Intimate Danger. Amy J. Fetzer
dark shop—through the rear.
The instant Phil Bartley saw her, he went into a series of nervous ticks. He looked bad. His graying hair was gelled straight up, and the nose ring—with a dozen more up both ears—looked as if they were all holding up his drooping skin—and failing. At forty, it wasn’t attractive. And I thought this was cool?
She’d hung around him to defy her parents. Well, that’s not true, she thought. She’d done it to outright piss them off.
“How’d you get in here?” He looked beyond her to the back of the shop, for the cops, no doubt. “Get lost.”
“You’re breaking my heart.” He was backing up as she spoke. “Afraid of me? That’s a new one.”
“What do you want?” Phil grew some courage and leaned back against bookshelves. He tried folding his arms, but his nervousness wouldn’t let him. He pinched his nose, coughed, then shoved his hands in his jean pockets. His skin looked papery and she could see the needle marks from here.
She tossed her passport on the counter.
Phil didn’t even look at it. “I ain’t touchin’ that. Get the fuck outta here.”
Clancy looked around the dirty smoke shop and sniffed. “Herb? That’s a little light for you, isn’t it?”
“I’m clean.”
“I’m sure.” She reached over the counter and flicked the crumbs of marijuana dusting his shirt. “Can’t roll a clean joint after all these years?” She tapped the passport. “Duplicate it and change the name.”
“To what?”
“Grace Murray.”
He snorted, slapped his hand on the passport, and flipped it open. “You in trouble?”
“Not yet.” At least she hoped not. Moving to the shop window, she studied the street. She wouldn’t be anywhere near a scumbag like Phil if it wasn’t for the tail. Or the strange shadows outside her house. Or the crackle on the phone lines. All that meant was she’d get nowhere fast and probably X’d out of the picture before she could do anything to help the Marines.
“Some people think they change.” He walked to the rear. “But they don’t, not deep inside.”
“Shut up.” She had changed.
She had a career, a mortgage, and had obeyed the law since she was eighteen until today. She closed her eyes and wondered where this madness came from, but she already knew. There were four Marines out there with her technology in them. Time bombs in their heads, changing them physically, mentally. Though she couldn’t know the affects for certain—the reason she wanted more testing with Boris, damn it—but she was certain she hadn’t perfected it for long lasting capabilities. Foreign objects in the brain?
It would be an ugly death.
She turned and saw Phil stop at a long table, then pull a briefcase from underneath. It was those heavy silver things that carried delicate equipment. When he opened it, she realized it was a forgery setup. Customs stamps, laminates with U.S. holograms, handwriting machine, good grief. Bet the State Department doesn’t have this much in one small case.
“You’ve gone state-of-the-art now, I see.”
He just sneered and began working.
Clancy didn’t take her eyes off him. Phil wasn’t trustworthy by any means. But he wouldn’t talk, unless he was backed into a corner.
“So whatcha been doing all these years?” he asked.
“Working for the government,” she said just to scare him. “Keep going,” she added when he stalled. He eyed her for a second, clearly debating calling the police and giving up his stash hidden somewhere in here. The stash won out.
It took over an hour, and when he was finished he handed it over. The passport was still warm from fresh laminate. In her pocket was the real McCoy from her last cruise with her girlfriends.
She tucked the fake in her purse. “Go to the front.”
“Fuck you, it’s my shop.”
She grabbed the open case and threatened to pull it off the table.
“No! God no. Okay, okay. Be cool. I’m going.” He sniffled again and shuffled toward the front.
What a dweeb.
While Phil was snorting something illegal behind the counter—the man could never handle pressure—Clancy went to the back door, eased it open, and checked the parking lot before she left. She hurried to the end of the street, crossed, and went to her car parked in a service lot behind a craft store. It was amazing how it all came back so easily.
But one thing she hadn’t left behind in her past was thinking like a woman in trouble.
Guaranguillo, Ecuador
Four days later
I could live here easy, Clancy thought. The warmth and lushness of South America didn’t hold a candle to Virginia and especially D.C. No concrete for miles. She smiled as the warm breeze slipped through the jeep window, tugging at her hair. Miles behind her in Panama the tour group were boarding the cruise ship to travel up the West Coast. Though going through the locks of the Panama Canal was pretty amazing, she’d left on the pretense of a family emergency and flew to Ecuador. No one checked.
A single piece of luggage, an oversized hobo flight bag, and she was good to go. Though she didn’t know exactly where she was going. The reason Fuad, her twenty-five-year-old Quechua Indian guide, was sitting next to her, humming softly.
The intelligence she’d managed to get was vague. Eyes-only files were under heavy encryption, but the Tango team was in south Ecuador on a recovery for a UAV. Simple enough. She’d at least had something to look for aside from men. A crash site. The problem was the terrain, she thought as the jeep whined to struggle up a steep hill. Around her, the forest was like a blanket of rolling green, the air thin and the jungle so dense she could barely see a few feet beyond the road. She’d passed a small village a few miles back, but didn’t expect to see another for a while. The jeep bumped along the road ruts so hard that for a second she was airborne, then slammed back into the seat.
Beside her, Fuad chuckled, grinning widely. She didn’t think it was amusing, but he seemed fascinated with the ride.
“How much farther?”
“This road, here!” He pointed and she turned slightly.
He wasn’t much of a conversationalist. She’d already learned the natives didn’t like talking to outsiders, not in the small villages, at least. Even Fuad wasn’t much help with communicating. Despite the generous people at her last gas stop in Sumba, her questions were met with silence and stony looks. Apparently, she wasn’t as charming as she thought.
“Want some tunes, Fuad?”
“Sí, Senorita McRae.”
It sounded like mackerel to her. Clancy leaned to tune in a radio station when a lamb darted out in front of her. She swerved left, braked, but the uneven road took the jeep into a gully. She braced for impact and the jeep dropped into it like a penny in a jar, nose down. Her head grazed the windshield, stunning her.
“Well, hell.” Clancy rubbed her forehead, waiting for her brain to shift back into place, then tried reverse until she heard the tires spin in the mud. In her mirror, she saw a small boy with a stick herding sheep across the road. She threw her hands up. “Thanks a heap, kid.”
The boy just shrugged and laughed, moving on with his flock and disappearing down a narrow dirt path.
“Ya know, I really love lamb stew,” she griped. All the creatures did was bahh as they hurried after their little master. She tried reverse again, the tires spitting mud.
“I think we need to push or get something under the wheels for traction.”
When