Special Forces: The Operator

He thought back and pegged it at the moment when she’d shown him her map of the injured athletes in the pool. Her passion and intensity had been sexy as hell.

He glanced sidelong at her as they crossed a busy street crowded with drunks. She was a tiny little thing, but it was easy to miss that because of how big her intellect and confidence were. Oh, she hid both well. As any good special operator should. But they were there. And sexy, too.

When he’d finally gotten her to relax into the waltz, she’d been light as air in his arms. A good natural athlete, she was, to pick up the dance so quickly. In touch with her body. Which was promising for more intimate dances—

He should really stop imagining sex with her. They both had a job to do. And although this was far below the usual level of danger he operated in, both of them needed to give the security of their respective delegations their full attention.

Maybe after the games were over he could volunteer to do some training with the Medusas, possibly as an instructor, or in some sort of exchange program with his team to run scenarios using teams of women operators. He could sell it to his superiors as an observation trip to see if the Israelis should consider training a female Spec Ops team of their own.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea.

“Does your team ever run exercises with foreign teams?” he asked abruptly.

“To date, we’ve mostly had individual foreign instructors come to our main training facility to work with us as we come up to speed. We haven’t worked with full teams. You’d have to ask Major T. if he ever plans to put us in the field on exercises. Right now, he’s keeping our existence under pretty close wraps.”

As well he should. The Medusas were safer the fewer people knew they existed. And apparently, he’d also developed a sudden interest in the safety of the Medusas, along with Torsten.

“This is my stop,” Rebel announced, jerking him out of planning how to sell an exercise with the Medusas to his boss.

They were, indeed, standing in front of the American security team’s building.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek.

She froze, startled as most Americans were when they first encountered the European habit of kissing pretty much everyone. He smiled to himself as he turned away. He was enjoying throwing her off balance far more than he should. But it would be good for her to pop that boring bubble she tried to hide in.

As for him, he was headed for his room to change into dark clothing, and then he was going to stake out the small apartment building the Iranian delegation was staying in by itself at the request of the Iranian government. Not that he blamed them. The Israelis had insisted on having a facility to themselves, too.

Midnight had come and gone when Avi spied movement out the back door of the Iranian building. He zoomed in his binoculars. Four men and two women, dressed in the black tracksuits of the Iranian team slipped outside.

Apparently, the mice were planning to play while they were away from the cat. Although, the Iranian government usually kept a ridiculously tight leash on its athletes overseas, too. Which explained why he was surprised this bunch tonight had made it out of their quarters successfully. He waited for any possible tails to slip out of the building to follow the athletes, but none did.

He briefly debated staying to watch the building or giving in to his curiosity to see what the Iranian athletes did when off the leash. His curiosity won.

They were almost out of sight, now, heading toward the south end of the village and the many athletic complexes clustered there. He had to hurry not to lose them. There were plenty of facilities open around the clock in the village—the dining hall, gyms, game rooms, media rooms, medical and physio offices. So why were the Iranians headed toward the sports complex at this hour? The venues would all be closed, locked up and locked down.

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