Chapter 29
“You can’t “Throw me to the wolves” – They come when I call.” ~Holly Knight
Axel
Done talking to the man behind the wheel, Rhonda plops down in the seat behind us, opens her vest, and grabs a nutrient bar. “Might as well relax. The embassy’s over an hour away.”
“Perfect.” Gwen nestles into my chest, closes her eyes, and within minutes, snores lightly.
After I adjust my arm for her comfort, I breathe in her scent, shocked at how fast my cock turns to steel. All I want to do is find a bedroom and make love deep inside her until she understands how much she means to me.
We drive past hundreds of nondescript white and gray multi-level rectangular buildings with rows of windows. Some of the taller ones have tiny balconies. Around these depressing residences, lie precisely-cut grass areas. Further into the city, we stop at a red light. On the sidewalk to my right, bent bodies carry heavy shopping bags by the handles and shuffle across the street.
Our bus slows at a gatehouse situated alongside six-foot graffiti-covered cement walls. Inside, I’m reminded of Oz. Although no purple horses can be found, the courtyard contains colorfully dressed people talking and laughing while rushing between edifices.
“Gwen, wake up.” I tickle her side, her lashes flutter open, and when her gaze meets mine, I kiss her soft lips.
As I picture all the positions of the Kama Sutra, our vehicle lurches to a stop in front of a stone, red-tiled mansion fronted by a trio of Roman columns. A US Marine confiscates our weapons and assures us that all will be returned once we have debriefed.
“No fucking way.” When Trever tugs on his tablet and refuses to let go, the rest of us come to his aid. The intel on his computer could send us to Guantanamo for several lifetimes.
We’re about to be arrested, or shot, or both, when a bald man wearing a designer suit races down the marble steps. “You will allow him to pass.”
“I have my orders, Mr. Ambassador.” The dignitary’s imperial hand shoves a piece of paper at the marine who reads it, pales, and allows us to proceed.
Then, single-file, flanked by soldiers, our small army follows the well-dressed man through a side door. Our footsteps echo on the parquet flooring as we trot past gilded frames containing quality portraits and landscapes. An occasional oak door tells of the true nature of the otherwise museum-like fa?ade.
After climbing to the third floor, we enter a modern conference room. A middle-aged man in a drab suit introduces himself as Mr. Smith. Judging from his name and how his eyes size up our group, I’m guessing he’s CIA.
The envoy who met us at the door insists we call him, Peter.
“Ms. Jane Worthington, Europol.” After shaking hands, a pin-striped, gray-haired woman crosses her arms, and scowls.
Once introductions are finished, we all sit except for the five SEALS. As they lean against the dark paneling, the lights dim, and a Zoom screen pops up on the wall.
My supervisor, Kaplan, scowls in the top right corner. His face says it all. If I’m lucky, I’ll be writing my resume. Otherwise, me and my team could be facing charges.
Suds snickers behind me. “Y’all know how to throw a party. Where’s the peanuts and beer?”
He and his Patten pals can afford to laugh. Their jobs are not in jeopardy. At the end of this soiree, the rest of us could be out on our asses.
I can’t let that happen and stand. “Before this meeting begins, I would like to take full responsibility for-”
“Stop right there.” The vice president’s image pops up and fills the screen. “Nothing happened today. Are we clear?”
Well, this is an unexpected turn of events. “Yes sir.”
Sitting, I squeeze my wife’s hand under the table. Perhaps, because of her RF work, those in power do not want our actions scrutinized.
The ambassador’s assistant, a bird-like Mr. Fromm, enters the room and shuffles out stapled briefings. “Please read the printout. You will find copies in your inbox. Not signing is not an option.”
As I speed through the pages, my jaw drops. According to this official document, my wife had been on loan, helping the Lithuanians fend off Russian Cyberattacks. During the weekend, she took a hike, wandered into Belarus, and was taken custody. The American government negotiated for her release. The end.”
Gwen frowns and turns to me. “This makes me look dumb.”
Despite the seriousness, I chuckle and nudge her knee. “Shush and sign.”
“Well, it does.” Because she uses her outside voice, the room’s mic crackles.
“Is there a problem, Dr. Wulf?” My boss pops up in the center of the celebrity squares.
Seeing how my spouse is about to blow a gasket, I answer for her. “No sir.”
Then, I sign my John Hancock, and hand my pen to her. “My wife was remarking on the graciousness of the offer. Weren’t you, dear?”
“Mmm.” Thank God, her claws retract, and she signs.
While Fromm collects our papers, Peter points to the door. “If you please, everyone out, except for Mr. Slate, theWulfs, and Mr. Smith.”
With the room mostly empty, I swallow hard and wait for the proverbial other shoe to drop.
Faces begin to disappear from the screen, including, to my surprise, Kaplan. Only Vice President Goode, Admiral Drake, and FBI Director Quail remain.
The military man on the wall clears his throat. “Dr. Wulf, please summarize how you just happened to wander into the most guarded research facility in Europe.”
“I might suggest, you download this program first.” She types a URL and a username into the chat window. “When you’re ready, I’ll send you the password via encrypted SMS.”
Mr. Smith, who has said nothing up to now, hands her a phone.
Seconds pass, then the VP’s eyes widen. “Hold on. Someone, get us a more secure connection.”
The images on the wall disappear, and Gwen grins. “That’ll teach them to treat me like an idiot.”
Soon, three new squares appear. Two have logos in the background of the largest tech companies on the planet.
The youngest, a guy in his early twenties in a Yankees ballcap, has a raspy, yet high tenor voice. “Yes. It’s real.”
A fortyish woman with a red jewel above the bridge of her nose tilts her head. “On the surface, it does appear to be a GPS spoofing application. More time will be needed to authenticate it.”
“Oh, it works.” My brilliant spouse nods emphatically. “Check six-oh-five this morning over the Belarus-Lithuania border.”
“That was you? You downed over half the globe!” The admiral’s jowls wiggle and the furry white caterpillars over his clear blue eyes raise.
“You’re welcome.” Gwen’s face is bruised, deep circles line her eyes, and she’s got leaves in her hair. To me, she has never been more beautiful.
I hide my snicker behind my hands. Jesus, she is glorious.
Mr. Smith reaches into his jacket pocket and unfolds a map. “Where is this research facility?”
Slate stands, snatches the paper, studies it, and then points. “The runway is here, the villa here, the bunker there.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen and ladies.” As he swivels toward the door, Gwen grabs his arm. “There was a kid. Said his name was Ghost. He helped me escape. Cut him some slack?”
“No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.” With a curt nod, he disappears.
I assume he’s in a hurry to clean up the mess we made.
Once he leaves, more squares pop up, and techies shoot off questions. After she answers a couple dozen, I’ve had quite enough and stand. “Pardon me. I don’t mean to be rude, but my wife is done talking until she’s been fed, had time to shower, and had her injuries attended to by a doctor.”
What I don’t add is sex because frankly, it’s none of their damn business.