скачать книгу бесплатно
The Prime Objective
Ginna Gray
Praise for the novels of
GINNA GRAY
“Jealousy, treachery and characters one loves to hate…Gray cleverly weaves unexpected twists and turns into the narrative…. This page-turner from a seasoned romance novelist boils down to deliciously wicked brain candy.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Prodigal Daughter
“[Gray] gifts readers with a well-crafted mix of intriguing suspense and provocative romance.”
—Rendezvous
“Ginna Gray…is the perfect prescription for readers desiring strong-willed characters, emotional depth and fiery ardor.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“It’s a real pleasure to watch how cleverly Gray brings these wonderfully well-drawn characters together in this pleasurable read.”
—Booklist on The Trophy Wife
“Ginna Gray always delivers an emotionally poignant love story that is a keeper.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Ms. Gray is one of the most consistently excellent writers in the genre today.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
GINNA GRAY
The Prime Objective
Many thanks to Patricia Smith, the editor (and friend) who bought my first book all those years ago, launching my writing career. I also want to thank my agent of twenty years, Denise Marcil. She has been my champion, mentor and friend every step of this long journey, and I will forever be grateful for her unfailing encouragement and support.
And of course, as always, I dedicate this book to my husband, Brad—the love of my life, my best friend, my rock.
Contents
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
One
He blended into the night like smoke.
His movements were nothing more than subtle ripples in the darkness. The only sound was the soft hiss of his breathing through the black ski mask.
After testing the strength of the utility pole bolted to the flat roof, Jackson Prime pulled a rope from the canvas bag slung across his chest and secured it to the metal upright. He gave the rigging a hard tug, then another. Satisfied, he moved to the roof’s edge and settled down to wait.
Through the slits in the ski mask, Jack’s piercing blue eyes fixed on the entrance to the shabby apartment building, four floors below where he knelt.
The open-air markets and shops were closed, and the bustle of the day had faded with the coming of night. Only a few groups of men, some dressed in robes, others in Western garb, strolled along the narrow streets. Few vehicles moved.
It was early yet—only a little after seven. The fierce cold of winter had set in, but the building on which he stood and the others all around still held a vestige of heat from the sun. He could feel the warmth wafting up around him, along with the sharp smells of cooling stucco, tar and dust from the surface of the roof.
A block or so away a dog barked. As customers came and went male voices spilled from the cafés and coffee-house and floated to him on the night air. Against the dark sky he could make out the faint silhouettes of three mosques rising above the low skyline of the town.
Time drifted by slowly, yet except for his gaze constantly sweeping the street below, Jack remained still. If matters were running true to form, the four men would be leaving for dinner soon.
Beneath the ski mask Jack’s mouth twitched. People were such creatures of habit. Even those who thought they were exercising extreme caution.
After almost a half hour his patience paid off. Four men exited the building and cut across the street, talking among themselves, their heads swiveling the whole time, checking out the street around them. Not once did one of them look up.
The quartet disappeared around the nearest corner. Jack waited, just in case one of them forgot something and decided to double back for it. After five minutes he grabbed the rope and went over the side.
It took him only seconds to rappel down to the third-floor balcony. Soundlessly, he slipped over the railing, secured his line, then knelt and went to work on the lock with a narrow pick. A sharp click, and he was inside the apartment.
He didn’t have much time. He’d watched the subjects for weeks and learned that they were never gone longer than a half hour. Moving through the darkened apartment on cat feet, he worked with quick efficiency. Even so, it took him a little over twenty minutes to conceal the listening devices throughout the three rooms. He was installing the last bug when he heard footsteps on the stairs and murmured conversation.
Jack’s nerves jumped, but he continued to work at a calm, steady pace. The instant he completed the job, he stood, hefted his canvas bag and slung it over his head and shoulder across his body. On his way to the door he made a visual sweep of the room to be sure he hadn’t left any signs of his visit—nothing out of place, nothing left behind that shouldn’t be.
A key clicked in the lock. Jack slipped out onto the balcony, grabbed his rope and swung over the iron railing as a light came on inside the apartment. With his feet braced against the side of the building he pulled himself up, hand-over-hand.
The instant Jack gained the roof and untied his rappelling line, he coiled the rope around his bent elbow and hand, stuffed it into his bag and took off across the rooftops.
As fast as possible, he put distance between himself and the apartment building. Nearly a block away, he stepped off the roof of a one-story structure onto a lean-to shed at the back and jumped down into the alley.
The instant his feet touched the ground he whipped off his ski mask and stuffed it into the canvas bag. Running his fingers through his flattened hair he made his way to the alley entrance and peered around the corner.
A half a block down the street three robed men walked in the general direction of his hotel. Jack stepped out onto the sidewalk and fell in step behind them, careful to keep his pace casual and maintain the distance between himself and the men.
One of the trio glanced back over his shoulder and spotted him. He nudged the man nearest him and murmured something. The other two looked back, as well.
Jack pulled out his cell phone and pretended to become immersed in a conversation as he strolled along.
The men’s murmuring began again, this time punctuated by hand gestures.
After a few blocks they turned a corner onto a street that headed into a residential area. Jack pretended unconcern, but in his business it paid to expect the worst. Just in case the three were waiting to waylay him, as he approached the corner he slipped his hand inside his bag and wrapped his fingers around the Walther PPK pistol that lay in the bottom.
Luck was with him. He reached the side street and found that the men were halfway down the block, still talking among themselves.
When he was certain that he wasn’t being followed, Jack thumbed a number on his cell phone. The call was answered on the first ring.
“Yeah?”
“Are we working?”
“Like a charm.”
“Good. I’ll report in. Then I’m going to get some shut-eye. I’ll relieve one of you guys in the morning.”
Jack disconnected, looked around again, then punched in another number. This time there was a series of clicks and buzzes as the secure call made a convoluted route around the globe and was scrambled. Finally the connection was completed, and again, the person on the other end picked up on the first ring.
“Yes?” a throaty feminine voice queried.
Ah, hell, Jack thought, a weary half smile twitching his mouth. Annie Smith had the sexiest damned telephone voice. Whenever he heard those husky tones, thanks to his starved libido, his mind immediately conjured up visions of cool sheets and hot, sweaty sex.
Annie had been his contact on other assignments in the past, and on this job he’d been reporting through her for the last five weeks. He’d never met Annie personally, but he’d heard that she was in her late fifties, gray-haired, on the chunky side and had penchants for crocheting and soap operas.
“It’s Jack. Clearance number 78C19344LZ622. Operation Rabbit Hole,” he rattled off. “We’re in.”
“Any problems?”
“None. Smooth as glass.”
“Great. I’ll pass the word along.”
“Be sure and advise that activity has increased. Something is definitely brewing. We should know soon. I’ll keep you informed.”
Jack could see the lights of his hotel ahead—the only thing close to a western-style establishment of its kind in town. Reporters from all over the globe stayed there, and since his cover was that of a photojournalist he did, as well. He picked up his pace.
He longed for a hot shower, but he’d have to settle for a soak in the ancient tub down the hall from his tiny room. No matter. Already, just thinking about sinking into a deep tub of hot bathwater, he could feel his strained muscles beginning to ease.
“Anything else?” Annie asked.
“Naw. Now we wait.” And listen, he added, but only in his mind. Not even on a scrambled line would he or any other agent say anything that might remotely tip off the other side as to what they were doing.
“You got anything for me?” he tacked on almost as an afterthought.
Annie’s pause lasted only a second, but little got past Jack, not even as weary as he was at that moment. Fatigue dropped away like a stone, and his attention sharpened. “What is it?”
“Um…nothing earth-shattering. I’m sure it can wait until you’re not so busy.”
“Tell me,” he demanded.
“It’s just a personal message for you that was passed on earlier this morning.”
“Personal?” Jack repeated, puzzled. Since he no longer had any close family and none of his friends knew how to get in touch when he was on assignment he couldn’t imagine who would be leaving him a message. “From whom?”
Annie paused again. He could almost see her biting her lower lip. “Kate Mahaffey.”
Jack stopped in his tracks less than twenty feet from the entrance to the hotel. “My ex-wife left a message for me and you didn’t think it was important enough to pass on?” he said in a dangerously quiet voice. “Why the hell didn’t you contact me the moment it came in?”
“The operative word is ex, Jack. I have to use my judgment in these matters. You’re in the middle of a critical mission. I figured hearing from the woman who dumped you could only upset you and interfere with your concentration.”
“You let me worry about my concentration. Now give me the message.”
“Jack—”
“Now.”
Annie sighed. “Oh, all right. It says—‘I need your help. If you can return in the next day or two, I’ll be at Tralee.’ There, you see? That doesn’t sound so urgent.”
Maybe not to Annie, Jack thought. But that was only because she didn’t know Kate. For his independent, self-assured ex-wife to ask for help at all—especially his help—meant something was terribly wrong.
“I want you to get me on the next government plane out of here,” he instructed without hesitation.
“What! Absolutely not. You can’t leave in the middle of an assignment!”
“The hell I can’t. I’ve got months of personal time built up. I’m taking an extended, indefinite leave, starting now.”
“C’mon, Jack, be reasonable. She probably just wants you to help her move or something like that. Or maybe to sign some more legal papers.”
The last comment was a not-so-subtle reminder that Kate had served him with divorce papers while he’d been in the middle of the most crucial assignment of his career.
