My Spy (4 page)

“I'm not dangerous. I just want to know Sam's condition.”

There was another pause. “Sam is alive. I can't say the outlook is rosy, but he's tough and he's a fighter.”

Annie's eyes blurred with tears and she struggled for composure. Sam wasn't dead, thank God.

But something didn't make sense. “I don't understand all the secrecy, Admiral.”

“One slip and we'll have tabloids, career reporters, and cranks beating down the doors of every naval hospital in the country. They'll demand medical information and one-on-one interviews. Hell, they'll steal hospital uniforms and sneak into treatment rooms, trying to get an exclusive on America's latest hero.”

Annie froze, seeing every detail exactly as he had described. “What can you do to stop it?”

“Keep this quiet. That officer will not be harassed on my watch. Can I count on your help, Ms. O'Toole?”

“Me?” Annie frowned. “Of course. You mean that I should stop leaving messages and bothering your people?”

“No, I'm not asking you to stop your calls. I'm asking for
your support under conditions of absolute secrecy. Are you prepared to give that?”

Annie didn't hesitate. “I am.”

“You're decisive. That's good. This puts the ball back in my court. I'll contact you shortly, Ms. O'Toole. Meanwhile, I appreciate your commitment.”

“
What
commitment?”

“When Sam leaves the hospital, he's going to need a secure and isolated location for his rehab. I happen to know that your record of recovery with top athletes is formidable. I spoke with one of them just this morning.” The admiral named a highprofile quarterback who had come to Annie off-season for ankle-strength training and spine flexibility. Now he was playing better than he had in years.

“I merely redirected some limiting behaviors. He's a hard worker and an amazingly well-conditioned athlete.”

“So is Sam. I'm sure he'll perform just as well for you.”

“Admiral, you're not being very clear.”

“You'll have all the details shortly, Ms. O'Toole. Your con-tact's name is Mr. Teague. Meanwhile, this must remain absolutely secret.”

“Of course, but—”

“A final warning. If you reveal any detail of what we've discussed, the government will deal with you harshly, make no mistake.”

Before Annie could blurt out an answer, the line went dead.

“What's going on? How is Sam?” Taylor demanded.

“I'm not sure.” Annie stared at the phone. She knew Sam was alive, but very little else. And the admiral's warnings infuriated her. It didn't take threats to ensure that Sam's secret was safe with her.

“Well?” Taylor said impatiently.

“No details. I promised.”

Taylor looked annoyed. “Is he alive?”

Annie nodded.

“What else can you tell me?”

“Not much.” She'd worked with sports stars, movie stars, and models, but never with the military. Annie stared out at the ocean and wondered exactly what she was getting herself into.

A
T
FIRST
THERE
WAS
ONLY
PAIN.

Like thunder, it battled up and down his chest. He tried to talk, but some kind of mask covered his mouth, so he forced himself to relax and assess the situation, the way he'd been trained.

A night dive?

Had he surfaced too fast and blacked out?

Sam McKade raised one hand, grimacing at the immediate kick of pain. Tendons, muscles, bones, skin—everything was on fire at once.

Then his vision blurred, and he knew he was going under again.

But he had to stay awake. There was something important he knew, something he had to pass on.

By sheer force of will he kept his eyes open, fighting to stay conscious though every breath was a torment.

Panting, he stared at the blurred shapes around him.

A room? Chairs? There were clicking noises and something pressing on his face, his chest. A bed beneath him?

None of that mattered. All that mattered was getting where he needed to go and reporting.

Reporting
what?

His fists clenched. He struggled to focus, but there was nothing beyond the pain, no urgent knowledge to hold him awake, tense and shaking, gripped by dread.

Something moved at the corner of his vision. A shadow slid out of the darkness. Grunting, Sam forced his body away from the blow he sensed was coming.

The shadow was right above him now, its outlines blooming into hollow eyes and a black mask. Something tugged at Sam's wrist, and he saw the flash of metal.

A syringe.

The same instincts that had saved his life a dozen times made Sam twist sideways and roll across the bed. He struck out blindly, heard a curse, then the sound of a falling chair. Something slapped his arm.

The shadow blurred again. As it faded, Sam heard a low cry.

It took him a long time to realize the voice was his.

The blurring was everywhere now. He was panting, fighting to breathe, when light flooded the room.

“Commander, stop!” Footsteps raced toward him. Sam was blinded by light, his eyes still adapted to the dark. “You've knocked off your oxygen mask and your IV is out.” Soft hands pressed at his face. “Stop fighting me or you'll hurt yourself.”

The darkness was growing, taking him down. “Someone here.” He struggled to speak. “Can't—stay here.”

“Now you just relax. Let's get your oxygen back on. You'll feel better then.”

Another voice, another set of hands. Sam felt the prick of a needle, then the slow numbness dripping into him, blurring pain and memories.

Not yet.

He had to explain.

Had to report that the danger was here. Somehow it had followed him.

Then the pain fell away, and there was nothing at all left for him to remember.

F
ORTY-EIGHT
HOURS
LATER, ANNIE
WAS
STILL
WAITING
FOR
NEWS.

She had scanned every news channel, hoping for an update, but no one was talking about Sam's condition, unofficially or otherwise. The silence was driving her crazy.

With a sigh she forced her mind back to work. July was her busiest season, and with Summerwind fully booked, she had her hands full hosting special events, local wine tastings, and gourmet dinners. Usually she enjoyed these unique promotions, but Annie couldn't pull her thoughts away from Sam.

Wherever he was.

Despite Taylor's pointed questions, Annie kept her silence, and her sister had stalked off in no good humor. But Annie knew that Taylor's anger would pass and then she would be back to help.

The hard truth was that Annie needed Taylor's help more than she ever had before.

She was finishing a memo for a gourmet cookoff hosted by three famous California chefs when her computer screen filled with fuzzy red lines. Annie sighed. One day she would have to track down the annoying glitch.

Right now it was at the bottom of her list.

She looked up as her head housekeeper huffed into the room. “
No mas, señorita.
He cuts the towels again.”

Annie rubbed her neck. “You mean the Olympic fencer in the Monterey Suite?”

“
Sí, sí.
” Her housekeeper smoothed her pristine white apron. “He cuts holes in all my towels. A riposte, he calls it. Now I have two dozen new towels and all are slashed.”

“Give him replacements from last year's supply and keep a
record. We'll charge him for the new ones. Any other problems?”

“The test pilot in room twenty-two. He pays to lose weight, then hides a television set, two bottles of gin, and a box of Twinkies in the closet.” She sniffed. “He promises me three hundred dollars if I do not tell you.”

Annie had to smile at the man's ingenuity. “Tell Major Prescott that the television and alcohol go or he goes. We'll negotiate about the Twinkies.”

The housekeeper bustled out happily and was immediately replaced by Annie's head chef.

“A problem, Zoe?”

“I'm going to kill them all. I've got the knife ready.”

Annie sat back, looking interested. “Your old boyfriends?”

“The rabbits. This time they hit the bok choi and white strawberries. It's a war out there, Annie.”

Aware that a chuckle might lose her one of California's finest chefs, Annie kept her face sober. After a last, disgusted look at her computer, she stood up. “Let's go have a look. Maybe we could throw my monitor at them. It doesn't seem to be good for anything else but crushing small animals.”

W
HEN ANNIE
RETURNED
FROM
HER
JAUNT,
SHE
WAS
TIRED,
HUNGRY, and more than a little irritated. The rabbits had done more damage than she realized. The orchard and gardens would have to be carefully fenced. Otherwise, her chef was history.

She glanced at the new faxes, snagged a cup of coffee, and headed down the corridor to her office. She was absently scratching a mosquito bite when she saw the glow of light above her desk.

Annie froze, certain she'd turned off the desk lamp before she'd left.

She put down her coffee on an end table and inched closer. A man was sitting at her computer. He appeared to be inputting
a stream of programming code, humming happily, completely at home.

Furious, Annie shouldered open the door. “You have exactly sixty seconds to tell me who you are and what you're doing at my computer.”

H
ER
VISITOR
CLOSED
DOWN
THE
COMPUTER
WITHOUT EVEN
looking, his dark features unruffled. “You must be Annie O'Toole.”

“You've got thirty seconds left. I have a direct line to my head of security and any calls automatically ring through to the local sheriff.”

“Good protocol. I like it.”

The man was tall and broad shouldered, like the football players Annie often worked with, but he met her eyes squarely, with a focused intelligence and lazy good humor Annie didn't expect in a professional athlete who crashed his body for a living.

He steepled his fingers. “You shouldn't reveal your security details to a stranger, though. What's the point of an alarm system if everyone knows how it works?”

“Time's up.” Annie reached for the intercom to her head of maintenance, who doubled as her “head of security.” “Reynaldo, I need you in my office. Make it pronto.”

The stranger raised one eyebrow. “Message received, ma'am. Here's mine. The name's Ishmael Teague. I believe you're expecting me.”

Annie recalled her strange conversation with the admiral, who had promised someone named Teague would answer all her questions. She crossed her arms uncertainly. “Who sent you?”

“Admiral Howe.”

“Why didn't you call?”

“Orders, ma'am. I was told to get here on the double. I would have been here two hours ago if I hadn't missed the
turnoff from the coast road. This place really is the back of beyond.”

“That's the point. People need to escape from the noise and the rat race sometimes.” Annie continued to watch him warily. “You haven't told me why you're here. I doubt it's for our seaweed wraps.”

“Consider me your support team. I'll be helping you with Sam and keeping an eye on things.”

Annie drummed her fingers on the windowsill. “What kind of things?”

“I've got training as a medic. I'll also help with press, security, and whatever else you need.”

“Why would the press be involved, Mr. Teague? I thought Sam's stay here was a secret.”

“Mistakes happen. That's when I do my best work.” He smiled calmly, looking remarkably like Denzel Washington. “And call me Izzy, please.”

Annie had the sense there was a lot that Ishmael Teague wasn't telling her, but her concern for Sam outweighed any other worries. “What's Sam's condition? I'll need a complete medical report before I can start planning his rehab regimen.”

Izzy pulled a thick folder from the leather briefcase on her desk. “Everything you need is in here: X-rays, progress notes, surgical evaluations. The man's lucky to be alive, considering the fall he took. He's going to need a lot of work.”