“Oh, bullshit!”
Crosswhite chuckled. “I didn’t say he was doing you a favor out of the kindness of his heart — he doesn’t do those kinds of favors. He only does favors for people who are useful to him.”
“If I’m such a fuckup, how am I useful?”
“Well, there’s different kinds of fuckups,” Crosswhite replied. “Some can be rehabilitated. Some can’t. Pope’s looked you over, and he’s seen something he likes. He’s asked the president to let him bring you aboard, and the old man’s given his consent.”
Vaught sat up straight. “Fields told you that?”
Crosswhite nodded. “So you can either get with the program or tell the government to stick it. If you do the latter, you’ll never work security for anything more important than a football game. Pope will see to it.”
Vaught smirked, seeing the picture. “He sounds like a real prick.”
Crosswhite sat back and slid his arm around Paolina, pulling her close and kissing her hair. “I think of him more as a god — kinda like Zeus: indifferent if he has no real use for you, but generous if you excel at his favorite pastime.”
“Which is?”
Crosswhite smiled. “War.”
7
Gil was in the lodge lounge, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette, when Blickensderfer’s fiancée came striding into the room. She wore a black dinner dress, with her blond hair flowing to the small of her back and a pair of diamond pendant earrings. Her blue eyes piercing, she was tall and stunning and seemed to possess the room the moment she entered. Gil watched her as she crossed to the bar, noting her black heels and the slit of her dress that extended halfway up her thigh.
He knew from the mission dossier that her name was Lena Deiss, a Swiss national, age thirty, and that she came from a wealthy family. A member of the jet set, she valued a man who could accommodate her lavish lifestyle and keep her entertained. In addition to alpine skiing, she enjoyed other adrenaline sports such as skydiving and car racing.
The harshness of her gaze this evening was a change from what Gil had seen over the past few nights around the lodge. She was not her usual happy self. She looked pissed, and Gil guessed that she and Blickensderfer had argued. He didn’t care. Blickensderfer wasn’t going to be a problem for anyone a whole lot longer.
Lena accepted her cocktail and turned from the bar, making steam straight for his table. He glanced involuntarily over his shoulder, hoping he’d misjudged her heading, but there wasn’t anyone seated behind him.
“Shit,” he muttered, exhaling as he adjusted his posture to crush out the cigarette in an ashtray on the table.
Lena’s look lost its severity as she approached the table and smiled. “I haven’t seen you on the slopes all week,” she said in perfect English. She sipped from the martini, the color of her crimson lipstick unmistakable at his range. “Yet I’ve seen you here in the lodge every night.”
Clearing his throat, Gil recalled the .308 that had nearly severed her spinal column only hours before. “I keep to the easier runs. I’m more of a novice.”
“May I sit down?”
“Sure,” he said, feeling himself quicken. He’d been separated from his wife, Marie, for more than a year now and hadn’t been with anyone else in all that time.
She reached for his pack of cigarettes, her eyes questioning.
He nodded and picked up the lighter as she poked a cigarette between her lips. He lit it for her with the Zippo, and she sat back, exhaling through tightly pursed lips.
“You’re married,” she said, a little sad suddenly. “I can tell.”
He smiled in spite of himself. “Separated, actually.”
“American?”
“Canadian,” he said quickly.
She took a drag from the cigarette. “I don’t blame you for lying. I imagine you’re better received as a Canadian when you travel.”
He chuckled. “What makes you think I’m lying?”
A hint of her sternness returned. “I spent a year with a man who served with the British SAS. You have his same restless look, so if you’re really Canadian, you must be a soldier — and not just an ordinary one.”
Gil realized that Marie would have this same kind of intuition about any Special Forces operative that she would meet, so he decided to meet Lena halfway, taking his Canadian passport from his back pocket and setting it on the table. “I’m retired from the CSOR.”
She reached for the passport. “Which is?”
“Canadian Special Operations Regiment.”
She opened the passport to read his name. “So I guess that’s a point for me then, isn’t it, Conner MacLoughlin?”
He took a moment to light a cigarette for himself, tossing the lighter onto the table. “Are we keeping score?”
She was looking him in the eyes. “Would you like to keep score?”
Fuck it, he thought to himself. “Yes, I would. What’s your name?”
“I’m Lena.” She offered her hand.
The spark of chemistry was instantaneous, and Gil knew he was in trouble. “Where are the men I’ve seen you with?”
“They’re upstairs with their cigars, playing cards.” Her annoyance was palpable. “One of them is my fiancé. Does that bother you?”
He took a drag. “Should it?”
She shrugged, tipping an ash into the ashtray. “He’s a rich and powerful man — or so many people believe.”
“Do you?”
She shrugged again. “Money is power — and he has more than most people can imagine.”
Gil took a drink. “You’re pissed he left you alone tonight.”
She smiled wryly. “But I’m not alone.”
“His men carry guns. I’m not lookin’ to get shot.”
Lena laughed. “Is that something you worry about?”
“Always,” he said, shaping the ash against the rim of the ashtray.
Twenty minutes later, they stood naked before one another at the foot of Gil’s bed, and Lena was touching the battle scars that covered his muscular torso. “My,” she whispered, feeling a warmth between her legs. “The things you must have seen and done.”
“You don’t wanna know the things I’ve seen and done.” He slid his left hand behind her neck, taking one of her full breasts in his right to give it a firm squeeze, softly thumbing the nipple. She sighed and put her head back as he laid her down on the bed, kissing her lustfully and allowing the animal within him to run free.
As he prepared to mount her, she placed her hands on his chest. “Stop.”
He stopped. “Something wrong?”
“I should warn you.” She swallowed, her ardor burning. “I should tell you that — that I think you’re about to make a very dangerous enemy.”
“How so?”
“What I mean is that I think you’re about to give me reason to cancel a very expensive wedding.”
He laughed and pushed gently inside of her, burying his face in the golden storm of her hair. She gasped and dug her heels into the small of his back, clawing the flesh of his ass.
“What a fool,” she moaned softly.
“Who?” he whispered.
“The one down the hall.” She sank her fingers into his hair, nipping at his ear. “The one losing to me in a fucking card game.”
8