CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR
MERLINE LOVELACE

“Merline Lovelace is the brightest new star in the romance genre. Each new book is an adventure.”

—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“Ms. Lovelace delivers sizzling romantic adventure in the finest tradition and leaves us begging for more.”

—Romantic Times, on Night of the Jaguar, from the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries

“You won’t want to wait for the next book in this four-part series!”

—The Paperback Forum, on the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries

“…One of the best dramatic and heart-throbbing miniseries to hit the bookshelves in ages.”

—Affaire de Coeur, on the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries

“Full of spine-tingling adventure à la James Bond, but Ms. Lovelace doesn’t let that overshadow the tension-filled romance.”

—Genie Romance Exchange, on Perfect Double, from the original CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries

Texas Hero
Merline Lovelace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MERLINE LOVELACE

spent twenty-three years as an Air Force officer, serving tours at the Pentagon and at bases all over the world before she began a new career as a novelist. When she’s not tied to her keyboard, this RITA® Award-winning author and her husband of thirty years, Al, enjoy traveling, golf and long lively dinners with friends and family. Be sure to watch for Once a Hero, the next in the CODE NAME: DANGER miniseries, in Intimate Moments.

Merline enjoys hearing from readers and can be reached through Harlequin’s Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.

This book is dedicated to my own handsome hero, who I first met in the shadow of the Alamo.

Many thanks for all those wonderful San Antonio memories, my darling.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Prologue

“Thank God for air-conditioning!”

Swiping a forearm across his dirt-streaked forehead, the tall, flame-haired grad student followed his team leader into the welcoming coolness of San Antonio’s Menger Hotel.

“If I’d had any idea how muggy it gets down here in July,” he grumbled, “I wouldn’t have let you talk me into assisting you on this project.”

“Funny,” the woman beside him responded with a smile, “I seem to recall a certain Ph.D. candidate begging me to let him in on the dig.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I realized I’d be branded as a defiler of history and practically run out of Texas on a rail.”

Elena Maria Alazar’s smile faded. Frowning, she shifted the strap of her heavy field case from one aching shoulder to the other and stabbed at the elevator buttons. Eric’s complaints weren’t all that exaggerated. He and everyone else working the project had come under increasingly vitriolic fire in recent days.

Dammit, she shouldn’t have allowed the media to poke around the archeological site, much less elicit a hypothesis as to the identity of the remains found in the creek bed. She was an expert in her field, a respected member of the American Society of Forensic Historians, for pity’s sake! She headed a highly skilled team of anthropologists and archeologists. She knew better than to let her people discuss their initial findings with reporters. Particularly when those findings held such potentially explosive local significance.

She couldn’t blame anyone but herself for the howls of outrage that rose when the San Antonio Express-News reported that Dr. Elena Alazar, niece of Mexico’s President Alazar and professor of history at the University of Mexico, was rewriting Texas history. According to the story, Ellie had found proof that legendary William Barrett Travis, commander of the Texans at the Alamo, hadn’t died heroically with his men as always believed. Instead, he’d run away from the battle, was hunted down by Santa Anna’s troops and was shot in back like a yellow, craven coward.

Ellie and her team were a long way yet from proving anything, but try telling that to the media! The Express-News wasn’t any more interested in running a disclaimer than a correction to identify her as a professor of history at the University of New Mexico. Never mind that Ellie had been born and raised in the States. To the reporter’s mind—and to the minds of his readers—she was an outsider attempting to mess with Texas history.

Thoroughly disgruntled, she made another stab at the brass-caged elevator. It was an antique, like everything else in the hundred-year-old hotel located just steps from the Alamo. Until the story broke, Ellie had thoroughly enjoyed her stay at the luxuriously appointed establishment. Now, she felt the weight of disapproval from every employee at the hotel, from desk clerks to the maid who cleaned her room.

She didn’t realize just how much she’d earned the locals’ displeasure, however, until she unlocked the door to her suite. Startled, she stopped dead. Behind her, Eric let out a long, low whistle.

“Folks around here sure let you know when they’re not happy. I haven’t seen a room trashed this bad since pledge week at the frat house. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen a room trashed this bad.”

The two-room suite hadn’t been just trashed, Ellie soon discovered. It had been ransacked. Her laptop computer was gone, as was the external drive that stored the data and thousands of digital images her team had collected to date.

The loss of her equipment was bad enough, but the message scrawled across the mirror above the dresser made her skin crawl.

Mexican bitch.

I’ve got you in my crosshairs.

Get the hell out of Texas!

Chapter 1

Washington, D.C., steamed in the late afternoon July heat. On a quiet side street just off Massachusetts Avenue, in the heart of the embassy district, the chestnut trees drooped like tired old women and tar bubbled in the cracks of the sidewalk. The broad-shouldered man who emerged from a Yellow Cab took care not to step in the sticky blackness as he crossed the sidewalk and mounted the front steps of an elegant, Federal-style town house located midway down the block.

He paused for a moment, his gaze thoughtful as he studied the discreet bronze plaque beside the front door. The inscription on the plaque identified the three-story town house as home to the offices of the President’s special envoy. Most Washingtonians considered the special envoy’s position a meaningless one, created years ago for a billionaire campaign contributor with a yen for a fancy title and an office in the nation’s capital. Only a handful of insiders knew the special envoy also served as the head of a covert agency whose initials comprised the last letter of the Greek alphabet, OMEGA. An agency that, as its name implied, was activated only as a last resort in instances when other, more established organizations like the CIA or the Department of Defense couldn’t respond for legal or practical reasons.

This was one of those instances.

Squaring his shoulders, the visitor entered the foyer and approached the receptionist seated behind a graceful Queen Ann desk.

“I am Colonel Luis Esteban. I’m here to see the special envoy.”

“Oh, my! So you are.”

Elizabeth Wells might have qualified for Medicare a number of years ago, but her hormones still sat up and took notice of a handsome man. And Colonel Luis Esteban, as OMEGA agent Maggie Sinclair had reported after a mission deep in the jungles of Central America, was gorgeous—drop-your-jaw, boggle-your-eyes gorgeous.

Elizabeth managed to keep her jaw from sagging, but the colonel’s dark, melting eyes, pencil-thin black mustache and old-world charm did a serious number on her heart rate.

“I believe the special envoy is expecting me.”

“What? Oh! Yes, of course. Mr. Jensen’s in his office. With Chameleon, as you requested.”

“Ah, yes.” A small, private smile played about the colonel’s mouth. “Chameleon.”

Elizabeth’s pulse tripped again, but not with pleasure this time. Having served as personal assistant to both Maggie and her husband, Adam Ridgeway, during their separate tenures as director of OMEGA, Elizabeth wouldn’t hesitate to empty the Sig Sauer 9 mm tucked in her desk drawer into anyone who tried to come between them. With something very close to a sniff, she lifted the phone on her desk and buzzed her boss. Her gaze had cooled several degrees when she relayed his reply.

“Go right in, Colonel.”

“Thank you.”

Luis walked down a short hall, opened a door shielded from attack by a lining of Kevlar, took one step inside and plunged into chaos. There was an ear-shattering woof. A flash of blue and orange. A chorus of shouts.

“Dammit, he’s doing it again.”

“Radizwell! No!”

“Shut the door, man!”

A hissing, bug-eyed lizard the size of a small hound darted between Luis’s legs. A second later, a huge sheepdog tried to follow. Knocked sideways, Luis grabbed the door handle while the furiously barking hound raced after the iguana. Doubling back, the lizard leaped for the safety of a polished mahogany conference table. Once there, it whipped out a foot-long tongue and spit at the jumping, madly woofing hound.

“Nick!” Half-laughing and wholly exasperated, Maggie Sinclair shouted an appeal to OMEGA’s current director. “Get Radizwell out of here.”

The man who answered her plea sported a lean, well-muscled body under his elegantly tailored suit, but it took all his strength to drag the vociferously protesting hound out of the office. Deep, mournful howls followed him when he returned. Closing the door to muffle the yowls, he smoothed his blond hair with a manicured hand and shot Luis a wry smile.

“Nick Jensen, Colonel. I’d apologize for the noisy reception, but…” He glanced at the still hissing giant iguana. “I understand you were the diabolical fiend who gave Maggie her pet in the first place.”

“Yes, he was.” A smile lighting her eyes, Maggie Sinclair came across the spacious office and held out both hands. “Hello, Luis. How are you?”

Esteban’s gaze took in her glowing face, dropped to her gently rounded stomach. Regret punched through him. He’d had his chance with this woman a number of years ago. She slipped away from him then, as changeable and lightning quick as her code name implied.

Luis had come to Washington on urgent business at the request of the president of Mexico. Only he knew that he also brought with him the half-formed idea of reigniting the sparks that had once flared between Maggie and him. He’d heard she’d left OMEGA to finish writing a book and raise her two small daughters. He’d thought perhaps she might be bored and ready for a touch of excitement. He could see at a glance that wasn’t the case, however. Maggie Sinclair wore the look of a woman well and truly loved.

Swallowing a small sigh, he lifted her hands and dropped a light kiss on the back of each. “I’m well, Chameleon. And you… You are as lively and beautiful as ever.”

“I don’t know about the beautiful part, but my family certainly keeps things lively.” Rueful laughter filled her honey brown eyes. “I thought you might want to see how your gift has grown over the years. Unfortunately, Terence won’t go anywhere these days without his buddy, the sheepdog you just met. They’re best of pals until Radizwell, er, well…”

“Gets the hots for the damned thing,” the third person in the room said. He strolled forward, his blue eyes keen in his aristocratic face. “Adam Ridgeway, colonel.”

“Ah, yes,” Luis drawled, returning both the strong grip and rapierlike scrutiny. “Maggie’s husband.”

“Maggie’s husband,” he affirmed with a smile that sent an instant and unmistakable message. “Hope you don’t mind if I sit in on your meeting. I’m told it involves one of the agents I recruited for OMEGA.”

Instantly all business, Luis Esteban nodded. “Yes, it does. Jack Carstairs. I understand he’s on his way to San Antonio.”

“He left a few hours ago,” Nick Jensen replied, gesturing the other three to seats well away from the conference table occupied by the wary, unblinking iguana. “What we don’t understand, however, is how Renegade’s mission concerns you.”

“Allow me to explain. When I first met Chameleon, I was chief of security for my country. I’ve since retired and established my own firm. I do very private, very discreet work for a number of international clients. The President of Mexico is one of them. He asked me to run a background check on Jack Carstairs.”

Nick’s brows lifted. “Did he?”

“Yes. You know, of course, that Carstairs once had an affair with President Alazar’s niece.”

“We know. Which made us wonder why he requested Carstairs for this mission in the first place.”

“He didn’t, actually. The request came from his niece.”

Flicking his shirt cuff over his gold Rolex, Luis picked his way through a potentially explosive international minefield.

“As you’re aware, Elena’s father—President Alazar’s youngest brother—emigrated to the States as a young man. He and Ellie’s mother met in Santa Fe and married after a whirlwind courtship. Unfortunately, Carlos Alazar died before his daughter was born, but his wife made sure Ellie spent summers with her father’s family in Mexico. During one of those visits, Ellie met a Marine pulling guard duty at the U.S. Embassy. Their affair was brief and, I’m told, rather indiscreet.”

“Indiscreet enough to get Gunnery Sergeant Carstairs sent home in disgrace and subsequently booted out of the Marines,” Nick acknowledged.

“Evidently Ellie feels a lingering responsibility for ruining the man’s military career. When her uncle decided she needed a bodyguard, she insisted it be Carstairs. Which is why President Alazar hired me to check him out.”

“How did you get past Renegade’s cover and make the link to OMEGA?” Nick asked, not liking the idea that one of his agents had been compromised.

Luis merely smiled. “I think Chameleon will attest that I, too, possess certain skills. Suffice to say I uncovered his connection to OMEGA and advised President Alazar, who subsequently made the call to your President, requesting Carstairs’s services.”

“And now President Alazar’s having second thoughts about the request?”

“Let’s just say he’s worried that Carstairs’s past involvement with his niece might get in the way of his ability to maintain the detachment required for this job.”

Nick Jensen, code name Lightning, didn’t for a second doubt Jack Carstairs’s ability to do his job. During Nick’s days as an operative, he’d gone into the field with Renegade more than once and had gained a profound respect for his skills. Nick also, however, possessed a Gallic understanding of the power of passion.

Once a skinny, perpetually hungry pickpocket who called the back streets of Cannes home, Henri Nicolas Everard had been adopted by Paige and Doc Jensen, moved to the States and had grown to manhood in a house filled with love. He’d parlayed the near starvation of his childhood into a string of high-priced restaurants scattered around the globe.

Nick was now a millionaire many times over. His cover as a jet-setter gave him access to the world of movie princes and oil sheikhs. It had also led to a number of discreet affairs with some of the world’s most beautiful women. A true connoisseur, he could understand why Jack Carstairs had sacrificed his military career for a fling with Elena Maria Alazar. The background dossier compiled by OMEGA’s chief of communications had painted a portrait of an astonishingly vibrant, incredibly intelligent woman.

Not unlike OMEGA’s chief of communications herself, Nick thought. A mental image of Mackenzie Blair replaced that of Ellie Alazar and produced a sudden tightening just below his Italian leather belt. Both amused and perturbed by the sensation, Nick offered his assurances to Colonel Esteban.

“OMEGA wouldn’t have sent Renegade into the field if we weren’t absolutely confident in his ability to protect Dr. Alazar. If it will ease President Alazar’s mind, however, I’ll pass on his concerns.”

“Perhaps you might also keep me apprised of the situation in San Antonio,” Esteban suggested politely.

Everyone in the room recognized that they were treading tricky diplomatic ground here. Relations between the United States and Mexico had reached new, if somewhat shaky, levels with the recent North American Free Trade Association Treaty. The last thing either president wanted right now was an ugly international incident souring an economic agreement that had taken decades to hammer out.

“Not a problem,” Nick said smoothly. “Once we ascertain that’s what President Alazar wishes, of course.”

“Of course.” Rising, the colonel dug into his suit pocket and produced a business card. “You can contact me day or night at this number.”

His gaze drifted to Maggie, who rose and gave him a warm smile.

“Don’t worry, Luis. Renegade’s one of the best field operatives in the business. He wouldn’t be working for OMEGA otherwise.”

With that blithe assurance, she strolled across the office and clipped a leash on the unblinking iguana. Identical expressions of repulsion crossed the faces of Nick and the colonel as the creature’s long tongue flicked her cheek in a quick, adoring kiss. Adam merely looked resigned.

“We’ll walk you out,” he said to Esteban. “Lightning has some calls to make.”

OMEGA’s acting director made the calls from the control center located on the third floor.

Mackenzie Blair ruled OMEGA’s CC, just as she used to rule the command, control and communication centers aboard the Navy ships she’d served on. She loved this world of high-tech electronics, felt right at home in the soft green glow from the wall-size computer screens—far more at home than she’d ever felt in the two-bedroom condo she and her ex had once shared.

One of the problems was that she and David had never stayed in port together long enough to establish joint residency. He’d adjusted to the separations better than Mackenzie had, though. She discovered that when she returned two days early from a Caribbean cruise and found the jerk in bed with a neighbor’s wife.

She’d sworn off men on the spot. Correction, she’d planted a very hard, very satisfying knee in David’s groin when he’d grabbed her arm and tried to explain, then sworn off men.

Lately, though, she’d been reconsidering forever. Her itchy restlessness had nothing to do with her boss. Nothing at all. Just a woman’s natural needs and the grudging realization that even the most sophisticated high-tech gadgets couldn’t quite substitute for a man.

Which was why goose bumps raised all over her skin when Lightning strolled over to her command console with the casual grace that characterized him.

“Patch me through to the White House.”

She cocked a brow. She wasn’t in the Navy now.

“Please,” Lightning added with an amused smile.

All too conscious of his proximity, Mackenzie transmitted the necessary code words and verifications, then listened with unabashed interest to the brief conversation between Lightning and the Prez. When it was over, she leaned back in her chair and angled OMEGA’s director a curious look.

“Sounds like Renegade’s got the weight of the free world riding on his shoulders on this one.”

“The weight of North America, anyway.”

His gaze lingered on her upturned face. Mackenzie had almost forgotten how to breathe by the time he murmured a request that she get Renegade on the line.

His eyes, narrowed and rattlesnake-mean behind his mirrored sunglasses, Jack Carstairs snapped shut the phone Mackenzie Blair had issued him mere hours ago. The damned thing was half the size of a cigarette pack and bounced signals off a secure telecommunications satellite some thirty-six thousand kilometers above the earth. Lightning’s message had come through loud and clear.

Renegade was to keep his hands off Elena Maria Alazar.

As if he needed the warning! He’d learned his lesson the first time. No way was he going to get shot down in flames again.

Hefting his beat-up leather carryall, he walked out of the airport into a flood of heat and honeysuckle-scented air. A short tram ride took him to the rental agency, where he checked out a sturdy Jeep Cherokee.

The drive from the airport to downtown San Antonio took only about fifteen minutes, long enough for Jack to work through his irritation at the call. Not long enough, however, to completely suppress the prickly sensation that crawled along his nerves at the thought of seeing Ellie Alazar again.

His jaw set, he negotiated the traffic in the city’s center and pulled up at the Menger. Constructed in 1859, the hotel was situated on Alamo Plaza, right next to the famous mission. The little blurb Jack had read in one of the airline’s magazines during the flight down indicated the Menger had played host to a roster of distinguished notables. Reportedly, Robert E. Lee rode his horse, Traveller, right into the lobby. Teddy Roosevelt tipped a few in the bar while organizing and training his Rough Riders. Sarah Bernhardt, Lillie Langtry and Mae West had all brought their own brand of luster to the hotel.

Now Elena Maria Alazar was adding another touch of notoriety to the venerable institution. One Jack suspected wasn’t particularly appreciated by the management.

He killed the engine, then climbed out of the Cherokee. A valet took the car keys. Another offered to take his bag.

“I’ve got it.”

Anyone else entering the hotel’s three-story lobby for the first time might have let their gaze roam the cream marble columns, magnificent wrought-iron balcony railings and priceless antiques and paintings. Six years of embassy guard duty and another eight working for OMEGA had conditioned Jack to automatically note the lobby’s physical layout, security camera placement and emergency egress routes. His boot heels echoing on the marble floors, he crossed to the desk. There he was handed a message. Ellie was waiting for him in the taproom.

After the blazing sun outside and dazzling white marble of the lobby, the bar wrapped Jack in the welcoming gloom of an English pub. A dark cherry-wood ceiling loomed above glass-fronted cabinets, beveled mirrors and high-backed booths. A stuffed moose head with a huge rack of antlers surveyed the scene with majestic indifference, wreathed in the mingled scents of wood polish and aged Scotch.

Instinctively, Jack peeled off his sunglasses and recorded the bar’s layout, but the details sifted right through his conscious mind to be stored away for future reference. His main focus, his only focus, was the woman who swiveled at the sound of his footsteps.

His first thought was that she hadn’t changed. Her mink brown hair still tumbled in a loose ponytail down her back. Her cinnamon eyes still looked out at the world through a screen of thick, black lashes. In her short-sleeved red top and trim-fitting tan shorts, she looked more like a teenager on vacation than a respected historian with a long string of initials after her name.

Not until he stepped closer did he notice the differences. The Ellie he’d known nine years ago had glowed with youth and laughter and a vibrant joy of life. This woman showed fine lines of stress at the corners of her mouth. Shadows darkened her eyes, and he saw in their brown depths a wariness that echoed his.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t ease her stiff-backed pose. Silence stretched between them. She broke it, finally, with a cool greeting.

“Hello, Jack.”

He’d expected to feel remnants of the old anger, the resentment, the fierce hurt. He hadn’t expected the punch to his gut that came with the sound of her voice. His head dipped in a curt nod. It was the best he could manage at the moment.

“Thanks for coming,” she said cooly.

He moved closer, wanting her to see his face when he delivered the speech he’d been preparing since Lightning informed him of the nature of his mission.

“Let’s get one thing straight, right here and right now. My job is to protect you. That’s the reason I’m here. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

Her chin snapped up. The fire he remembered all too well flared hot and dark in her eyes.

“I didn’t imagine you’d make the trip down to San Antonio for any other reason. We had our fun, Jack. We both enjoyed our little fling. But that’s all it was. You made that quite clear when you walked away from me nine years ago.”

His jaw tightened. He had no answer for that. There was no answer. Eyes hard, he watched her slide off the bar stool. Her scent came with her as she approached, a combination of sun and the delicate cactus pear perfume she’d always worn. It was her mother’s concoction, he remembered her telling him. He also remembered that he’d been nuzzling her neck at the time. Deliberately, Jack slammed the door on the thought.

When she raised a hand to shove back a loose tendril of hair, however, the gleam of silver circling her wrist brought another, sharper memory. The two-inch-wide beaten silver bracelet had cost him a half-month’s pay. He’d slipped it onto her wrist mere moments before her uncle’s police had arrived to arrest him.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he instructed tersely. “I want to see the message your friend left you.”

Chapter 2

Wrapping her arms around her middle, Ellie stood just inside the door of the trashed suite.

“I moved to another room. The hotel wanted to clean up the mess, but I asked them to leave it until you got here.”

His face impassive, Jack surveyed the mess. “Did the police find anything?”

“They dusted for prints, interviewed the hotel staff and asked for a complete inventory of the missing items, but as far as I know, they haven’t come up with any concrete leads. In fact…”

“In fact?”

Her shoulders lifted under the chili red top. “The detective in charge was somewhat less than sympathetic. Evidently he read the story about me in the Light and doesn’t take kindly to Mexicans determined to rewrite Texas history. It doesn’t seem to make a whole lot of difference to some folks that I’m as American as they are.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

Jack had seen more than his share of bigotry during his overseas tours, both in the Marines and as an OMEGA agent. It didn’t matter what a person’s race, creed or financial circumstances might be. There was always someone who hated him or her because of them. With a mental note to establish liaison with the detective handling Ellie’s case as soon as he conducted his preliminary assessment of the situation, he eyed the message on the mirror.

The wording suggested a man, someone familiar with weapons and not afraid to let Ellie know it. The obvious inference was that the threat stemmed from her work. Jack never trusted the obvious.

“I want a complete background brief on the members on your team,” he told her, making a final sweep of the premises. “Particularly anyone who might or might not have a grudge against the team’s leader.”

Startled, she dropped her arms. “You think one of my own people is responsible for this?”

“I don’t think anything at this point. I’m just assessing the situation.”

Her eyes huge, she stared at him. Jack could see the doubt creep into their cinnamon brown depths, followed swiftly by dismay. Only now, he guessed, was it occurring to her that the leak to the press might have been more deliberate than accidental. That one of her team members might, in fact, be working behind the scenes on some hidden agenda of his or her own.

The years fell away. For a moment, he caught a glimpse in her stricken face of the trusting, passionate girl she’d once been.

He’d come so close to loving that girl. Closer than he’d ever come to loving anyone who didn’t wear khaki. Until Ellie, the Marines had been his life. Until Ellie, the Corps had constituted the only family he’d ever wanted or needed. He’d never known his father’s name. He’d long ago buried the memory of the mother who left her four-year-old son in the roach-infested hotel room and drove off with some poor slob she’d picked up in a bar. After years of being passed from one foster home to another, Jack had walked into a recruiting office on his eighteenth birthday, signed up and found a home.

He shot up through the ranks, from private to corporal to gunnery sergeant in minimal time. He learned to follow and to lead. Because of his outstanding record, he was selected for the elite Marine Security Guard Battalion. His first tour was at the U.S. Embassy in Gabon, Africa, his second at the plush post in Mexico City.

The debacle in Mexico City had ended his career and destroyed all sense of family with the Corps. Thankfully, he’d found another home in OMEGA. This one, he vowed savagely, he wouldn’t jeopardize by tumbling Ellie into the nearest bed.

“I also want a copy of your list of missing items.”

The dismay left Ellie’s face. Stiffening at his curt tone, she gave him an equally succinct response. “I’ll print you out a copy. It runs to more than fifty pages.”

“Fifty pages!”

The exclamation earned him a condescending smile. “My team’s been on-site for almost a week now. We’ve recorded hundreds of digital images, cross-indexed them and made copious notes concerning each. The data was all stored in the external FireWire drive that was stolen. Thank God I backed the files up via the university’s remote access mainframe!”

With that heartfelt mutter, she led the way down the hall to the new set of rooms the hotel had assigned her. Jack followed, forcing himself to keep his gaze on her back, her hair, the stiff set to her shoulders under her top. On anything, dammit, but the seductive sway of her hips.

A swift prowl around the spacious corner suite she showed him to had him shaking his head. “Pack your things.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll call the front desk and get them to move us.”

“Why?”

He dragged back the gauzy curtains covering the corner windows. One set of wavy glass panes fronted the street. The other set faced the brick wall of the River Center complex next door.

“See the roof of that building?”

“Yes.”

“It’s on a direct line with these windows. Anyone with a mind to it could get a clear bead on a target in this room. Or climb up on the roof of that IMAX theater across the street and stake you out.”

The color leached from her cheeks. “If you’re trying to scare me, you’re doing one heck of a good job.”

“You should be scared. That wasn’t a valentine your visitor left on that mirror, you know.”

“Of course I know! To paraphrase your earlier remark, the viciousness of that threat is the reason, the only reason, I agreed to the nuisance of a bodyguard.”

Hooking his thumbs in his jeans pockets, Jack tried to get a handle on the woman who’d emerged from the girl he’d once known.

“So why are you hanging around San Antonio, Ellie? Why offer yourself as a target to the kook or malcontent who issued that warning?”

“Because I refuse to let said kook or malcontent interfere with my work. In all modesty, I’m good at what I do. Damned good.” She speared him with a hard look. “You predicted I would be. Remember, Jack? Right about the time you and Uncle Eduardo jointly decided finishing college was more important to me than my… Let’s see, how did he phrase it? My passing infatuation with a hardheaded Marine.”

They’d have to scratch at the old scars sometime. Better to do it now and give the scabs time to heal again. If Jack was to protect her, he needed her trust. Or at least her cooperation. He wouldn’t gain either until he’d acknowledged his culpability for the hurt she’d suffered all those years ago.

“You were only nineteen, Ellie. I thought… Your uncle thought…”

“That I didn’t know my own mind.” Her chin came up. “You were wrong. I knew it then. I know it now.”

She couldn’t have made her meaning plainer. Jack Carstairs wouldn’t get the chance to wound her again. He accepted that stark truth with a nod.

“Why don’t we get settled in different rooms, and you can tell me exactly what it is you’re so good at. I need to understand what you’re doing here,” he said to forestall the stiff response he saw coming, “and why it’s roused such controversy.”

The hotel staff moved them to adjoining suites two floors down. The rooms looked out over the inner courtyard of the hotel instead of the street. Like the rest of the historic hotel, they were furnished with a combination of period antiques and modern comfort. A burned-wood armoire held a twenty-seven-inch TV and a well-stocked bar. The wrought-iron bedstead boasted a queen-size mattress and thick, puffy goose-down comforter.

While Jack checked phones, door locks and ceiling vents, three valets transferred boxes of files and equipment on rolling dollies. Ruthlessly rearranging the furniture to meet her work-space needs, Ellie promptly turned her sitting room into a functional office. She’d already replaced the stolen computer and hard drive, which she now hooked up to an oversize flat LCD screen.

A smaller unit sat beside the computer. Jack studied it with a faint smile. Mackenzie Blair, OMEGA’s chief of communications, would light up like a Christmas tree if she caught sight of all those buttons and dials and displays. The palm-size unit was probably crammed with more circuitry than the Space Shuttle.

Evidently Ellie Alazar shared Mackenzie’s fascination with electronic gadgetry. She gave the small metal box the kind of pat a fond mother might give a child.

“This holds the guts of a technology I developed the summer after we…” Her brown brows slashed down. Obviously impatient with her hesitation, she plowed ahead. “The summer after I met you. I didn’t make the trip to Mexico City that year. I didn’t go down for several years, as a matter of fact.”

Jack wasn’t surprised. Elena’s emotions ran close to the surface. In the short months he’d known her, she’d never once reined them in. Looking back, he could see that was what had drawn him to her in the first place. Everything she thought or felt was all there, in her eyes, her face. Impatience, passion, anger—whatever emotion gripped her, she shared. Honestly. Openly.

She’d certainly shared her feelings the day her uncle sent his police to arrest Jack. She’d been furious with Eduardo Alazar. But not half as angry as she’d became with the Marine who refused to stand and fight for her.

“You didn’t go to Mexico that summer,” Jack acknowledged, steering the conversation to less volatile subjects. “What did you do?”

“I worked for the National Park Service on a dig in the Pecos National Park. We were excavating the site of the battle of Glorietta Pass. The battle took place in 1862 and was one of the pivotal engagements in the Civil War.”

“The Gettysburg of the West. I’ve heard of it.”

She gave him a look of approval. “Then you know the battle turned the tide against Confederates and sent Silbey’s Brigade scuttling back to Texas in total disarray.”

Another Texas defeat. Evidently Ellie had started her career at the site of one disastrous conflict for the Lone Star state. Now she was up to her trim, tight buns in controversy over another. No wonder some loyal local citizens wanted to roll up the welcome mat and send her on her way.

“We used metal detectors to locate shell casings at the battle site,” she explained, warming to her subject. “We marked their location on a computerized grid, then categorized the casings by make and caliber. We also analyzed the rifling marks on the brass to determine the type of weapon that fired them.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

“It was. Three summers’ worth of digging and mapping. Plus hundreds of hours of detailed research into the weaponry of the time. The Confederates tended to carry a wide variety of personally owned rifles and side arms. Union weapons were somewhat more standardized. By matching spent shell casings to the type of weapon that fired them, we were able to map the precise movement of both armies on the battlefield. We also built a massive database. For my Ph.D. dissertation, I expanded and translated the raw data into a program that allows forensic historians to reliably identify shell casings from any era post-1820.”

“Why 1820?”

“The copper percussion cap was invented in the 1820s. Within a decade, two at most, almost every army in the world had converted its muzzle-loading flintlocks to percussion. More to the point where my research was concerned, the copper casing retained more defined rifling marks, which aided in identification of the type of weapon that fired it.”

Jack was impressed. He could fieldstrip an M-15, clean the components and put it back together blindfolded. He’d qualified at the expert level on every weapon in the Marine Corps inventory, as well as on the ones OMEGA outfitted him with. Yet his knowledge of the science of ballistics didn’t begin to compare with Ellie’s.

“So how do we get from the invention of the percussion cap to your finding that the hero of the Alamo deserted his troops and ran away?”

“It’s not a finding.” She shot the answer back. “It’s only one of several hypotheses I surfaced for discussion with my team. Honestly, you’d think simple intellectual curiosity would make folks wait to see whether the theory is substantiated by fact before they get all in a twit.”

“You’d think,” Jack echoed solemnly.

Flushing a bit, she backpedaled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just getting tired of having to deal with outraged letters to the editor, picketers at the site, skittish team members and a nervous National Park Service director who’s close to pulling the plug on our funding.”

There they were again. The fire, the impatience. She hadn’t learned to bank, either. Jack found himself hoping she never did.

“And this hypothesis is based on what?” he asked, the evenness of his tone a contrast to hers. “Start at the beginning. Talk me through the sequence of events.”

“It would be better if I showed you.” She speared a glance at her watch. “It’s only a little past two. If you want, we can start here at the Alamo, then drive out to the site.”

“Good enough. Give me ten minutes.”

With the controlled, smooth grace that had always characterized him, he executed what Ellie could only describe as an about-face and passed through the connecting door. It closed behind him, leaving her staring at the panels.

The old cliché was true, she thought with a little ache. You can take a man out of the Marines, but you never quite took the Marine out of the man.

Like dust blown by the hot Texas wind, memories skittered through her mind. She could see Jack the night they’d met. She’d accompanied her aunt and uncle to a formal function at the American embassy. As head of the security detail, Gunnery Sergeant Carstairs had stood just behind the ambassador, square-shouldered, proud, confident. And so damned handsome in his dress blues that Elena hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him all evening.

She’d been the one to ask him to dance. She’d called him a few days later, inviting him to join her for a Sunday afternoon stroll through Chapultapec Park. She’d let him know in every way a woman could that she was attracted to him.

And that’s all it was. A sizzling, searing attraction.

At first.

How could she know she’d fall desperately in love with the man? That she’d find a passion in Jack’s arms she’d never come close to tasting before? That she’d swear to give up everything for him—her scholarship, her family, her pride—only to have him throw them all back in her face.

If she closed her eyes, she could replay their final scene in painful, brilliant color. Jack was already under house arrest. Her uncle’s overly protective, knee-jerk reaction to his niece’s affair had forced the U.S. ambassador to demand Sergeant Carstairs’s immediate reassignment and possible disciplinary action.

Steaming, Ellie had ignored her uncle’s stern orders to the contrary, marched to the marine barracks and demanded to see Jack. He’d come to the foyer, stiff and remote in his khaki shirt and blue trousers with the crimson stripe down each leg. With brutal honesty, he’d laid his feelings on the line.

Ellie still had a year of college and at least three years of grad school ahead of her. He was going home to face a possible court-martial and an uncertain future. He refused to make promises he might not be able to keep. Nor would he allow her put her future on hold for his.

He was so noble, Ellie had railed. So damned, stupidly obstinate. Traits he continued to demonstrate even after they both returned to the States.

Cringing inside, Ellie recalled the repeated attempts she’d made to contact Jack. He wouldn’t return her calls. Never answered her letters. Finally, her pride kicked in and she left a scathing message saying that he could damned well make the next move. He never did.

Now here they were, she thought, blowing out a long breath. Two completely different people. She’d fulfilled the early promise of a brilliant career in history. Jack, apparently, had bottomed out. Despite his extensive training and experience in personal security, he’d evidently drifted from one firm to another until going to work for some small-time operation in Virginia. Ellie wouldn’t have known he was in the bodyguard business if one of her colleagues hadn’t stumbled across his company on the Internet while preparing for a trip to Bogotá, Colombia, the kidnap capital of the universe.

It was guilt, only guilt, that had made her insist on Jack when her uncle urged her to accept the services of a bodyguard. She’d caused the ruin of his chosen career. Her own had exceeded all expectations. The least she could do was throw a little business his way.

From the looks of him, he could use it. She didn’t know what was considered the appropriate uniform for bodyguards, but her uncle’s security detail had always worn suits and ties and walked around talking into their wristwatches. She couldn’t remember seeing any of them in thigh-hugging jeans or wrinkled, blue-cotton shirts with the sleeves rolled up. Or, she thought with a small ache just under her ribs, black leather boots showing faint scuff marks.

More than anything else, those scratches brought home the vast difference between the spit-and-polish sergeant she’d once loved and the man in the other room. Her throat tight, Ellie turned to gather her purse and keys.

Jack flipped open the palm-size phone and punched a single key. One short beep indicated instant connection to OMEGA’s control center.

“Control, this is Renegade.”

OMEGA’s chief of communications responded with a cheerful, “Go ahead, Renegade.”

As little as a year ago, operatives at the headquarters stood by twenty-four hours a day to act as controllers for agents in the field. Mackenzie Blair’s improvements in field communications allowed for instant contact with headquarters and eliminated the need for controllers. Instead, Mackenzie and her communications techs monitored operations around the clock.

Mostly Mackenzie, Jack amended. The woman spent almost all her waking hours at OMEGA. She needed a life. Like Jack himself, he thought wryly.

“I’ve made contact with the subject.”

The terse report no doubt raised Mackenzie’s brows. After all, the background dossier she’d compiled had included a summation of Elena Maria Alazar’s affair with Sergeant Jack Carstairs.

“Tell Lightning I’m working the preliminary threat assessment. I’ll report back when I have a better feel for the situation.”

“Roger that, Renegade.”

After signing off, Jack slid the small, flat phone into his shirt pocket and hiked his foot up on a handy footstool. His movements were sure and smooth as he drew a blue steel short-barreled automatic from its ankle holster. He made sure the safety was on, released the magazine, checked the load and pushed the magazine back in place. A tug on the slide chambered a round. With the 9 mm tucked in its leather nest, he shook his pant leg over his boot and rapped on the door to Ellie’s room.

“Ready?”

Pulling on a ball cap in the same chili-pepper red as her top, she hooked a bag over her shoulder.

“Yes.”

Chapter 3

Outside, the July sun blazed down with cheerful brutality. Exiting the hotel, Ellie turned right toward Alamo Plaza. Jack walked beside her, his eyes narrowed against the glare as he scanned the crowd.

It included the usual assortment of vendors and tourists, with a heavy sprinkling of men and women in Air Force blue. They were basic trainees, released for a few precious hours from the nearby Lackland Air Force Base. With their buzz-cut hair and slick sleeves, they looked so young, so proud of their uniform. So unprepared for the crises that world events could plunge them into at any moment.

What they didn’t look like were riled-up patriots seeking vengeance on a historian who dared to question the courage of a local legend. Nonetheless, Jack didn’t relax his vigilance.

“What do you know about the Alamo?” Ellie asked as they approached the mission.

“Not much more than what I absorbed from the John Wayne movie of the same name.”

And in the data Mackenzie had pulled off the computers. Jack kept silent about the background file. Right now, he was more interested in Ellie’s version of the Alamo’s history.

“It’s one of a string of five missions located along the San Antonio River, founded in the early 1700s,” she informed him. “Originally designated Mission Antonio de Valero, it didn’t become known as the Alamo until much later.”

With a sweep of her arm, she gestured to the adobe structure dominating the wide plaza ahead.

“There it is. The shrine of Texas liberty.”

The distinctive building stirred an unexpected dart of pride in Jack. As a symbol of independence, its image had been seared into his consciousness. Of course, all those John Wayne movies might have had something to do with the sensation.

“Originally the mission compound sat by itself, well across the river from the settlement of San Antonio de Bexar,” Ellie related. “Now, of course, the city’s grown up all around it.”

They wove a path through sightseers snapping photo after photo. A red-faced, grossly overweight candidate for a stroke backed up to frame a shot, banging into several fellow tourists in the process. Swiftly, Jack took Ellie’s elbow to steer her around the obstacle.

Just as swiftly, he released her.

Well, hell! Here it was, going on nine years since he’d last touched this woman. Yet one glide of his fingers along her smooth, warm skin set off a chain reaction that started in his arm and ended about six inches below his belt.

For the first time since Lightning’s call some hours ago, Jack conceded maybe Eduardo Alazar had reason to be concerned. The fires weren’t out. Not entirely.

Jack had been so certain the embarrassment he’d caused Ellie and himself had doused any residual sparks. The sudden flare of heat in his gut screamed otherwise. Clenching his jaw against the unwelcome sensation, he tried to concentrate on Ellie’s recitation.

“A series of droughts and epidemics decimated the mission’s religious population,” she related. “In 1793 the structure was turned over to civil authorities. At that point, Spanish cavalry from Alamo de Parras in Mexico took occupancy, and the fort became known at the Pueblo del Alamo. When the Spanish were driven out of Mexico, Mexican troops moved in. About the same time, the Mexican government opened the province of Texas to foreign settlers.”

“Foreign meaning Americans?”

“Americans and anyone else who would put down roots and, hopefully, help stem attacks on settlements by the Commanches and Apaches. Given the proximity to the States, though, it’s only natural that most immigrants were Americans. Led by Stephen Austin, they flooded in and soon outnumbered the Mexican population five to one. It was only a matter of time until they decided they wanted out from under Mexican rule.”

“Those pesky Texans,” Jack drawled.

“Actually,” she replied with a smile, “they called themselves Texians then. Or Tejanos. But they were pretty pesky. Tensions escalated, particularly after General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna seized control of the Mexican government and abrogated the constitution. In the process, he also abrogated most of the rights of the troublesome immigrants. There were uprisings all over Mexico—and outright rebellion here in Texas.

“After several small skirmishes, the Americans declared their independence and sent a small force to seize the Alamo. When Santa Anna vowed to march his entire army north and crush the rebellion, the tiny garrison sent out a plea for reinforcements. William Travis, Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett, among others, answered the call.”

The names sounded like a roll call of America’s heroes. Jim Bowie, the reckless adventurer as quick with his wit as with his knife. Davy Crockett, legendary marksman and two-term member of Congress from Tennessee. William Barrett Travis, commander of the Texas militia who drew a line in the sand with his saber and asked every Alamo defender willing to stand to the end to cross it. Supposedly, all but one did so.

Those who did met the fate Ellie related in a historian’s dispassionate voice.

“When Santa Anna retook the Alamo in March, 1836, he executed every defender still alive and burned their bodies in mass funeral pyres. Or so the few non-combatants who survived reported.”

“But you think those reports are wrong.”

“I think there’s a possibility they may be.”

With that cautious reply, she led the way through the small door set in the massive wooden gates fronting the mission. Inside, thick adobe walls provided welcome relief from the heat. A smiling docent stepped forward to greet them.

“Welcome to the Alamo. This brochure will give you… Oh!” The smile fell right off her face. “It’s you, Dr. Alazar.”

“Yes, I’m back again.”

“Our museum director said you’d finished your research here.”

“I have. I’m playing tourist this afternoon and showing my, er, friend around.”

The docent’s glance darted from Ellie to Jack and back again. Suspicion carved a deep line between her brows. “Are you planning to take more digital photos?”

“No. I’ve taken all I need.”

“We heard those were stolen.”

“They were,” Ellie replied coolly. “Fortunately, I make it a practice to back up my work.”

The volunteer fanned her brochures with a snap. “Yes, well, I’ll let Dr. Smith know you’re here.”

“You’ve certainly made yourself popular around here,” Jack commented dryly.

“Tell me about it! The exhibits are this way.”

Exiting the church, they entered a long low building that had once served as the barracks and now housed a museum of Texas history. Ellie let Jack set the pace and read those exhibits that caught his interest.

They painted a chillingly realistic picture of the thirteen-day siege. There was Santa Anna’s army of more than twelve hundred. The pitiful inadequacy of the defending force, numbering just over a hundred. Travis’s repeated requests for reinforcements. The arrival of the Tennesseeans. The wild, last-minute dash by thirty-two volunteers from Goliad, Texas, through enemy lines. The final assault some hours before dawn on March sixth. The massacre of all defenders. The mass funeral pyres that consumed both Texan and Mexican dead. The pitiful handful of non-combatants who survived.

The original of Travis’s most famous appeal for assistance was preserved behind glass. Written the day after the Mexican army arrived in San Antonio, the letter still had the power to stir emotions.

Commander of the Alamo

Bexar, Fby 24th, 1836

To the People of Texas and All Americans in the World

Fellow Citizens & Compatriots

I am besieged by a thousand or more of the Mexicans under Santa Anna. I have sustained a continual bombardment & have not lost a man. The enemy has demanded a surrender at discretion, otherwise the garrison are to be put to the sword if the fort is taken. I have answered the demand with a cannon shot, and our flag still waves proudly on the walls. I shall never surrender nor retreat.

Then, I call on you in the name of Liberty, of patriotism, & of everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid with all dispatch. The enemy is receiving reinforcements daily & will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor & that of his country.

Victory or death

William Barrett Travis

Lt. Col. Comdt

P.S. The Lord is on our side. When the enemy appeared in sight, we had not three bushels of corn. We have since found in deserted houses 80 or 90 bushels & got into the walls 20 or 30 head of Beeves.

Travis.

“Whew!” Jack blew out a long breath. “No wonder the mere suggestion that this man didn’t die at the Alamo has riled so many folks. He certainly made his intentions plain enough.”

Nodding, Ellie trailed after him as he examined the exhibits and artifacts reported to belong to the defenders, among them sewing kits, tobacco pouches and handwoven horsehair bridles and lariats. A small, tattered Bible tugged at her heart. It was inscribed to one Josiah Kennett, whose miniature showed an unsmiling young man in the wide-brimmed sombrero favored by cowboys and vaqueros of the time. Silver conchos decorated the hatband, underscoring how closely Mexican and Tejano cultures had blended in the days before war wrenched them apart.

When Jack and Ellie emerged into a tree-shaded courtyard, the serene quiet gave no echo of the cannons that had once thundered from the surrounding walls. Tourists wandered past quietly, almost reverently.

“Okay,” Jack said, summarizing what he’d read inside. “Susanna Dickinson, wife of the fort’s artillery officer, said that Travis died on the north battery. Travis’s slave Joe said he saw the colonel go down after grappling with troops coming over the wall. They make a pretty convincing argument that William B. stuck to his word and died right here at the Alamo.”

“An argument I might buy,” Ellie agreed, “except that Susanna Dickinson hid in the chapel during the assault. After the battle, she reportedly saw the bodies of Crockett and Bowie, but never specifically indicated she saw Travis’s. She probably heard that he died on the ramparts from other sources.”

“What about Joe’s report?”

“Joe saw his master go down during the assault, then he, too, hid. Travis could have been wounded yet somehow survived. The only document that indicates his body was recovered and burned with the others is a translation of a report by Francisco Ruiz, San Antonio’s mayor at the time. Unfortunately, the translation appeared in 1860, years after the battle. The original has never been found, so there’s no way to verify its authenticity.”

She knew her stuff. There was no arguing that.

“On the other hand,” she continued, “rumors that some of the defenders escaped the massacre ran rampant for years. One held that Mexican forces captured Crockett some miles away and hauled him before Santa Anna, who had him summarily shot. There’s also a diary kept by a corporal in the Mexican army who claims he led a patrol sent out to hunt down fleeing Tejanos.”

Her eyes locked with Jack’s.

“Supposedly, his patrol fired at an escapee approximately five miles south of here, not far from Mission San Jose. The corporal was sure they hit the man, but they lost him in the dense underbrush along the river.”

“Let me guess. That’s the site you’re now excavating.”

“Right.”

It could have happened, Jack mused. He’d experienced the confusion and chaos of battle. He knew how garbled reports could become, how often even the most reliable intelligence proved wrong.

Still, as they moved toward the building that housed a special exhibit of weaponry used at the Alamo, he found himself hoping the theory didn’t hold water. A part of him wanted to believe the legend—that William Barrett Travis had drawn that line in the sand, then heroically fought to the death alongside Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie and the others. Texas deserved its heroes.

The museum director evidently agreed. Short, rotund, his wire-rimmed glasses fogging in the steamy heat, he stood in front of the door to the exhibit with legs spread and arms folded and greeted Ellie with a curt nod. “Dr. Alazar.”

“Dr. Smith.”

“Were you wishing access to those artifacts not on public display?”

“Yes, there’s one rifle in particular I want to show my, er, associate.”

Jack flicked her an amused glance. Obviously, Ellie wasn’t ready to admit she’d been intimidated into acquiescing to a bodyguard.

“I’m sorry,” the director replied with patent insincerity. “I must insist that you put all such requests in writing from now on.”

Ellie’s eyes flashed. Evidently Smith had just drawn his own line in the sand.

“I’ll do that,” she snapped. “I’ll also apprise my colleagues in this and future endeavors of your generous spirit of cooperation.”

She left him standing guard at his post. Jack followed, shaking his head. Elena Maria Alazar might be one of the foremost experts in her field, but she wouldn’t win a whole lot of prizes for tact or diplomacy.

“Damn Smith, anyway,” she muttered, still fuming. “I suspect he’s the one who raised such a stink with the media. He seems to think I’m attacking him personally by questioning his research.”

It sounded to Jack as though the man might have a point there. Wisely, he kept silent and made a mental note to have Mackenzie run a background check on the museum director.

“I’ll show you the images of that shotgun later,” Ellie said as they retraced their steps.

“Why is that particular weapon so significant?”

“It’s a double-barreled shotgun, reportedly recovered after the battle. Records indicate William Travis owned just such a weapon, or one similar to it. It’s almost identical to the one we recovered at the dig.”

Tugging her ball cap lower on her brow to shield her eyes against the blazing sun, she wove a path through the milling crowd outside the Alamo and made for the elaborate, wrought-iron façade of the Menger.

“I wish I could convince Smith that I’m still wide open to all possible theories. And that I have no intention of caving in to threats, obscene phone calls or petty nuisances like putting my requests for access to historical artifacts in writing.”

Her mouth set, she rummaged around in her shoulder bag, dug out a parking receipt and approached the parking valet.

“Why don’t I drive?” Jack said easily, passing the attendant his receipt instead. “I want to get the lay of the land.”

He also wanted to make sure someone skilled in defensive driving techniques was at the wheel whenever Ellie traveled.

She didn’t argue. When the Cherokee came down the ramp, its tires screeching at the tight turns, she tossed her bag into the back and slid into passenger seat. The ball cap came off. With a grateful sigh for the chilled air blasting out of the vents, she swiped the damp tendrils off her forehead.

“Which way?” Jack asked.

“Take a left, go past the Alamo Dome, then follow the signs for Mission Trail.”

Propping her neck against the headrest, Ellie stared straight ahead. For the second time in as many hours, Jack sensed the accumulated stress that kept the woman beside him coiled as tight as a cobra.

“Tell me about these obscene phone calls. How many have you received?”

“Five or six.” Her nose wrinkled. “They were short and crude. Mostly suggestions on where I could stick my theories. One of the callers was female, by the way, which surprised the heck out of me.”

Nothing surprised Jack any more. “Did the police run traces?”

“They tried. But the calls came through the hotel switchboard, and there’s something about the routing system that precluded a trace.”

Jack would fix that as soon as they returned. The electronic bag of tricks Mackenzie had assembled for this mission included a highly sophisticated and not exactly legal device that glommed onto a digital signal and wouldn’t let go.

“See that sign?” Ellie pointed to a historical marker in the shape of a Spanish mission. “This is where we pick up Mission Trail. You need to hang a left here.”

“Got it.”

Flicking on his directional signal, Jack turned left. A half mile later, he made a right. That was when he noticed the dusty black SUV. The Ford Expedition remained three cars back, never more, never less, making every turn Jack did. Frowning, he navigated the busy city streets for another few blocks before spinning the steering wheel. The Cherokee’s tires squealed as he cut a sharp left across two lanes of oncoming traffic.

“Hey!” Ellie made a grab for the handle just above her window. “Did I miss a sign?”

“No.”

He flicked a glance in the rearview mirror. The SUV waited until one oncoming vehicle whizzed passed, dodged a second and followed.

Ellie had figured out something was wrong. Craning her neck, she peered at the traffic behind them while Jack whipped around another corner. When the SUV followed some moments later, he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and punched a single button.

“Control, this is Renegade.”

“Renegade?”

Ignoring Ellie’s startled echo, Jack waited for a response. Mackenzie came on a moment later.

“Control here. Go ahead.”

“I’m traveling west on…” He squinted at the street sign that whizzed by. “On Alameda Street in south San Antonio. There’s a black Expedition following approximately fifty meters behind. I need you to put a satellite on him before I shake him.”

“Roger, Renegade. I’ll vector off your signal.”

“Let me know when you’ve got the lock.”

“Give me ten seconds.”

Jack did a mental count and got down to three before Mackenzie came on the radio.

“Okay, I see you. I’m panning back… There he is. Black Expedition. Now I just have to sharpen the image a little…” A moment later, she gave a hum of satisfaction. “He’s tagged. I’m feeding the license plate number into the computer as we speak. How long do you want me to maintain the satellite lock?”

“Follow him all the way home. And let me know as soon as you get an ID.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, Mac.”

“Anytime,” OMEGA’s communications chief answered breezily.

Jack snapped the transceiver shut and slipped it into his shirt pocket. A quick glance at Ellie showed her staring at him in astonishment.

“Your company has a satellite at their disposal?”

“Several. Hang tight, I’m going to lose this joker.”

Jack could see the questions in her eyes but didn’t have time for answers right now. The first rule in personal protective services was to remove the pro-tectee from any potentially dangerous situation. He didn’t know who was behind the wheel of the SUV or what his intentions were. He sure as hell wasn’t about to find out with Ellie in the car.

Stomping down on the accelerator, he took the next intersection on two wheels. Ellie gulped and scrunched down in her seat. Jack shot a look in the rearview mirror and watched the larger, heavier Expedition lurch around the corner.

Two turns later, they’d left the main downtown area and had entered an industrial area crisscrossed by railroad tracks. Brick warehouses crowded either side of the street, their windows staring down like unseeing eyes. Once again, Jack put his boot to the floor. The Cherokee rocketed forward, flew over a set of tracks and sailed into an intersection just as a semi bearing the logo of Alamo City Fruits and Vegetables swung wide across the same crossing.

“Look out!”

Shrieking, Ellie braced both hands on the dash. Her boots slammed against the floorboards.

Jack spun the wheel right, then left and finessed the Cherokee past the truck with less than an inch or two to spare. Smiling in grim satisfaction, he hit the accelerator again.

The bulkier Expedition couldn’t squeeze through. Behind him, they heard the squeal of brakes followed by the screech of metal scraping metal. Still smiling grimly, Jack made another turn. A few minutes later, he picked up Mission Trail again, but this time he headed into the city instead of out.

“We’d better put off our visit to the site until tomorrow,” he told Ellie. “By then I should have a better idea of who or what we’re dealing with.”

“Fine by me,” she replied, wiggling upright in her seat.

Actually, it was more than fine. After that wild ride, her nerves jumped like grasshoppers on hot asphalt, and her kidneys were signaling a pressing need to find the closest bathroom.

Jack, on the other hand, didn’t look the least flustered. He gripped the steering wheel loosely, resting one arm on the console between the bucket seats, and divided his attention between the road ahead and the traffic behind. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses, but not so much as a bead of nervous sweat had popped out on his forehead.

“Do you do these kinds of high-speed races often in your line of work?” she asked.

“Often enough.”

“And you’ve been in the same business since you left the Corps?”

“More or less.”

“How do you handle the stress?”

He flashed her a grin that reminded her so much of the man she’d once known that Ellie gulped.

“I’ll show you when we get back to the hotel.”

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