Take No Prisoners

Despite his attempt to block them, images of Grace Chancellor had been bombarding his brain since Dalton had mentioned her name. Memories of the woman he had first met…almost ten years ago, he realized with a sense of wonder.

Grace Chancellor and Afghanistan. Two items of unfinished—and very personal—business.

Landon hadn’t made many mistakes since the years he’d been an operative. In his line of work he couldn’t afford them. What Cabot had set forth before him this morning was a chance to rectify the two most spectacular ones he’d made in his entire life. If Grace was alive, he’d find her. And if she wasn’t… Landon took a deep breath, thinking about what that loss would mean.

“Hang on, Gracie,” he whispered. “The bastards haven’t won one yet. They damn sure aren’t going to win this time, either.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

This July, Intrigue brings you six sizzling summer reads. They’re the perfect beach accessory.

* We have three fantastic miniseries for you. Film at Eleven continues THE LANDRY BROTHERS by Kelsey Roberts. Gayle Wilson is back with the PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD in Take No Prisoners. And B.J. Daniels finishes up her MCCALLS’ MONTANA series with Shotgun Surrender.

* Susan Peterson brings you Hard Evidence, the final installment in our LIPSTICK LTD. promotion featuring stealthy sleuths. And, of course, we have a spine-tingling ECLIPSE title. This month’s is Patricia Rosemoor’s Ghost Horse.

* Don’t miss Dana Marton’s sexy stand-alone title, The Sheik’s Safety. When an American soldier is caught behind enemy lines, she’ll fake amnesia to guard her safety, but there’s no stopping the sheik determined on winning her heart.

Enjoy our stellar lineup this month and every month!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Take No Prisoners

Gayle Wilson

MILLS & BOON

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For the guys and gals of my RWA chapter, Southern Magic. Thank you for your support and most of all for your friendship. You’ll never know how much you mean to me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Five-time RITA® Award finalist and RITA® Award winner Gayle Wilson has written over thirty novels and three novellas for Harlequin/Silhouette. She has won more than forty awards and nominations for her work.

Gayle still lives in Alabama, where she was born, with her husband of thirty-four years. She loves to hear from readers. Write to her at P.O. Box 3277, Hueytown, AL 35023. Visit Gayle online at www.booksbygaylewilson.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Landon James—The only woman this ex-CIA agent has ever loved is being held captive in the mountains of Afghanistan. There is no question he’ll go after her. The only question is whether he can find her in time.

Grace Chancellor—She had risen quickly in the ranks of the CIA, but her fall has been even more spectacular. Now her life hangs in the balance. And the one person who has the skills to rescue her is the man she walked away from six years ago.

Griff Cabot—The leader of the Phoenix is willing to go outside his own organization if necessary to save Grace Chancellor’s life.

Mike Mitchell—Taken prisoner with Grace, the dying pilot teaches her a lesson that would change her life.

Rudolph Stern—Grace refuses to abandon her fellow prisoner, despite the price she may pay for her loyalty.

Abdul Rahim—No one is more eager for Landon James’s return to Afghanistan than this drug lord with a long memory and a thirst for revenge.

Steven Reynolds—Will this Special Forces operative drive a wedge between Landon and Grace? Or is it possible Landon isn’t the only one guarding secrets?

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Prologue

“The heroin is taken out of the country by routes established centuries ago. Most of it goes through Tajikistan or Uzbekistan and on to Russia and China.”

Despite the noise of the Kiowa’s jet engine, Colonel Rudolph Stern seemed determined to keep up the ongoing dialogue he’d begun as soon as he met Grace Chancellor’s car at his headquarters. In the close confines of the chopper, he was leaning against her, practically shouting in her ear.

Of course, Grace had been well aware of almost all the information he’d provided long before she’d left Langley. In spite of that, she nodded, having decided a couple of hours ago that the occasional gesture of agreement was the easiest way to deal with her gregarious military host.

It had been painfully obvious from the first he didn’t believe she was the right person for the job she’d been given. Just as obviously, he didn’t realize that his attitude was nothing new.

Grace had spent more than a decade climbing the ranks in the CIA, an agency that celebrated its old-boys network. And Grace Chancellor had never been one of the “old boys.”

“In spite of our presence here,” Stern went on, “massive shipments still make it though those mountains and into Pakistan.” He nodded toward the chopper’s open door and the rugged peaks that stretched below.

This trip along the Afghan/Pakistani border had been an afterthought. Stern had already shown her the vast fields of poppies that now covered the relatively fertile valleys of Afghanistan. In full bloom, their flowers had thrown a blaze of color across the otherwise monochromatic landscape.

With the disruption of the Taliban’s control, the country’s trade in heroin had once again grown to staggering proportions. More than one-fifth of the world’s opium was currently being produced here.

Although heavily backed by an American and British commitment of money and manpower, recent attempts by the Afghan government to rein in that very profitable business had led to deep resentment and even violence among the general population. In a country whose grinding poverty rivaled any in the region, people were dependent on the cash produced by the poppies to feed their children.

It was now Grace’s job to find a workable solution for all of those involved. And to do it before the antipathy generated by the attempts to control the drug trafficking boiled over into a full-blown rebellion.

No one at the CIA, including Grace herself, had had any doubt that her current assignment was a demotion. In her opinion at least, it had been intended as a punishment, as well, but she was determined that the people at the Agency who had made this decision would never have the satisfaction of hearing her complain.

Almost the only thing she could control in this situation was how she conducted herself. Despite her bitterness over the undeserved castigation, she was resolute in her intent to bring to this challenge the same degree of professionalism and all-out effort she had invested in everything else the Agency had ever asked of her.

The colonel, a tall, spare man already deeply tanned by the relentless Afghan sun, raised his index finger and then moved it in a circle. His aide, who had apparently been keeping a watchful eye on their conversation, placed his hand on the shoulder of the chopper pilot and bent to shout whatever unspoken instruction he’d just been given against his flight helmet. The helicopter immediately began to turn, its nose tilting slightly downward as it did.

Before it had completed the maneuver, there was a loud bang. The Kiowa seemed to hesitate in midair, almost as if it were catching its breath.

Then the noise of the jet engine, which had made normal conversation impossible, was no longer there. In its sudden and eerie absence Grace could hear what sounded like the clatter of small-arms fire from below and the continuing whomp, whomp, whomp of the rotor blades over their heads.

“What the hell?” Stern muttered before he leaned forward, shouting the same question to his aide.

As he did, Grace was again able see the ground beneath the chopper. Following the Kiowa’s shadow, a stream of horsemen galloped over the rocky terrain below. The gunfire she’d heard had obviously come from the rifles they brandished in upraised hands.

She couldn’t hear the answer the aide had conveyed from the pilot to Stern, but the colonel’s expression when he turned toward her left no doubt that it hadn’t been what he’d been hoping to hear. His lips flattened as she met his eyes, trying to keep hers from revealing the fear that had already tightened her chest and rested cold and queasy in the bottom of her stomach.

“Looks like the bastards got lucky.”

Unlike the colonel’s previous comments, this one hadn’t been shouted. And there was a note in his voice she liked even less than she had liked his previous condescending manner.

“What does that mean?”

The hesitation before he answered lasted through several more endless seconds. Her heart rate, already elevated, increased exponentially while she waited.

“They hit the engine with those pea shooters. We’re going down.”

His eyes held hers, watching for reaction, she supposed. Although she tried to control any outward sign of what she was feeling, she was the one who finally broke the contact between them, looking down again on the horsemen who, even as she watched, seemed to grow larger and more menacing. The pilot fought to control their too-rapid descent, the blades thankfully still turning above their heads, allowing him a chance to try to set the chopper down.

She’d always heard that when you faced death, your entire life flashed before your eyes. Fingers tense around the metal arms of her seat, she realized that in her case, at least, that wasn’t true. There was only one image that kept repeating over and over in her head.

She had run into one of the old hands at the Agency shortly after she’d been called to testify before Congress. She hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, certainly not to talk to, so that she’d wondered at the time if he had arranged their “chance” meeting. If so, she was grateful. Most of the others at Langley had simply turned the other way as she walked by.

Neil Andrews had looked her in the eye. His warning had been equally straight and to the point:

“Watch your back,” he’d said. “Don’t think for a minute that they’re going to let you get away with it.”

“I’m sorry,” Stern said, bringing her abruptly back to the present. He sounded as if he might actually mean it.

Of course he does, she told herself. To believe anything else was sheer paranoia. After all, whatever dangers lay ahead, the colonel and his aide would experience them, as well.

Except they aren’t women, Grace acknowledged, looking down again on the barren ground and the riders who seemed to be rising up to meet their rapid descent. And although she had functioned in a masculine realm for years, she knew with a cold certainty that the world she was about encounter was far different in its approach to women than any she had ever faced before.

Chapter One

“I’ve already told Griff I’m not interested. Several times, actually.”

The deep voice on the other end of the line seemed resigned, almost amused rather than angry. Dalton Rawls knew that amusement wouldn’t last.

This was a call he’d been dreading having to make for several days, ever since Griff Cabot had broached the idea. They had both agreed, however, that there was no one better suited for this mission than Landon James. And since technically it wasn’t a Phoenix undertaking…

“This isn’t about joining the Phoenix,” Dalton said.

There was a beat of silence as the ex-CIA operative he’d just phoned digested the information. “Then what is it about?”

“A mutual acquaintance who’s in trouble.”

The silence this time was even more prolonged.

“If this isn’t about the Phoenix, then I suppose I should assume that whoever we’re talking about wasn’t part of the External Security Team, either.”

Griff Cabot’s elite counterterrorism unit had been destroyed by the Agency long before the terrorist attack that had devastated the heart of the country. The Phoenix, a private investigative agency, had been born from the EST’s ashes. Although Landon James had been a member of the CIA team from its inception, he had refused every inducement to join the private group of agents Cabot had put together during the last five years, its members almost exclusively drawn from his former operatives.

“We’re talking about Grace Chancellor,” Dalton said, seeing no point in making a mystery of his request. “Griff said you’d remember her.”

The quality of the silence this time was different somehow. As ridiculous as it seemed to believe he could judge something like that over the phone, Dalton knew he’d just taken the other man by surprise. A feat that had once been almost impossible to achieve.

“I remember.”

Dalton couldn’t quite read the tone of those two words, but he’d been right in his earlier speculation. Both the resignation and the amusement had disappeared.

“Tell me,” Landon demanded into his continued silence.

“You know that she testified before Congress a few months ago.”

“You mean when she told the Hill that their vaunted intelligence services—all of them—didn’t know what the hell they were doing during one of the most critical periods in this nation’s history?”

“I don’t believe she phrased it in exactly that way,” Dalton said, making no effort to conceal his own amusement at how accurately Landon’s opinion echoed those that had been expressed privately among the members of the Phoenix.

The destruction of the EST had been only one of the many intelligence blunders made by those in authority during the last ten years, but it had been the most personal for all of them. Certainly the most bitter. At least until New York.

Eventually both the country and Congress had begun to ask why no one had been aware of the threat from Al-Qaeda. Maybe, Dalton thought, because they’d all been too busy getting rid of the very people who might have been able to tell them. And that would certainly have included Landon James.

The Middle East had been his area of expertise. Just as it was Grace Chancellor’s. She’d been an intelligence analyst rather than an operative, but despite the fact that the two had struck sparks off one another on a number of occasions by supporting conflicting opinions about operations there, Dalton knew Landon had respected her opinions.

Whether that respect would translate into the ex-CIA agent taking action in this situation was something neither he nor Griff had been willing to predict. Neither had they been willing to bet against it.

If Landon refused, then Griff would move on to Plan B. With Cabot there was always a Plan B. They had agreed, however, that Landon James was their best hope.

And Grace Chancellor’s best hope, as well.

“Apparently she phrased it strongly enough that it’s gotten her into trouble,” Landon said. “I’m just not sure what you expect me to do about it.”

“I don’t believe the trouble she’s in right now can be blamed entirely on her testimony,” Dalton said carefully.

He didn’t want to suggest too much, but he also knew that the only chance he had of convincing James to undertake this mission was to be absolutely straight with him. Landon was too perceptive not to recognize when he was being played.

“The company despises whistle blowers,” Landon said. “Even those compelled to testify under oath.”

“So much so,” Dalton agreed, “that as a result of her testimony, the powers-that-be found Chancellor a new assignment.”

“Let me guess. Reading satellite images.”

“Something slightly more challenging.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, Dalton found himself smiling at the reminder of how hated that particular assignment was among Cabot’s agents. “They put her in charge of stopping the heroin traffic out of Afghanistan.”

Landon laughed, the sound short and harsh. “I’m surprised they didn’t give her a spoon and a bucket and point her toward the nearest ocean.”

Again Landon was on target with his assessment of the task Chancellor had been given. Halting the exportation of heroin from Afghanistan was an impossible job, considering the entrenched culture of poppy production. It had been made even more difficult now by the lawlessness of the vast areas that lay outside the direct control of the Afghan government or the forces of the international coalition.

“Chancellor wanted to see the extent of the problem for herself,” Dalton went on, “as well as every aspect of the process by which the drugs are transported out of the country.”

There was a noise from the other end of the line that sounded like derision. Unsure, Dalton decided to ignore it.

“The Army provided her with a military escort, some lieutenant colonel who was supposed to know the ropes and show her around. Chancellor probably knew more about what was going on before she arrived in the country than he did after several months there.”

“And knowing Chancellor,” Landon said, “she didn’t tell him that.”

Probably not, Dalton thought, but he ignored the interruption to go on with his story. “The Kiowa they were riding in was hit by small-arms fire. Fortunately the pilot was able to set the chopper down, but…”

“Go on,” Landon urged when Dalton paused.

The voice on the other end of the line had become very soft. It was a timbre anyone who had worked in the field with Landon James would have recognized immediately. The more tense the situation, the quieter he became.

“The body of the colonel’s aide was found with the helicopter. Lt. Colonel Stern, the pilot and Grace Chancellor were not.”

“Where did they go down?”

“The mountains just north of Kabul.”

“Son of a bitch.” The expletive was again soft, but obviously heartfelt. “How long ago?”

This was the part Dalton had most dreaded. So far the Agency had been tight-lipped about the incident. There had been a brief report in the media, no names provided. If Neil Andrews hadn’t contacted Griff, they might never have known Grace was involved.

“Nearly two weeks.”

The expletive Landon uttered this time was expressive of his contempt. “And of course, no one at Langley has a clue who took them. Or where.”

Those were not questions. They were assumptions, flatly articulated and based on Landon’s lack of respect for the kind of information gathering that had passed for intel in that area for years.

“Not a clue. At least, according to Griff’s sources within the Agency.”

“Griff wants me to find her?”

The hesitation this time was Dalton’s. “He recognizes that he has no right to ask you to do anything. He simply wanted me to make you aware of what had happened.”

“Okay,” Landon said. “Tell him I’m aware.”

Which didn’t sound promising. Nor did it reveal what the ex-operative intended to do. If anything.

Dalton suspected his boss wasn’t going to be satisfied if he brought back that enigmatic answer. He knew Griff well enough to know that if James didn’t accept the task, Cabot would find someone who would.

His loyalty toward those he considered the good guys within the CIA extended beyond the agents who had worked for him. Apparently, it covered Grace Chancellor, as well. And Griff would damn well want to know if the rescue mission he’d been hoping for was going to take place.

“Are you going to find her?” Dalton asked.

“If she’s still alive.”

“We have no reason to believe she isn’t.”

And none to believe she is.

“Anybody had an offer?”

“For ransom, you mean?”

“Someone in that region is holding a senior CIA analyst, an American colonel and an American pilot, and they aren’t trying to negotiate a deal for their release? Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

“It’s a pretty remote area. A lot of tribesmen—”

“You just made the same kind of mistake our former employer so frequently makes,” Landon interrupted. “Don’t judge sophistication by lifestyle. Just because someone lives in a cave doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what’s going on in the outside world. That should have been one lesson we all learned from 9/11.”

“Then…why wouldn’t anyone have been approached for ransom?”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you that single fact bothers me more than anything else you’ve told me.”

Dalton swallowed his own misgivings over the way the capture of the three Americans had played out reinforced by Landon’s certainty that something was wrong with the entire scenario.

“Someone mentioned the possibility that this has been organized by the drug lords,” he said. “Something designed to show that no matter how many people Washington sends out, they’re still in control.”

“If there’s to be any chance of Grace Chancellor being returned alive, you better hope whoever told you that is wrong.”

Dalton had no idea what to say to that. It sounded ominous. And absolutely assured.

“I still don’t know what you want me to tell Griff.”

“Tell him I don’t work for him anymore.”

“Believe me, he knows that, Landon.”

“Does he?” James asked, the hint of amusement Dalton had heard at the beginning of the conversation back in his voice. “And yet, strangely enough, this conversation sounds exactly like those he used to employ to get me interested in whatever he wanted me interested in during the External Security Team days.”

“Are you? Interested, I mean?”

“I’m a few years older and light-years wiser than I was when I worked for the CIA.”

“I don’t believe you’ve changed that much.”

Although Dalton had probably been the closest thing to a friend Landon James had had on the EST, he hadn’t seen his fellow operative in years. At Cabot’s request, he’d made the occasional contact to try to recruit him on the Phoenix’s behalf, only to be turned down each time.

He had no idea what Landon was doing right now. Griff probably knew, but he hadn’t passed on that information along with James’s phone number.

“Apparently not enough that Griff can’t manage to hit all the right buttons.”

“I don’t think that’s what he’s trying to do. I think he just hoped that since this is your area of expertise…”

“I’d ride to the rescue.”

“With all your expenses paid by the Phoenix, of course.”

“Paid on whose behalf?”

The Phoenix was very much a “for-hire” operation, although their charges were usually dependent on the client’s ability to pay. More than a few missions were undertaken on a pro bono basis, however, especially if Cabot felt that justice could be achieved only through their intervention.