Clean Kill

“Look, guys. We have gone through your job offers before and my answer has never changed. I love you both, but I’m a gunnery sergeant in the Corps, not a businessman. I don’t have a college degree and, anyway, I’m American, not British.”

Pat batted away the protests with a flip of her fingers. “Kyle, the university degree is meaningless compared to your life experience and your loyalty. Our lawyers tell us the nationality makes no difference, because we are an international company.”

Swanson wanted to shout that he was a killer, not an accountant, but they both already knew that. He had spent a long military career weighing battlefield options in emergency situations, believing there was always hope, always a way out, always something that he could do to tilt a situation in his favor. This time, there was nothing at all he could do except rely upon the skills of the surgeons to bring Jeff through safely. Rejecting the offer outright might demoralize this man who meant so much to him.

Jeff managed another hand squeeze. “For now, you stay in the Marines and remain our best friend. When the time comes, that position will be waiting for you. Generals and admirals go to work for defense contractors all the time, Kyle, and most of them work out their deals unofficially before they retire from the military. So why can’t a gunnery sergeant do the same?”

Pat fussed over her husband for a minute until she was certain that he was not exerting himself too much. All of the monitors read normal numbers and lines. She continued the discussion. “Excalibur posted a 34.1 percent growth last year with more than $300 million in sales, and we have a work force of about 500 people. To keep growing, we need to bring in capital for expansion. We will offer ten million shares at ten dollars a share. The underwriters think it will rise to at least forty a share after the initial price offering and will double that in five years.”

Lady Pat winked. “You didn’t think this old girl knew about all of this business stuff, did you? Your compensation on being appointed would be a hundred thousand shares of Excalibur stock, enough to make certain that the two of us maintain the controlling interest on the board. You’re going to be a rich man, Kyle.”

Swanson was stunned. Damn, those were a lot of zeroes. He wanted to run from the room and get away from this hobbling sense of obligation. He chose to temporize. If he agreed, it would take a big worry off Jeff’s mind as he prepared for the delicate head surgery. If the worst happened, Kyle did not have to join Excalibur until he retired from the Marines, and by then he might figure out something or Pat might let him out of the deal.

Something could be worked out and Pat would come out of it all fabulously wealthy. It could all be fixed. He just could not go negative now and let an argument tear at Jeff’s strength.

He gave a reassuring smile. “Okay. If that’s what you want, I will give it my best. I mean, how bad can it be to be filthy rich?” He hated himself for lying.

“A THOUSAND PARDONS,” SAID a deep voice behind them. “Lady Patricia, Sir Geoffrey, I am so pleased that you did not suffer further harm on my account. These attacks! They never seem to stop!” Prince Abdullah was standing nearby, in total control of himself. He extended his hand to Kyle.

“My thanks to you, sir. I have seldom witnessed such courage as shown by you and Major Summers. You saved us all.”

Lady Pat made the introduction. “Mister Ambassador, let me present Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson of the U.S. Marines. Kyle, this is Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia, the kingdom’s ambassador in Washington.”

Kyle stood and shook the offered hand, surprised to find a muscular grip that was not the sign of a gym rat. “I’m glad we were able to be in the right place at the right time,” he said.

“I understand that you two also dealt with a suicide bomber in a truck downstairs.”

Kyle shrugged. Something was there behind those dark eyes.

“My country is in your debt, Gunny Swanson, and you have my gratitude. If ever I can be of assistance, please call on me.”

“Thank you, sir.” Swanson remained polite. The prince had used the term “Gunny” without hesitation. A civilian would not automatically make that slang connection. So was this dandy also a soldier?

Abdullah turned to the others. “Now, I have interrupted your reunion long enough. I am preparing to fly back to Washington immediately. The kingdom has been thrown into great turmoil and I need to be at my post. Sir Geoffrey, we are all wishing you well tomorrow, and I am confident that you will be recovering quickly. It will take more than a bash on the head to slow down such a warrior as you. Your efforts to broker peace eventually will be successful. We are determined to make it happen. Lady Pat, you put on the most unusual parties.” He took her hand and kissed it, then shook hands with Delara. When he walked away, trailed by his son, his stride was one of confidence. The ruling family of Saudi Arabia would not give way easily to terrorists and plotters.

“Interesting guy,” Kyle said. “He does that diplomatic tap-dance pretty well.”

“He is sort of a mystery to most of us,” Pat said. “He has a hard core in there somewhere. Like when he took the little pistol to be our final guard. He did it without hesitation and I have no doubt he would have faced death without flinching.”

Kyle felt Jeff touch his hand again. The eyes were closing because a nurse had increased the sedation flowing through the tubes. He was about to go back to sleep, but wanted to say something first. Kyle leaned close. “What is it?”

“Don’t trust him…” Jeff managed to say, the words fading. The hand squeezed weakly, urgently. The next words could barely be heard. “They…have…nukes!”

17

DELARA TABRIZI CAME AWAKE in the big, soft bed with the covers pulled to her chin as if someone had tucked her in. Kyle. Where is he?

It was after midnight and they had been together since leaving the clinic some six hours earlier. Delara stretched, letting her fingers touch the wooden headboard as she relished their urgent, hungry rush to sex, their clothes flying off almost by the time the door was closed. They had not seen each other for weeks and the extreme emotional situation that had brought them back together only heightened their needs. The first time wasn’t making love, it was just a confirmation that they were both still alive and in each other’s arms. The second time took a lot longer. She had fallen asleep wrapped in his arms, her dark hair spread on his chest.

She pushed away the covers and wrapped herself in the dark blue terry-cloth bathrobe furnished by the hotel. A nightlight in the small kitchen of the hotel suite glowed a dull orange and she moved toward it soundlessly, her bare feet on deep, plush carpet and then onto chilly tile. Nobody there. She went into the darkened living room and found him standing before the big windows, staring out into the thick fog. His face was a grim mask, his eyes fixed out on the water, the chest rising and falling with heavy breaths and his fists clenched at his side. The muscles of his naked body were as taut as cables.

Delara stopped and pulled the robe tight around her body, realizing that her lover was dreaming, almost fighting, and still sound asleep.

K YLE S WANSON STOOD BESIDE a broad, swift-flowing river wearing full combat gear, from boots to helmet, and cradling his custom-made Excalibur sniper rifle in his arms. The Colt.45 rested in a holster at his waist and a large Ka-Bar combat knife with a razor’s edge and some grenades hung from his vest. His feet were apart but only as wide as his shoulders, giving him perfect balance. He watched with an intense alertness as the small boat approached, emerging from a rough cloud of dark ash that swirled over the water’s surface.