes were brimming over with worry. An urge to rock his chair forward onto all four legs, gather her into his arms and comfort her shocked him into stillness. This woman was the last person he would expect to accept comfort from him. Such a prickly little thing, she was.

“Would you like to come with me to my security team’s meeting?” she said all of a sudden, surprising him mightily.

“Do I have the proper clearance to attend it?” he asked, his voice as dry as the desert.

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t guarantee my boss will let you stay, but you Israelis are an obvious possible target. It makes sense to loop you into at least some of what we know about Mahmoud.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“In the spirit of Olympic cooperation, I’m offering you an olive branch,” she said with a huff. “Take it and be grateful, already.”

“Fair enough. Thank you.” He quoted quietly, “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!”

“Should I recognize that?” she asked.

“It’s your Bible. Psalms 133.”

She frowned. “I don’t get much time for religion in my work.”

“Hmm. My work is all about religion. Or freedom of religion, at any rate.”

“Right now, a threat to your peoples’ freedom is walking around out there, no doubt planning something dastardly. Although I’d put it at about equal odds between your country and mine as to which one is the primary target,” she replied.

He asked, “When was the last time your people had contact with Akhtar? What were his targets at that time?”

“Last fall. And his target was a schoolteacher. He planned to kidnap her and blackmail her husband into filing a false report on a nuclear facility in Iran. Instead, Mahmoud accidentally kidnapped one of my teammates. She escaped with the help of an undercover man on the team. We got to the teacher’s husband—a nuclear facilities inspector in Tehran—before Mahmoud did, and the husband filed a report showing that Iran was trying to import nuclear triggers from Russia by way of Turkey.”

“I heard about that!” Avi exclaimed. “Wasn’t there some sort of shoot-out in Tehran? Several major arms dealers killed and the deal scuttled? Our...sources...report the Iranians were livid.”

She shrugged looking entirely unrepentant.

“You were involved with all of that?” he asked incredulously.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.” She was back to being defensive. And her hackles were standing up again. Maybe she was more like a baby badger than a hedgehog.

“C’mon, then,” she said briskly. “Bring your Olympic credentials and your fancy security clearance with you. You’ll need them both to hear what my team has to say.”

Chapter 2

Rebel jumped as Avi’s big, warm palm landed lightly in the small of her back. The power and gentleness of it sent crazy zinging sensations ricocheting in all directions through her body. She inhaled light and fast, her adrenaline levels ready for combat—or sex.

Oh, c’mon, Self. You’ve been around plenty of hot special operators in the past year. This one is no different.

Except the tingling didn’t go away. And her breathing didn’t settle down.

“This way,” he murmured, guiding her through the maze of Israeli security personnel at their desks. “There’s a rear exit where we won’t be seen.”

Now he was getting the idea. She liked—she needed—to operate under the radar and away from the prying eyes of the public as much as possible. They slipped out into the warm night and, by unspoken mutual agreement, wove around the edges of the Olympic Village, mostly avoiding the surveillance cameras whose feeds were shared with all of the security delegations.

She swiped a key card she pulled out of a zipped pocket inside her jacket and stood before a retinal scanner to gain entrance for herself and her big Israeli guest into the back entrance of the American operations center. It had its own building containing both offices and housing for the large contingent of security specialists in Sydney to protect American athletes.

Vividly aware of the big man following her and the curious glances being thrown his way, she led Bronson across a room much like the one at Israeli operations, crowded with desks and video monitors. This room, too, was half-filled with big, capable-looking men and a few serious, focused women. Ignoring them, Rebel led her guest to the conference room and ushered him inside.

Her boss, Army Major Gunnar Torsten, looked over her shoulder at the Israeli. He did a double take. “Avi?”

“Gun? Long time no see,” the Israeli exclaimed.

Rebel looked on in disgust as the two men shook hands warmly and clapped each other on the back. Of course, they knew each other. Torsten was fond of saying how small the Special Forces community really was.

The men were a study in physical contrast. Where blond Torsten’s hair was straight and buzzed short, the Israeli’s dark hair was wavy and thick enough to run her fingers through it. Torsten was fair and blue-eyed, where Avi Bronson was bronzed and brown-eyed. But that was where the contrast ended. Both men were tall, fit, and moved with confident grace. Also, they both had that particular cool look in their eyes announcing they were lethal, and furthermore, that they knew it.

“What brings you to the Land of Oz, Avi?” Torsten asked.

“Olympic security detail. You?”

“Same.”

Torsten glanced at Rebel. “You summoned me, Lieutenant McQueen?”

She winced at his dry tone, not sure whether to interpret the use of her title as formality for the guest’s benefit or a signal that she was in trouble for her presumption. Her boss was a very hard man to read.

She responded grimly, “I spotted two men tonight who looked shockingly like Mahmoud Akhtar and Yousef Kamali.”

Torsten sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re sure it was them?”

“I only saw them from a distance, but I know Mahmoud’s face. I’m pretty sure it was him.”

Torsten stared at her for a long moment as his expression passed through shock and chagrin, ending up wreathed in speculation.

She watched her boss cautiously as he placed a phone call on the speakerphone sitting on the table in front of him. He said without preamble, “Piper, how quickly can Zane join us?”

Rebel’s teammate answered briskly over the speaker, “He can be here in twenty-four hours from when I call him, sir.”

That wasn’t bad, given that the flight itself took on the order of twenty-two hours.

“Make the call,” Torsten said quietly. He disconnected the call to Piper.

Avi piped up. “Who is this Zane person?”

Torsten answered, “CIA officer. Embedded with Mahmoud and his cell in the US for several months last year. Best expert we’ve got on the bastard.”

“And who are these ladies you’re working with?” Avi asked, gesturing at the phone and then at Rebel.

The room fell silent. Rebel stared at Torsten, who stared at the Israeli.

Torsten asked obliquely, “You’re still operational, my friend? You’ve still got all your clearances?”

“Yes to both.” Avi was frowning and looking back and forth between her and Torsten, now.

Rebel watched apprehensively as Torsten stood up, closed the conference room door and came back to the table to sit. He wasn’t going to brief in the Israeli, was he? Her safety, and that of her teammates depended in no small part upon the secrecy around them.

Torsten said, “I command a team of women called the Medusas. They’re a fully operational Special Forces team. I have four more operatives out working in the village, right now.”

Piper and Tessa, original team members along with Rebel, were probably still working on fishing the women’s softball team out of the pool party and herding them back to their quarters.

Gia Rykhof and Lynx Everly, the two newest additions to the team, were working a media event for the US Women’s Gymnastic team, tonight. These Olympic Games were Gia and Lynx’s first operational assignment. They had more training to do before they would be fully up to speed, but both women could still handle themselves in most any situation.

“An entire team made up of women?” Avi repeated blankly.

“Correct,” Torsten answered briskly.

Avi Bronson was not the first man to react that way to hearing about the Medusas, and he would not be the last. But it still bugged Rebel that he acted so surprised and didn’t automatically take her and her teammates seriously.

Chauvinist.

Torsten leaned forward, asking Avi, “What have your people got on Mahmoud and Yousef?”

“Nothing recent that I’m aware of. Not until I caught up with your...operative...earlier after she raced out of the village without scanning out properly. She’s the one who brought Mahmoud Akhtar to my attention and claims to have seen him.”

“Claims to have seen him?” Rebel echoed in annoyance. “I know what I saw!”

Torsten intervened smoothly. “Avi believes you. And so do I. Where did Mahmoud and Yousef go?”

She answered more calmly, “I followed them out of the Olympic Village to a discotheque. They entered from one street, crossed the club and must have exited onto another street. I lost them when your buddy, here, tried to detain me and prevented me from following them.”

“I was just doing my job,” Avi protested.

Rebel glared at him. Damned if his dark eyes and darker soul didn’t light up with amusement in response. He seemed to think she was hilarious. As long as he didn’t think she was a joke—and he stayed out of her way next time—she could live with him laughing at her.

“Did they act like they were fleeing you or moving toward a specific destination?” her boss asked.

“Unknown.” She shot another disgusted look in Avi’s direction.

Torsten followed up tersely with, “Where in the village did you first spot Mahmoud and Yousef?”

At least her boss was taking her seriously. She answered, “They were standing beside the north pool. I don’t know if they saw me and I spooked them or if they just turned and left. But either way, they left the pool and headed for the nearest exit. Interestingly enough, they turned their faces away from every surveillance camera they passed.”

“Which suggests they know the security layout of the village,” Torsten replied. “Have they been added to the Iranian delegation?”

Avi jumped in. “I cannot believe the Iranians would try to slip terrorists into the games on official credentials. The scandal if they got caught would be humiliating.”

Rebel shrugged. “In my experience, the Iranians will suffer a humiliation or two if it means they can destroy an enemy.”

Avi met her gaze head-on. “Truth.”

“Possible targets?” Torsten threw out.

Rebel ticked off, “American athletes, Israeli athletes, a large public venue containing lots of athletes, a large venue containing lots of spectators—”

Avi interrupted, “In other words, everyone and everything at the Olympic Games.”

Torsten drummed his fingers on the tabletop, a rare sign of tension from her excessively self-disciplined boss. “When Zane gets here, we’ll see if his people have any chatter on what Mahmoud might be up to.”

Zane’s people being the CIA.

A spear of jealousy for Piper stabbed Rebel. Zane and Piper were wildly in love, and he was about to come join her for possibly several weeks in a beautiful, romantic locale. Lucky dogs.

Rebel’s last boyfriend had dumped her when he found out she’d agreed to join some kind of special team that was going to involve her traveling all over the world for several years to come. As long as she’d been stationed at a desk and never deployed, he’d been all over her naval career. But as soon as it had interfered with his convenience and comfort, she was history.

Jerk, she thought tiredly. Not that she could blame him entirely. She’d volunteered for the Medusas knowing full well it might break them up. Maybe she’d taken the job partially because she thought it might break them up. Which made her a coward, at least in the romance department.

But how often did a woman get a chance to be on one of the most classified—and cool—teams on the planet? To serve her country in a direct, meaningful way? And to fulfill a lifelong dream of doing something awesome?

That had been her main reason for joining the Medusas. Dumping the loser had been a side benefit.

Avi was talking, and she yanked her attention back to the discussion at hand. “...will touch base with my Mossad contacts and see if they’ve heard anything about Mahmoud Akhtar. How should I let you know what I find out?”

Torsten answered, “Why don’t you liaise with Rebel, since you two already know each other? I’m up to my elbows in alligators chasing down other rumors and threats, but I want to give this possible sighting of Akhtar highest priority. I’ll pull Lieutenant McQueen off her other security rotations for now so she can follow this up specifically.”

Avi nodded, the ghost of a grin flitting across his face. Was he pleased that she would be working with him? Or was that indulgence for the little girl playing commando with him? God, he was as hard to read as Torsten.

The Israeli glanced at his watch. “It’ll take me an hour or so to find out what the Mossad knows and to take a shower and change clothes.” He glanced at Torsten. “On the way here, I took a beer down my back defending the honor of your girl. Had I known she was an operator, I’d have let her take the beer in the face.”

The men traded grins, and she bit her tongue. She was standing right here, while they talked over her head and called her a girl. Of course, she knew Torsten actually thought highly of her, or else he wouldn’t have invited her to be a Medusa in the first place, nor would he have passed her through the rigorous training program. He’d washed out plenty of other women without any compunction.

But it bothered her that when he was around a male counterpart he reverted to Neanderthal talk about her and her sisters-in-arms. Of course, it was entirely possible he was speaking in sexist terms intentionally to relax Avi about the whole idea of working with a female special operator. Torsten was fully that calculating a guy.