Free Fall (Elite Force #4)(46)
Author: Catherine Mann

A cold splash of reality washed over her. Good God, this wasn’t the time or the place… She sagged back against the shelves of boxed school supplies. “I don’t know what I was thinking…”

“Shhh… I don’t mean that at all.” He tucked his shirt in quickly. Had she done that? “Someone’s coming.”

Oh. Damn. She smoothed her hands over her loose muslin pant suit, dimly registering voices swelling louder through the halls, along with the echo of racing footsteps.

“Annie?” a voice called. The school secretary, Veronique, had left her homeland of France for this job, to help in her mother’s old hometown. “Annie, Mr. Gueye and I need your help…”

Annie stepped out of the nook, leaving Samir behind her as she fast-tracked down the hall. Hopefully he would take the hint and stay behind rather than stir gossip.

Veronique ran to meet her, unlike the normally collected secretary who fielded childish antics without a wince. “On the television,” she gasped, looking every one of her seventy-plus years at the moment, “there’s some kind of disruption in Mogadishu. A riot or something at the airport, and the children are terrified. Your class needs you.”

Her racing heart stopped for a beat before picking up again. Of course the kids were petrified. Most of them had witnessed war. Some had even seen their own families gunned down.

A firm hand settled on her shoulder, slowing her. She looked back at Samir, his onyx eyes sharp, focused. “What’s happening?”

Annie shook her head. “Veronique?”

“I’m not sure of the details. Once the plane landed, explosions started. The news people were running for cover.” Veronique took her elbow and guided her back toward the cafeteria, obviously too distracted to even question why Samir was here with her. “But there are reports of shooting and tear gas… They say an attack has been made on the vice president’s wife.”

Chapter 11

The world was seriously frickin’ conspiring against her.

Stella sat stuck at a computer screen looking at Predator footage of the melee outside her hangar. Someone had set off firecrackers just as the vice president’s wife stepped off the plane.

Firecrackers, for God’s sake, then just claimed they were celebrating. More likely, the fireworks had been a distraction for the bigger “show.”

Damn it. She hammered computer keys in frustration.

Mr. Smith had set up a mobile command center in a small hangar in the area sectioned off for private jets. The setup mimicked the one back at the base, making it easier to pick up where they’d left off in tracking down that bio toxin. Mr. Brown directed tracking data while Mr. Jones directed the collection of human intel.

The fact that this “goodwill” event was still happening in spite of the raised threat level blew her away. But the White House and VP’s wife had insisted on the diplomatic necessity. They’d ordered more protection and moved forward.

So how the hell had all that increased security allowed anyone to get by with a pack of firecrackers?

Really?

Clicking the mouse to rewind footage and recheck angles, she shuddered to think of what else had been missed.

Didn’t those idiot protestors realize they could have all been shot? Lucky for them security forces had only used tear gas while the VP’s wife had been hustled into the airport, skipping the whole opening remarks to the press part.

But then maybe that was what the firecracker toting idiots had been hoping for. She increased the zoom of the first checkpoint, then back to the runway, reviewing the airplane’s arrival for the third time.

Even with the Predator surveillance drones circling overhead, she should have been there. On the ground, in the crowd, walking through the masses, gathering human intel on how those firecracker pranksters had gotten through and what else may have slipped past.

Instead, Mr. Hard-ass Smith had parked her behind a computer screen reviewing satellite footage like a newbie recruit. Smith had mumbled something about not being sure she could bring her A-game after the stress of the kidnapping.

She’d bitten her tongue to keep from telling him where he could stuff his A-game.

So here she sat, watching Jose on the screen from earlier as they’d waited for the plane to land carrying the VP’s wife. The PJs were pulling guard duty in uniform, the SEAL team lying back farther out and incognito. Jose stood at attention in his uniform, his maroon beret like a beacon to her heart. The way they’d made love last night had been a transcendent farewell.

Transcendent farewell?

When had she gone from being an analytical soul to a lovesick high schooler? Just bring out a prom dress and CD mix of “their” songs. And yes, she knew she was being cranky and irritable because her heart hurt. She’d reconciled herself to a life without the man she loved, and that had been almost bearable when they didn’t see each other. But now? After what they’d been through?

What he still faced if she didn’t figure out where that bio toxin was hidden? So many unbearable scenarios rolled through her head. Worst of all? What if she’d screwed up? What if Mr. Smith was right and she was off her game? She could have totally misinterpreted the meaning of that cloth—even though they’d run her take through the CIA code breakers. They agreed.

Tuning out the chatter in her headset, she clicked through the different images being fed in, trying to focus less on the man she loved and more on the big picture. She cranked back in her chair and lined up a sequence of images: the plane landing, firecrackers exploding, the guest of honor being hustled inside. She was missing something, damn it; she could feel it.

She accessed additional surveillance cameras inside. The welcoming ceremonies had been shifted inside to the conference room inside the airport. American and Somali flags, along with other African flags, were hastily brought in along with the floral arrangements—the splashes of color from fireball lilies, deep crimson desert roses, and hibiscus brightening the sad little room for such a momentous event. Refreshments had been set up, fruits, cheeses, and a cake bearing both countries’ seals. The military honor guards resumed their positions.

The PJs were in place again—Jose was in view again.

Anyone watching on television wouldn’t see the frenzied caterers, the terse secret service agents, the ragged edges just outside a carefully edited view.

Then the guest of honor stepped up to the podium. Wearing a navy blue flowing dress, the VP’s wife had pulled her hair up in a French twist with a whispery scarf over it in respect to local tradition. Setting her notes aside, she spoke…