Secret Agent Sam Read online

  “I was told you could fly us in.” Cory was fishing in his shirt pocket for the folded paper that contained his e-mail confirmation.

  The other man waved it away with a fatalistic shrug. “Oh, yeah, we can get you there, that’s no problem.” His lips quirked and his eyes gleamed. “Getting you back could be, though.” Then the smile broadened into the half moon again, and his eyes narrowed into cheery little upside-down half moons to match. “Just kidding. Government always tends to exaggerate these things-you know how it goes.” He tilted his head toward the windows. “That’s your ride, right there, all gassed up and ready to go. So…lemme see…that was Visa, right? I’m just gonna need your card for a minute…”

  While Cory was hauling out his wallet and extracting the plastic, Will pushed a sheet of paper across the counter toward him. “And if the two of you’ll just sign this waiver…” The half moons came out again. “Just a formality-since there is a government caution in effect. Nothin’ to it, really.”

  Nothing to it, Cory thought as he scrawled his signature on the appropriate line at the bottom of the paper, except several hundred terrorists, a few-dozen tourist kidnappings, an occasional car bombing and a couple of missionaries held hostage for over a year.

  He shoved the paper and pen toward Tony, who poked at them and tried not to look nervous.

  “So, that’s our pilot?” Tony asked with a casual nod toward the windows as he pretended to study the paper. Cory cleared his throat and nudged him with his elbow.

  Will looked up from making an old-fashioned slide impression of Cory’s credit card to beam at him. “Yep-she’s one of our best.”

  “Wow, a woman, huh?” Tony was still fingering the pen.

  Cory elbowed him in the ribs again and muttered, “Sign the damn thing, already. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Like I said, one of our best.” Will brought the credit card slip to the counter and waited for Cory to sign it, after which he tore off and handed him his copy and tossed the other onto the cluttered desk.

  “Okay, if you’ll come right this way, please.” He unhooked and folded up a section of countertop to let them through.

  Cory tucked the credit card slip into his pocket and went to collect his bags. Tony, after hastily scrawling his signature on the waiver, did the same.

  As they sidled through the door Will was holding for them-and tried not to gag as the heat assaulted them with renewed force-Will said in a chummy, confidential aside, “Hey, man, don’t you worry about Sam, there. The woman could probably put that bird down on a tennis court, providing you get the net out of her way.” He showed them his teeth and his half-moon eyes briefly as he pulled a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket, then turned away to light one.

  For which courtesy Cory was intensely grateful. How would he have explained the look of blank shock that must have come over his face just then?

  As it was, his step stumbled as if he’d taken a blow, and to cover it he paused briefly to shift his laptop carrier strap on his shoulder. When he continued on, there was a ringing sound in his ears.

  Sam? Can’t be. Can’t be can’t be. In all this world, he told himself, there had to be more than one female pilot named Sam. Had to be.

  A coincidence. A little quirk of fate.

  Out on the shimmering runway, the pilot straightened and moved out of the wing’s shadow. Her movements were unhurried…lazy, even. She stood waiting for them to approach, attitude relaxed, even arrogant…hands clasped behind her, one knee slightly bent, one hip slightly canted…chin up, head tilted back.

  How well he knew that stance. She’d stood just that way, he remembered, the first time he’d seen her, that day in the White House rose garden.

  Her eyes, in the shadows beneath the bill of her cap, would be half-closed, he knew, measuring their approach with the cool appraisal of a well-trained sniper.

  “God,” he whispered, not knowing whether or not it was a prayer.

  Anger, joy, resentment, regret, pain, lust-all those things and others he couldn’t name-thumped deep in his belly and exploded through his brain like mortar rounds, leaving him reeling. Shell-shocked. Numb.

  For which small favor he was fervently thankful. Because the numbness was the only thing that made it possible for him to continue to function. To walk up to her with a steady step, to nod and calmly say, with the coolest of smiles, “Hello, Sam. Small world.”

  Oh, boy, thought Sammi June, I’ll bet he’s mad.

  At least she told herself-half-hopefully-that he must be, and that, as determined as he might be to hide it from her, there would be telltale signs. A steely glint in his normally compassionate eyes, perhaps…those dark blue eyes, set deep behind the wire-rimmed glasses he almost always wore, eyes she’d always felt could see inside her soul…except, okay, right now his eyes were barely visible behind darkened lenses, but there was the tiny muscle flexing in the hinge of his jaw, the set of his mouth, the almost imperceptible hardening…

  His mouth…normally so sensitive. So incredibly skilled. She remembered the way it felt like warm silk on her skin…sometimes. And at other times like liquid fire. And it tasted like…

  No. I can’t. I can’t.

  A thrill of excitement, of-God help her-anticipation shivered through her, astringent and heady as chilled wine.

  “Helluva small world,” she replied easily, nodding at him. “Hello, Pearse.”

  She thought it best not to offer him a hand to shake, since hers were cold as ice. Hoping he wouldn’t notice, she tucked them casually in her back pockets to warm them.

  And saw the quick flicker of his eyes. Of course he’d notice. He was a reporter. He noticed everything. Especially if it had to do with her. He always had.

  “Been a long time.”

  “Yes, it sure has.” And what a scintillating bit of repartee this is, she thought. How many more of these can we come up with? Long time, no see… Fancy meeting you here.

  “You two know each other?” The guy with Cory-he’d be the photographer-was looking back and forth between the two of them, a puzzled and suspicious frown apparent, even though sunglasses hid his eyes.

  Tony Whitehall didn’t look like a man she’d want to mess with if she could possibly avoid it, being half a head shorter than Cory and probably outweighing him by fifty pounds, none of it fat. His head resembled an egg, both in shape and hairlessness, but from roughly his earlobes down he looked to be one hundred percent solid unbreakable muscle. His skin was a warm, glossy mahogany, although his features, including wide cheekbones and a jutting hawk’s beak of a nose, hinted at a heritage more Native American than African.

  Taken feature for feature he was almost marvelously ugly, but at the same time, in an indefinable, ruggedly offbeat way, she thought, rather attractive.

  “Samantha Bauer,” she said, smiling at him. And since the circulation seemed to have returned to her hands, she pulled one out of her pocket and offered it to him. “Cory and I go way back.”

  He smiled as he took her hand. “He and I go back a ways, too, but I swear he’s never mentioned you.”

  As she felt her hand being swallowed by one the approximate size and texture of a baseball mitt, she could feel Cory’s eyes on her, intent and unwavering. Broadening her smile to a grin, she said, “Doesn’t surprise me. He’s just-” she let her gaze slide casually across Cory’s “-an old family friend.” She was gratified by his barely audible snort.

  “Hey, if you were a friend of my family’s, you can bet I’d mention you.” Now there was an unmistakable lilt in his voice. Obviously, the flirting lamp had been lit.

  Cory gave another snort, a louder one this time, and said dryly, “Tony’s got a thing for your airplane.”

  Sam retrieved her hand but kept her smile where it was. “Yeah? You familiar with the DC-3?”

  “Familiar?” Tony’s voice climbed the scale to a squeak that was almost comically unsuited to a man of his size and shape. “Oh, yeah, sure…like at the Smithsonian.”r />
  Sam laughed, then wished she hadn’t. The laughter served to ease some of the tension that had tied her belly in knots, but without that tension holding her together, she suddenly felt loose and shaky inside. Fighting to keep the shaking out of her voice, or at least camouflage it, she waved Tony toward the steps and turned to walk beside him. “The DC-3 is probably the most reliable aircraft ever built. This one’s been restored, of course. She’ll probably outlast both of us.”

  As she followed the photographer up the steps, she felt Cory fall in behind her. Felt his eyes on her. Of course she did; she was conscious of every movement he made-always had been. And the worst part of it was knowing he’d know that. He’d know exactly how aware of him she was, no matter how earnestly she chatted with Tony about the history and merits of the DC-3 aircraft. He’ll know, no matter how I try to hide it. He always knows what I’m feeling. Damn him.

  How, exactly, was she feeling?

  I can’t think about that right now. I can’t think now.

  I thought I was ready for this. Dammit.

  At the top of the steps she moved aside and gestured for Tony and Cory to pass her. “Go ahead and get settled in. I just have a couple of flight details to go over with Will. Shouldn’t take but a minute. We’ll be underway shortly.”

  To be truthful, she was feeling on the verge of suffocation as she stepped back through the doorway. At the top of the steps she paused and lifted closed eyes to the merciless sun and hauled in a great gulp of the syrupy air as if it were pure oxygen. After a moment, when her head seemed to have stopped swimming, she clattered down the steps and headed for the shimmering terminal buildings. Halfway there, in spite of the heat, she broke into a jog.

  Inside the stuffy cabin, Cory was putting himself through the necessary mental fortifications to deal with the awful heat. It was an exercise he’d learned long ago, and one that had gotten him through far worse circumstances than these. Mind over matter, that’s all it was. Mind over matter. The air was only unbreatheable if he thought it was.

  Seeing Samantha again was only unendurable if he let it be.

  Originally designed to carry around thirty passengers, the restored cabin had been reconfigured to hold maybe half that many. The furnishings were spartan, but the seats were wide enough to accommodate even Tony’s massive shoulders, and set far enough apart to afford a lanky six-footer like Cory adequate leg room. By mutual and unspoken agreement, he and Tony selected seats across the aisle from each other about halfway up the sloping cabin and set about stowing their bags in heroic silence.

  Having secured his precious cameras to his satisfaction, Tony again took off his sunglasses and hooked the earpiece in the neck band of his shirt. He took off the bandana, wiped his face and neck with it, then sank into his seat with a heavy sigh.

  After a moment he sat up again restlessly and looked over at the man in the seat across the aisle from him, the man who was most likely the best friend he had in the world, and who he admired and respected probably more than any other living human being. Nevertheless, and in spite of the fact that the man had a good five years on him, Tony more often than not felt a big-brotherly need to look out for and protect this man. And, at the moment, he felt a strong urge to throttle him.

  When looking over a couple more times failed to get his attention, Tony tried shifting around and clearing his throat-not too subtle and a little bit childish, sure, but in Cory’s case, it usually worked.

  This time, however, Cory went on staring straight ahead at nothing, absolutely still but in no way relaxed, neck and shoulders rigid with tension.

  Tony leveled a black scowl at him. He considered himself to be normally a good-natured soul, but his aggravation levels were rising rapidly. They were rising because he was trying to work himself up to doing something completely alien to his masculinity and that he was resisting with every macho bone in his body. And he was becoming royally ticked at his buddy for making all that necessary.

  He was about to do something guys, in his experience, simply don’t do, which was ask a guy friend a personal question.

  “So,” he said, after clearing his throat a couple more times and finally hitching himself around in his seat in the heavy, flopping manner of a landed marlin. “What’s with you and Amelia Earhart?”

  Cory jumped as if he’d been a million miles away-which he probably had been, mentally-and threw him a frowning look. “Who? Oh-you mean-”

  “You know damn well who I mean.” Tony jerked his head toward the tumble of buildings beyond the wavy window glass. “What’s the story?”

  Cory took off his glasses and went to polishing them on the tail of his shirt, an activity Tony recognized for the delaying tactic it was. “You heard her. I’m just a friend of her family. Her father’s…actually.” He put the glasses back on and pushed them up on the bridge of his nose. Since his nose was slippery with sweat, they slid right down again.

  “Friend of the family, my foot,” Tony said, and was rewarded with a sideways look and a lopsided grin.

  “Your foot?”

  Tony shrugged and grinned back. “I don’t know, my mom used to say that. I guess it was the best she could do, since Gramma wouldn’t let her swear. Anyway, you get my drift. You and I go back quite a ways, too, buddy. I was best man at your wedding, in case you’ve forgotten. What’s maybe more germane to this discussion, I was there during your divorce. I stood by you-”

  “Not too much standing involved, as I recall, unless you consider perching on a bar stool-”

  “Hey, I was there, that’s what counts. Ready and willing to lend you a shoulder if you needed one.”

  “The way I remember it, you were the one needing a shoulder-not to mention a ride home, and on one memorable occasion, at least, bail.”

  Tony gave an affronted snort. “Don’t try to sidetrack me, Mr. Wordman. Whatever was between you and Amelia Earhart had to be something major. Hell, you know me-when it comes to understanding women, I’m no Dr. Phil, and even I felt it. Out there. Just now. The way the sparks were flying back and forth, it’s a wonder you two didn’t set the damn plane on fire.”

  Cory didn’t reply, just gave him a hard, steely stare, a look that normally would have had Tony backing off. This time it didn’t work, and after a moment Cory put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

  It took a long, slow ten-count before Tony succeeded in throttling back enough to press on in a calmer, quieter voice. “Look, man, you know me, I don’t butt in where it’s not my business. But this isn’t exactly a picnic in the park we’re going on. I mean, here we are, heading into a place that’s supposedly so dangerous no commercial airline or boat or bus service is even willing to take us there, supposedly to interview a major terrorist who, if he had his druthers, would probably just as soon kill us as look at us. If you’ve got history with the woman we’re trusting to get us in and out of there alive, I think I ought to know about it.”

  There was a long, suspenseful silence, during which Tony watched, with a sinking feeling in his gut, the little muscles working in the side of Cory’s jaw, and wondered if he was going to have to start looking for a new best friend.

  Then, to his great relief, Cory straightened abruptly and said, “You’re right, you do.” Tony let out a silent, careful breath.

  He waited, heart thumping, while Cory glanced over his shoulder toward the terminal buildings, again took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. Put the glasses back on. Leaned toward him across the aisle and spoke in a soft, conspiratorial way, although there was no one else around to hear.

  “You know I was a prisoner in Iraq, right?”

  “Yeah, sure-about ten years ago, wasn’t it? Special Forces went in and got you out in the middle of the Second Iraq War. Didn’t you win the Pulitzer with some of the articles you wrote about it afterward?”

  Cory nodded in a dismissive way. “So you probably also remember there was another guy rescued same time I was. Tomcat pilot-he’d been shot down over the no-
fly zone between the two Gulf wars. Given up for dead. They’d had him for eight years, and nobody knew.”

  “Holy jumpin’ jeezits,” Tony exclaimed, whacking the armrest with an open palm, “I remember that! I was working in Richmond at the time-I think it was maybe my second or third big assignment-they sent me to Andrews to cover his return. Had all us media people corralled away from the action behind a chain-link fence so we wouldn’t interfere with the big family reunion. Never got one decent shot. Let’s see…I seem to remember he had a wife…a daughter…”

  Cory nodded, took a breath and let it out. “He did. And that pilot out there, Samantha Bauer-” he dipped his head toward the windows “-Amelia Earhart, as you call her…”

  “Don’t tell me,” Tony said, in the same reverent tone with which he’d first spoken of the airplane they were sitting in.

  “Yep,” said Cory, in a voice like the echoes of doom. “She’s the Top Gun’s daughter.”

  Chapter 2

  “I met her in the White House rose garden,” Cory said, following a gleefully profane exclamation from Tony.

  He could still smile, remembering that day, but carefully, tentatively, with great care not to jostle the memories too hard. The turbulence of seeing her again had shifted and tumbled them-and the feelings that went with them-inside the compartment he’d stuffed them into years ago, and right now he feared if he opened that door too wide and too suddenly they might tumble out and bury him.

  He spoke rapidly to get past the danger.

  “There was a reception for us-for him, really-Lieutenant Bauer-I was more or less an afterthought. The guy was a genuine hero, and you know what the media does with heroes.”

  “Aren’t you the media?”

  “That’s why I get to bad-mouth-it’s like family. Anyway, you’re not the media when you’re part of the story.”