The Woman Left Behind Read online

  Sure enough, as soon as the guys rejoined her, Voodoo sniped, “You likely just made things tougher for your boyfriend.”

  “Bite me,” she shot back. “He’s a friend, not a boyfriend.”

  “He was your date Saturday night.”

  “So?”

  “So he acted like he knows you pretty well.”

  “Like I said, he’s a friend. I had a life before I was hijacked into training.” She gave him a smile that showed more teeth than necessary. “Not that you’d know anything about having friends.”

  “Can it,” Levi ordered, looking fed up with the exchange. He glared at both of them. Whatever else he might have said was cut off when his phone signaled an incoming text.

  Almost simultaneously, four other phones began buzzing, including hers. She pulled it out of her pocket, read the text, then reread it. Her mouth fell open.

  “Really? Really?” Three days before Thanksgiving, two and a half days before her flight, they were being ordered to Paris. Not even Paris, Tennessee—France. Paris, France. She groaned. “I was going home! I booked my flight this morning.”

  Snake looked unhappy, too. Levi shrugged. “Can’t be helped. Someone’s holiday is messed up no matter which team gets the call. With any luck we’ll be home in a couple of days, but we won’t know until the briefing. Come on, let’s move.”

  At least she wasn’t caught completely flat-footed, Jina thought morosely as she went to her car. She had her go-bag with her. Normally she’d be excited about her first mission, and normally she’d like to go to France—but not when it meant missing Thanksgiving and her mother’s German chocolate cake.

  Damn it all. Sometimes life just wasn’t fair.

  Thirteen

  Eighteen hours later, Jina and Crutch sat in a not-very-good hotel room in Paris while the other six team members were conducting surveillance on their target. Crutch was keeping in contact with them and coordinating. Jina wasn’t doing anything other than waiting. She hadn’t expected to be bored but she was; somehow she’d thought the teams did exciting stuff all the time, which if she’d taken the time to think she’d have known wasn’t possible, but innocent expectations were what they were—and in this case they were wrong.

  “A lot of the stuff we do is boring,” Crutch said easily when she mumbled a complaint. “Probably about seventy percent is gathering information. With you and Tweety here, maybe we can cut down on the time spent following people around and getting jack shit for our efforts. Sometimes we’re just building a file, looking for patterns, things like that. It’s not immediately important, but down the road all of it is.”

  That was one way of looking at it. Too bad the present was still just as boring. This was an object lesson: always have reading material with her. This was in fact the second object lesson she’d learned on her maiden mission; the first was that she’d packed as if they were going into the field, when most of what they did was in urban settings. Her cargo pants and boots would get her only so far; what she really needed was jeans, a pair of flats, and a warm but stylish sweater, because this was Paris. She’d developed a huge inferiority complex just driving in from the airfield and seeing the Frenchwomen on the sidewalks. Not only was she now bored, she was fighting a powerful urge to go shopping, have her hair done, and get a manicure . . . after she visited a pastry shop.

  But she was stuck here, with no downtime until Levi said so. The subject of their surveillance was a South African banker named Graeme Burger, who had triggered some flags at the National Security Agency because he’d contacted a Sudanese who had terrorist links. The Sudanese was currently in Paris, and now so was Banker Burger, whose plane had touched down at De Gaulle a couple of hours ago, and whose taxi was now being followed by Levi and the other guys using a tag-team method. They had three cars, two men to each car, and so far so good; there was no indication that they’d been burned, and the taxi driver wasn’t making any effort to evade them. Maybe Burger being in Paris at the same time as the Sudanese was a coincidence—and maybe the sun would turn blue. In the dark underworld of terrorism, there were no coincidences.

  Despite the NSA’s all-encompassing record gathering, so far the reason for the connection between Burger and Nawal Daw was murky. South Africa wasn’t a terrorist hot spot, and although the Foreign Service Institute scored the S.A. banking industry as a possible safe haven for tax evaders, again, it wasn’t a hot spot. Sudan, however, was a terrorist cesspool, and Nawal Daw was involved up to his skinny neck, with ties to Hezbollah, ISIS, and several domestic Sudanese groups. Why a country needed more than one terrorist organization, Jina couldn’t fathom, but from the briefing they’d received, Sudan had quite a collection. Nawal Daw wasn’t one of the leaders, but he had connections to the leaders.

  Of particular interest was that Graeme Burger had applied for a visa to travel to the States for a vacation. The visa had been approved, and a watch on Mr. Burger had been put in place so whatever plans he made could be monitored. If a terrorist group in Sudan wanted to use Mr. Burger in an attack on the States, the GO-Teams had been put in action to find out exactly what was being planned.

  And she would miss out on her mom’s German chocolate cake. And Mom would be mad at her for missing Thanksgiving.

  Jina sighed. She couldn’t even play games on the heavy-duty, field-tested, encrypted, top-secret laptop with which she controlled Tweety, because the government evidently didn’t want her playing games on their equipment—which was really crappy of them, because playing games on their equipment was what had gotten her this assignment in the first place.

  On the other hand, playing more games might end up getting her launched into space, so she supposed she should leave well enough alone. “Why can’t I be helping with following the goonie, since I can’t do anything else?”

  Crutch said, “You aren’t qualified.”

  “I have eyes, and I can drive.”

  “You might be needed here at any time, and trust me, you can’t drive in Paris. It’s a nightmare. You don’t speak French, you don’t know anything about the streets, you’d get lost, and you’d likely cause an accident that would get you killed.” He grinned at her. “We’re looking out for you.”

  And boring her to death at the same time. “Does everyone speak French except for me?”

  “Some, at any rate. Voodoo’s fluent, Ace and Trapper not quite as good. The others get by, but the French sneer at them. You should take some language courses.”

  “In my spare time.” But that was an idea. She’d see which languages were most useful now, and at least get some rudimentary language skills going. Overseas flights were long, and that would be something to pass the time because sleep was hard to come by. She’d been too excited, quarters had been cramped, and she hadn’t acquired the guys’ ability to nap on a moment’s notice whether they were lying, sitting, or propped against a wall. Not only that, Jelly and Crutch were such practical jokers she didn’t think she’d ever feel comfortable sleeping in their presence.

  Her work cell phone buzzed. She jumped, and her heart rate picked up. Part of the protocol was that anything relating to the drone would be sent by text, instead of a phone call that might be picked up by an audio recording bug. The text was from Levi:

  get tweety ready

  Adrenaline shot through her system, making her feel almost dizzy. She jumped to her feet and got Tweety ready to fly. Guidance systems for drones originally required line-of-sight communication with the controller, but they were so far beyond that now she could operate him from just about anywhere; the military’s Predator drones could be controlled by people sitting in front of a screen thousands of miles away. But that much distance had the built-in lag time that MacNamara had wanted eliminated, so Tweety didn’t need that kind of capability. Paris was a big city, with innumerable obstacles, but with Tweety’s 360-degree cameras, sensors, and pinpoint GPS, she could zip him around the city as easily as if he were a real bird.

  The next text was the coordinate