“It is not,” Scarlet protested. “I’m a professional, and I can count as well. Surely we can get four of us into the sub and still have room to bring Lea back? The only question is — who gets all the excitement?”
Hawke rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “We’ll draw straws.”
Kim Taylor pulled the straw out of her drink.
“What are you doing?” Lexi asked.
“We’re drawing straws, right?”
Lexi rolled her eyes, ejected the magazine from her gun and put it in the center of the table. She spun it around and it stopped with the muzzle pointing directly at Danny Devlin. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’re on the mission.” She spun it again and this time the muzzle pointed at her. “Looks like you can be my wing man, Devlin.”
“In your dreams.”
“Not fair,” Scarlet said. “She cheated. She must have a magnet stuffed down her bra.”
Reaper laughed and gave a shrug. “I will be forced to stay here and suffer an evening drinking wine on the Amalfi coast. C’est la vie.”
Scarlet stubbed out her cigarette and shot a quick, doubtful look at Devlin. “I still want to come.”
Hawke gave her a look. “You’re staying here, Cairo.” As he spoke, he slipped a box of Magtech nine mil rounds from his bag and started to load a magazine for his Glock. He repeated the process with a spare magazine, and then a third time. The weapon held seventeen nine mil calibre rounds and packing a coupld of spares meant he had fifty-one shots for the rescue mission. He put all three loaded mags in his bag with the Magtech box and the weapon and then raised the coffee to his lips for another sip. He fixed his eyes on Scarlet. “Is that all right with you?”
“I suppose so, but what am I supposed to do? Tweaking Ryan’s ears can only amuse a girl for so long.”
“You call Lund,” Hawke said. “And ask him what the hell we’re supposed to do when we get the manuscript. As for the rest of us, we’re heading out to Zito’s island as soon as we can get hold of that sub. Lea’s depending on us.”
Alex Reeve gripped the plush, leather armrests of her seat as the colossal Boeing VC-25 started to descend toward the British clouds. For a while, she tracked the progress of the aircraft’s shadow as it danced on the cloud-tops, but then the descent pushed them lower and the plane and its shadow became one as they ploughed into the cloudscape. Seconds later a wave of turbulence started to bounce her around in her seat.
Air Force One was almost a flying palace and cost millions of dollars to keep in the air on every flight. It was the safest plane in the world, carrying the most sophisticated anti-missile flares and radar jammers. She knew this thanks to Agent McGee who had bored her with this and a lot more, including how technically any aircraft carrying the President automatically became “Air Force One”, but there was one thing that was the same as every other plane she had been on: the turbulence.
At least it wasn’t the E-4B NAOC “Doomsday Plane”. NAOC stood for National Alternate Operatons Center and was a flying bunker to be used by the President in the event of a serious attack on the United States. That one really freaked her out.
“Buckle up.”
She looked up to see Agent McGee looming above her. For once, he wasn’t wearing his mirror-shades and she was able to look into his eyes. With the glasses on he looked like any of the other agents, but now he had become human again, and he looked kind. “Consider it done,” she said with a half-smile.
He gave a brief nod and then sat down opposite her, buckling himself in. “We’re on the ground in five minutes,” he said. “Then it’s straight to the hotel. In the morning we go to the G8 summit. After that we’re at Buckingham Palace to meet the Queen and have dinner and then the next day the President will meet the Prime Minister in Downing Street. After that he’s going to address both Houses of Parliament in Westminster Hall and then it’s wheels up. All set?”
Alex nodded. “Sure.”
“We’ll keep away from the press as much as we can, but they always get something, okay?”
Another nod. They always get something, she thought. Pictures of the poor wheelchair-bound President’s daughter splashed across the tabloids; column inches devoted to what had happened to her, what life she led, what she was wearing, her hairstyle. “Thanks Brandon,” she said quietly.
“No problem. It’s my job. I’m on your security detail, not the President’s, and I’ll do my best to make sure you’re protected at all times.”
A sense of politeness made her give him another brief smile, but the truth was she still had not come to terms with her father’s new role as the world’s most powerful man, and that coupled with a sense of her own vulnerability made her uneasy. Now, glancing out the window she saw the green fields of England’s rural south as Air Force One turned to final approach and its landing at Heathrow Airport. Wondering what Joe Hawke and the rest of ECHO were doing, she closed her eyes and prepared for a whirlwind couple of days.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lea Donovan opened her eyes and saw nothing but white. She blinked and noticed an ornate chandelier suspended from the ceiling. The scent of roses and cedar wood drifted over her face. She blinked again and heaved herself up on her elbows.
She was on a large four poster bed covered in white sheets, and beside her was a small table with a glass of water and a bowl of potpourri. Now she smelled the cinnamon and cloves. It was all very comfortable.
But not safe.
She took a deep breath and swung her legs off the bed. Pushing through some silk voiles. She emerged into a large, expensively furnished bedroom and took in her surroundings. Modern, clean lines and abstract art on the walls. Eclectic tastes.
A scream.
“What the hell was that?” she muttered, walking over to the window.
She heard another horrifying, blood-curdling scream. Was it some kind of animal? It sounded almost like a bull in tremendous pain, but there was a human quality to the agony that gave her the jitters.
The room had two large windows each with its own juliet balcony. She went around to the other window and pushed it open. The screams were louder now, and coming from behind the house. She considered climbing over the balcony and lowering herself down to the ground. Leaning over the top rail of the balcony she counted the windows down the ground and realized she was three floors up: no dice on the escape plan.
With the hideous bellowing gradually fading out, she turned back into the room and saw a short man with slicked-back hair and deep, cavernous eyes standing in the doorway. He was leaning on the door jamb with his arms casually crossed over his chest. He stared at her intensely, and she recognized the eyes at once: this was the man who had kidnapped her in Dublin.
“Ciao, bella.”
Lea took a step back, and returned his gaze. She didn’t want to break eye contact and show fear or weakness, but she searched the room with her peripheral vision for anything she could use as a weapon. The only thing that came to mind was the crystal potpourri bowl. She reckoned it was heavy enough to knock the man out if she got a good enough swipe at him, but she had no way of knowing what sort of hand-to-hand combat skills he could bring to bear on her during a struggle.
She took a step toward the small table with the lamp and the potpourri. “Who are you?”
“I am Toscano. I work here.”
“And where is here?”
The man smiled grimly and pushed himself off the door jamb. He moved into the room and pulled a Beretta Neos from a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. “Hands in the air and step away from the table.”
Damn. He had figured her out. It was pretty obvious when you thought about, she considered.