Alpha Squad. Suzanne Brockmann
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they’d be witnessing a murder. And unlike the morning’s assassination attempt, she had no doubt that Joe would succeed.
“Mon Dieu,” Tedric said, hiding the fact that his hands were shaking by slipping into his native French and turning haughtily to his aides. “This…this…creature is far more insolent than I remembered. Obviously we cannot risk sending him into public, masquerading as me. He would embarrass my heritage, my entire country. Send him back to whatever rock he crawled out from under. There is no other option. Cancel the tour.”
On the other side of the room, one of the senator’s assistants quickly translated Tedric’s French into English, whispering into McKinley’s ear.
With a humph, the prince stalked toward the door, taking with him Senator McKinley’s hopes for lower-priced oil and Wila’s dreams of economic security for her country.
But McKinley moved quickly, and cut Prince Tedric off before he reached the door.
“Your Highness,” McKinley said soothingly. “If you’re serious about obtaining the funding for the oil wells—”
“He’s a monster,” Tedric proclaimed loudly in French. McKinley’s assistant translated quietly for the senator. “Even Ms. St. John cannot turn such a monster into a prince.”
Across the room, Joe watched as Veronica hurried over to the prince and Senator McKinley and began talking in a lowered voice. Turn a monster into a prince, huh? he thought.
“You always did know how to liven up a party, son.”
Joe turned to see Admiral Michael “Mac” Forrest smiling at him. He gave the older man a crisp salute.
The admiral’s familiar leathery face crinkled into a smile. “Cut the bulldinky, Catalanotto,” he said. “Since when did you start saluting? For criminy’s sake, son, shake my hand instead.”
The admiral’s salt-and-pepper hair had gone another shade whiter, but other than that, the older man looked healthy and fit. Joe knew that Mac Forrest, a former SEAL himself, still spent a solid hour each day in PT—physical training—despite the fact that he needed a cane to walk. Ever since Joe first met him, the Admiral’s left leg had been shorter than his right, courtesy of the enemy during the Vietnam War.
Mac’s handclasp was strong and solid. With his other hand, he clapped Joe on the shoulder.
“It’s been nearly a year and you haven’t changed the least bit,” Admiral Forrest announced after giving Joe a once-over. The older man wrinkled his nose. “Including your clothes. Jumping Jesse, what hole did we drag you out of?”
“I was on leave,” Joe said with a shrug. “I was helping Blue pull in a major tuna and the bait bucket spilled on me. The boys in the Black Hawk didn’t give me a chance to stop at my apartment to take a shower and pick up a change of clothes.”
“Yeah.” The admiral’s blue eyes twinkled. “We were in kind of a hurry to get you out here, in case you didn’t notice.”
“I noticed,” Joe said, crossing his arms. “I take it I’m here to do some kind of favor for him.” With his chin, Joe gestured across the room toward Prince Tedric, who was still deep in discussion with Senator McKinley and Veronica.
“Something tells me you’re not happy about the idea of doing Tedric Cortere any favors,” Mac commented.
“Damn straight,” Joe said, adding, “sir. That bastard nearly got Frisco killed. We were extracting from Baghdad with a squad of Iraqi soldiers on our tail. Frisco took a direct hit. The kid nearly bled to death. What’s maybe even worse, at least in his eyes, is that his knee was damn near destroyed. Kid’s in a wheelchair now, and fighting hard to get out.”
Mac Forrest stood quietly, just letting Joe tell the story.
“We’d reached the Baghdad extraction point when Prince Charming over there refused to board the chopper. We finally had to throw him inside. It only gave us about a thirty-second delay, but it was enough to put us into the Iraqi soldiers’ firing range, and that’s when Frisco was hit. Turns out His Royal Pain-in-the-Butt refused to get into the bird because it wasn’t luxurious enough. He nearly got us all killed because the interior of an attack helicopter wasn’t painted in the colors of the Ustanzian flag.”
Joe looked steadily at the admiral. “So go ahead and reprimand me, Mac,” he added. “But be warned—there’s nothing you can say that’ll make me do any favors for that creep.”
“I’m not so sure about that, son,” Mac said thoughtfully, running his hand across the lower part of his face.
Joe frowned. “What’s going on?”
“Have you seen the news lately?” Mac asked.
Joe looked at him for several long moments. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Just asking.”
“Mac, I’ve been in a chopper, a transport jet and a jeep tonight. None of them had in-flight entertainment in the form of the evening news,” Joe said. “Hell, I haven’t even seen a newspaper in the past eighteen hours.”
“This morning there was an assassination attempt on Tedric.”
Aha. Now it suddenly all made sense. Joe nodded. “Gee, sir,” he said. “And I already smell like bait. How appropriate.”
Mac chuckled. “You always were a smart mouth, Catalanotto.”
“So what’s the deal?” Joe asked. “Where am I inserting? Ustanzia? Or, oh joy, are we going back to Baghdad?”
Inserting. It was a special operations term for entering—either stealthily or by force—an area of operation.
The admiral perched on the arm of the sofa. “You’ve already inserted, son,” he said. “Here in D.C. is where we want you—for right now. That is, if I can convince you to volunteer for this mission.” Briefly, he outlined the plan to have Joe stand in for the crown prince for the remainder of the American tour—at least until the terrorists made another assassination attempt and were apprehended.
“Let me get this straight,” Joe said, sitting down on the couch. “I play dress-up in Cortere’s clothes—which is the equivalent of painting a giant target on my back, right? And I’m doing this so that the United States will have more oil? You’ve got to do better than that, Mac. And don’t start talking about protecting Prince Ted, because I don’t give a flying fig whether or not that bastard stays alive long enough to have his royal coffee and doughnut tomorrow morning.”
Mac looked across the room, and Joe followed the older man’s gaze. Veronica was nodding at Prince Tedric, her face serious. Red. Her hair was dry, and it was definitely red. Of course. It had to be red.
“I don’t suppose working with Veronica St. John would be an incentive?” Mac said. “I had the opportunity to meet her several weeks ago. She’s a real peach of a girl. Rock-solid sense of humor, though you wouldn’t necessarily know it to look at her. Pretty, too.”
Joe shook his head. “Not my type,” he said flatly.
“Mrs. Forrest wasn’t my type when I first met her,” Mac stated.
Joe stood. “Sorry, Mac. If that’s the best you can do, I’m outta here.”
“Please,” Mac said quietly, putting one hand on Joe’s arm. “I’m asking for a personal favor here, Lieutenant. Do this one for me.” The admiral looked down at the floor, and when he looked back at Joe, his blue eyes were steely. “Remember that car bomb that took out a busload of American sailors in London three years ago?”
Silently, Joe nodded. Oh, yeah. He remembered. Mac Forrest’s nineteen-year-old son had been one of the kids killed in that deadly blast, set off by a terrorist organization called the Cloud of Death.
“My sources over at