Special Forces: The Operator

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 (#ufded4925-f88d-5b39-b4a4-5eb2a9dcd180)

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?”