Enemy Mine (The Base Branch Series Book 1) Page 2

No sooner had the thoughts run through her brain, than variability vibrated her phone.

  3

  Twenty minutes later, Sloan turned the grey sedan she leased into a dull, dark parking garage. At this hour the lot and office building in downtown D.C. were nearly deserted. Dirty yellow fixtures set intermittently in the concrete walls did little to light the way. Sloan parked on the middle level and got out. Using the car’s body and windows as a mirror, she scanned her surroundings for movement. With not so much as a stray cat riffling through the garbage cans, she ducked back into the car. When her hand gripped the slick leather of her briefcase, she heard them. Two soft footfalls. Before she could react, a masculine voice whispered from just beyond her door.

  “Beat you.”

  She knew the voice and the satisfied smirk on its owner’s face, nearly as well as she knew her own...well, the voice and face, not the smirk.

  “Once, in how many years? I wouldn’t get smug, but I know there’s no stopping you,” she said, turning to address the night’s champion.

  Ryan Noble shook his slightly shaggy mop of blond hair. “Nah. Na-uh. Twice. Remember the time—”

  “Yeah, I remember the time I was shot. If you want to count it, go ahead. But how sad is that?”

  His stupid smile nearly blinded her with its brilliance, and almost made her smile back.

  They fell in step together, heading for the elevator. “Where the hell were you hiding, anyway? I looked everywhere. Behind the column?”

  “A ninja never gives away his secrets.”

  Surprisingly, a snort of laughter shook Sloan’s shoulders.

  Ryan let loose a triumphant roar. “I made you laugh. Let’s blow this joint and head to Vegas. I can’t lose tonight,” he said, shaking and rolling imaginary dice.

  She pushed the down button on the elevator, and then shoved him inside when the doors opened immediately.

  “You could never be a ninja,” she said while punching in a code on the keypad of the elevator’s emergency telephone. The doors closed and Ryan laughed again. “See,” she added, with a Vanna White hand gesture at their reflections. “Look at you. You’re like three feet taller and a hundred pounds heavier than your average ninja. And stealthy, you are not. I could hear those tugboats coming from Virginia,” she added with a pointed finger toward his sleek, black leather shoes. “You couldn’t keep your trap shut for five minutes, either. Even when you’re in a room by yourself, you talk.”

  He folded thick arms over his chest and strained the seams of his tailor made suit. “Like you know a ninja. Besides, I snuck up on you, didn’t I?”

  “About that. I still want to know where you were hiding.”

  He made a show of clamping his thick lips between his teeth. Like that would last. Sloan decided to see how long he could keep quiet. She folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow at his image in the smooth metal door. He turned his nose up.

  Sloan studied their reflections. Both wore sharp fitting charcoal grey suits with white shirts underneath which their cover as lawyers demanded. The fabric, however, was the beginning and end of their similarities. At five-eight, one hundred thirty-five pounds of svelte muscle, with a butt and boobs that made bikini-wearing an X-rated, and therefore scarcely occurring, event, Sloan was far from scrawny. However, she could stand behind Ryan and vanish from sight.

  Ryan was a golden boy, from the blood in his veins to the long list of his commendations. Like a gold coin, Sloan could test his genuine carats with a bite to the arm. Hell, his coloring even went along with the theme. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Glowing tan. Straight white teeth, plump lips, and dimples in the flesh beneath his strong cheekbones worked in unison to form a contagious smile. Other women had referred to it as sensuous. Fuckin’ sexy had most recently been used to describe his face.

  She could see it, but had never felt it. Their relationship over the years had developed into older-sister-little-brother roles. She’d be the adopted older sister, since they looked nothing alike.

  Dark waves of hair brushed the tops of her breast pocket. Amber eyes stared back at her, the ink of her pupils matching her locks. Her skin was dark caramel. Her oblong face hosted big eyes, a petite nose, fishy kiss lips, and a sharp chin. While people called Ryan sexy, she got saddled with interesting.

  She would never be mistaken for a white girl. Hispanic, maybe. Native American, on occasion. Asian, if she did her make-up right. African American, if she played up other features. In truth, Sloan didn’t fit any demographic, which came in handy in her line of work.

  When the elevator came to rest she slid Ryan a look. All the color had drained from the border of his mouth, and the muscles in his neck strained from his continued effort to keep silent.

  “Give it up,” Sloan tossed over her shoulder as she exited the small space.

  He growled back, “Never. Okay. Fine, you win. Damn it. You know me too well.”

  Yeah, she did know him, so well that somewhere along the way she’d grown to care for him. More than she cared for her own life most days. While she was damaged goods, he was unblemished and honorable, worth the sacrifice she’d make, if the necessity ever arose.

  Quite a shocking realization, since she didn’t care about much these days except doing the job.

  After caring about so much, working for so long, fighting to make things right, she’d worn her iron will to a paper thin sheet. Numbness was her last line of defense. The only thing guarding her sanity.

  Vail Tucker’s stern voice ricocheted from deep inside his office, through the partially closed door, and off the concrete and glass of The Base’s hallway. “Briefing. Conference room. Five minutes. Invaluable work, Harris.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sloan answered.

  This covert special operations sector of the United Nations, known as The Base Branch, did not exist. At least, as far as the US government as a whole was concerned. Sure, everything they did the president and a fistful of top ranking military and agency guys sanctioned, but nobody, not even the first lady, knew of it. No one even whispered of it as though it were lore.

  Together, Sloan and Ryan turned down the corridor away from the operations commander and their offices, heading for the designated location.

  Ryan pulled open the heavy glass door. “After you.”

  Sloan rolled her eyes, but hurried through the entrance before he let the thing squish her for the offense. The large rectangular room was cold, literally and figuratively. Yet, it was more home than the dank apartment. Two long walls of naked glass and two short cement walls with massive flat screen monitors framed the space. In its center stood a long wooden conference table surrounded by twenty high-back chairs.

  “So,” Ryan began after they sat side by side on the far side of the table facing the door. “What’d he pull you away from tonight?”

  He knew better than to ask about her mission, but why’d he have to ask about her night? She snapped her head around to meet his gaze. “Where were you hiding?”

  His dimple disappeared as his smile fell. “You ran goddamn back alleys again, didn’t you?”

  She threw back, “Watch your mouth.”

  He pointed his index finger and shook it once in her direction. “Watch your ass before you get it shot off trying to play super hero.”

  “There are no capes involved.”

  “And no super powers either,” he countered.

  Sloan scoffed, mouth hanging wide. “I beg your pardon, but I’ve got mad skills and weapons. Who needs super powers?”

  “You said you were done.”

  “I was.”

  “But?”

  “I got antsy. There’s nothing to do at the apartment but wait for the next call.”

  “You can always come hang out with me.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Your mom’s lucky I didn’t punch her last time. I don’t think I have the restraint to chance a second encounter.”

  “She was trying to be helpful.”

  “Hand grenades
are helpful. She’s intrusive and single minded.”

  “Tell me how you really feel,” he said with a snort.

  “I’m sorry, but you’re her son. If she wants to play matchmaker with you, and you allow her, that’s one thing. I’m off limits. A lifelong companion, I do not need. And if she thought that grab-ass with the greased-lightning hair was a catch, she’s one terrible judge of character.”

  “She said you were cold as the Arctic shelf.”

  “Every once in a while, a blind man’s bullet finds its target.”

  “Anyway,” he said, throwing his palm in the air. “It’s not like I live with her.”

  “She’s at your place so much, I thought she lived with you.”

  He gave a dull, “Ha. Ha.”

  “If your mom isn’t there, then it’s the female hordes, clamoring for a turn to get in your pants. It’s disgusting!”

  The door opened, stalling his retort. A handful of their team members rushed in. Finally.

  Ryan leaned close, eliminating eavesdroppers. “Stop looking for trouble, or I’ll be forced to put on tights and be your side-kick.”

  “Grody,” she whispered back.

  “Stone cold killers don’t use the word ‘grody.’”

  She shrugged. “They don’t wear tights either.”

  “Seriously,” he said, the laughter in his voice neutralizing the word. “We need to find you a new, more sedate hobby.”

  Commander Tucker breezed through the door, followed by a clump of late-comers. They all wore suits of the grey-scale variety, and most hated every second of it. Cover stories added security though, and a mass of lawyers couldn’t show up to work in full-blown tactical gear without stirring suspicion. With a good color job, the boss could pass for one of her peers. In such peak physical condition and with decades of combat and covert ops experience, she’d bet money on him in almost any situation, against nearly any opponent. Plus, he had a perpetual steely calm to which she could relate. It also helped perpetuate his youthful visage. No worry lines. The only tell was his silver fox hair.

  Ryan offered in a whisper, “Knitting?” As soon as the word was out of his mouth, he shook his head. “Ah, hell no. Forget it. You’d use the needles to castrate someone.”

  Tucker’s dark eyes scanned the room as he walked toward the head of the table. Placing his laptop on the elevated surface, he typed in a short line of code and began without preamble.

  “We have verified intelligence. Today, March fifth, at approximately ten hundred hours, an assassination attempt on the newly appointed Central African Republic President Yannick Toussaint Bakou will be made on US soil. It is our mission to prevent this attack.”

  The inane shuffling of papers ceased, as did the foot-tapping from the new guy at the opposite end of the table. Ryan retreated from her space and straightened in his chair, obviously realizing his next hobby idea had dropped a few rungs on the ladder of importance. Sloan glanced at the digital readout on the screen monitor. Six hours until the kill shot. Not much time.

  Tucker clicked the laptop’s touchpad and an image appeared on both screens. “This is CAR’s President,” he said with a nod toward the picture. “Bakou is in Washington, D.C. attending the US-Africa Business Summit. He’s scheduled to speak alongside three other dignitaries at a public event being held in Meridian Hill Park. Introductions begin at zero nine hundred hours with dignitaries taking the stage at zero nine twenty. Each foreign leader has been allotted twenty minutes talk time. Bakou is slated to speak second.

  “Most of you know what’s at stake here. For those of you that don’t, I’ll spell it out. After nearly five decades of civil war in the infant nation, Bakou is the Central African Republic’s first genuinely elected democratic leader. Joachim Dolingba rigged the 2003 election, hijacking CAR’s government for ten years of corrupt rule riddled with human rights violations. After leaving an honorable twenty-year military career, Bakou created stable economies in his and three surrounding villages through trade and education.

  “Yannick Bakou must not die. Today, the stability of a nation and the lives of hundreds of thousands rest on us.”

  Air in the closed room thickened with the weight of duty. The collective inhale of its occupants was measured, purposeful. All accepted the incredible challenge.

  “I speculate the assassin will take the shot toward the end of his speech. That leaves us less than six hours to find the sniper’s nest.” The commander’s chin shot up. He scanned the room, locking eyes briefly with every person as he continued. “We’re dealing with a logistical nightmare. Security is thin and the park is wide open. The shot could be taken from one of nearly a hundred buildings from twenty times as many windows. Also, the shot could be taken in cover at the park.”

  A few hushed curses colored the air.

  Commander Tucker tapped the computer again, and the image on the monitors changed. “The hit has been ordered by arms dealer Devereaux Kendrick, known in many circles as ‘The Devil.’ This US citizen abandoned the country nearly forty years ago for London, where he married the now deceased aristocrat and multi-millionaire, Elizabeth McCord.”

  The whoosh of pumping blood roared in Sloan’s ears as the man came into focus. Her thundering pulse drowned out Tucker’s words. Words she needed to hear. She tried to calm the storm ripping through her chest. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Nothing happened. Lighting cracked behind her eyes. This was it, what she’d waited a lifetime for, and she was going to screw it up if she didn’t focus.

  Beneath the table, Ryan’s shoe nudged hers. Instantly, the room snapped into sharp view. She ventured a glance at her partner, who showed no interest in anything except Tucker. Good. Only he had noticed her unrest. She raised her chin to Tucker who continued the briefing.

  “In the late 80s, Kendrick moved to Senegal, Africa and grew his own guerrilla armies in Liberia and Sierra Leone with McCord’s money. He ate up open territories and began funneling black market weapons to anyone with valuables to offer—diamonds, gold, women. The bastard even dealt in child slaves.”

  Sloan’s stomach did a shimmy of the vomit variety. She breathed through slightly parted lips to counter the quake. Ryan slid her a piece of gum. She should love him, marry him, and have his gorgeous babies. He was her counterbalance. Her sanity.

  “Like any good gang leader,” Tucker said, “Kendrick is jumping in the new guy, sending him to do the dirty work of taking out the African president. He’s grooming this man to be his successor, unless we stop him.”

  Again the picture changed, but this time the bottom dropped out of her stomach.

  4

  The group assessed likely nest locations on intricate digital maps that gave elevations and measured distance-to-target at the touch of a button. The areas surrounding Meridian Hill Park were divided into quadrants, and then the team was split into four teams of two. One team in the park. Everyone else scouring structures.

  No surprise, Ryan and Sloan received the sector of buildings with the highest shot origin probability. When it came to mission completion, they got the job done come hell, high water, bullet wounds, or sudden explosions. Heck, even a derailed train and embattled militia hadn’t stopped them from achieving their objectives. Today Tucker looked to them for another miracle.

  While Sloan cataloged every word swirling around her out of necessity, another part of her brain regurgitated and distilled the bullet of information she’d taken between the eyes. She scrutinized the image of Baine Kendrick that Tucker had placed on the screen. The Devil’s son dwarfed the others around him, in both height and breadth. Even the Range Rover he hiked a leg into appeared smaller than she knew them to be. Suntanned skin peeked from a radiant white suit, which made the dark-brown crop of hair and scruff of a new beard look charcoal. Baine Kendrick was a grizzly, and nothing about him looked familiar, not the fierce expression on his face nor the fiery blue of his eyes.

  It had been twenty-one years since Sloan had seen him. And every hope, every desperate p
rayer she’d ever had that the kind hearted boy she’d once known would find a way to escape his father’s heinousness, died an abrupt death.

  After dismissal, Sloan bolted from the tomb-like confines of the conference room, slipping past Commander Tucker as two other operatives snagged his attention. Steady legs ignored the quiver in her gut and carried her past the elevator and down the corridor to a solid-slab metal door fit for a world bank. One retina scan, passcode, and identification swipe later, the hunk receded into the wall long enough for her to pass. Four weapon-covered walls welcomed Sloan like a fetus to the womb. Breath came easier as the scent of gun oil filled her lungs. It came even easier still after she shed her suit jacket and button down in a fit of movement, leaving her in a white cotton tank. With a flick of the wrist the garments sailed through the air, landing in a heap at a bank of lockers, two sets of which bracketed a table in the center of the room. She stopped at the black-topped island, bracing strong hands on its edge. Legs braced apart and head hung between wiry shoulders, Sloan stared at the floor without seeing it.

  Hope crossbred with loathing, despair, excitement, and agony. A mongrel of emotions ripped at her insides, sending tremors coursing through her body.

  “What the fuck?”

  As a rule Sloan didn’t cuss, but desperate times and all.

  If she allowed the torment inside her to continue, she’d spend the rest of her days a curled lump on the cold floor. Sloan hadn’t allowed her emotions such control since she left Africa. Not since she was a child.

  Memories flashed. Her father stood in the schoolhouse doorway, his tall, yet narrow, white American frame struggling to block the rebel soldier’s view inside. His fluid Krio words begged the shorter black man who brandished an Uzi to leave in peace. “Only children. They are only children learning to read and write. They cause you no harm. Please.”

  The man nodded, the tiniest gesture of acquiescence. Sloan kissed her mother’s coffee-colored arm in relief, though her grip, along with the ten other children who all clung to her, their teacher, did not lessen. Then outside a scream lit the morning afire. Gun shots followed. Rapid succession bursts sounded through the thin wall they huddled against. The soldier’s face shifted, darkened in a way no Hollywood demon could ever rival, and he stepped toward the door. Her mother’s cheek, wet with tears, brushed her forehead as she hugged her close and whispered in her ear. “I love you always, my Sia Kolat.”