"Jingle bells. Jingle bells. Jingle all the waa-aay โ"
Singing along with the radio, Captain Maggie Holt hit a
pothole in the dirt path leading to her office. Her right
front tire dropped a solid six inches, jolting her,
jarring her teeth. "Damn."
The red Jeep absorbed the shock without a groan, but her
morning's first cup of coffee splashed all over the
dashboard and passenger seat. The cup hit the side of the
door and fell to the floorboard, a casualty of the daily
war to get to the middle-of-nowhere shack without
suffering bodily injury.
Maggie grimaced, just about sick of this. Her fellow
operative, Darcy Clark, had trashed a set of shocks on
Wilderness Trail, as they'd come to call the overgrown
path, just a few days ago. What was it going to take for
the commander, Colonel Sally Drake, to insist someone fix
the sorry excuse for a road?
Irritated, Maggie smoothed at a soaked spot on her pale-
blue uniform shirt and cranked up the radio, sifting
through the lyrics to catch up to the tune. Tapping the
gas, she moved through the woods, down the narrow ruts
lined with hurricane-twisted pines and thick, spiky
underbrush.
"In a one horse open sleigh. Hey!" She sang along and slid
a glance to the Christmas ornament on the passenger's seat
beside her. Everyone in the S.A.S.S. โ Secret Assignment
Security Specialists โ unit celebrated Christmas and had
to put an ornament on the tree no later than today.
Colonel Drake's orders. She'd checked and none of the
unit's operatives had taken time out from work to put up a
tree at home this year. Hell, some hadn't even made it
home in the better part of a week. The tree was the
colonel's attempt at keeping everyone grounded in life as
well as in work. Not likely to happen, in Maggie's humble
opinion, but an endearing goal regardless.
The sparkling silver star was coffee-soaked but unbroken.
Soaked would dry and unbroken was a good thing, because
Maggie was damned if she was going back to Santa Bella
Mall again for anything until after New Year's. It'd taken
fifteen minutes to find a parking spot, ten to get inside
and pick out the ornament and yet another fifteen minutes
to pay for the thing and get out again. She figured that,
before leaving the store's parking lot, she had more time
invested in the freaking ornament than she'd spent with
her ex-husband Jack in the last week of their marriage.
And wasn't that a shameful truth to have to admit? Letting
go of the steering wheel, she checked her hand.
The imprint of the spiky star and her wedding band were
still there. She'd divorced Jack's sorry ass three years
ago, but she still wore the wedding band most of the time.
It kept rodents at a distance โ and it reminded her that
she hadn't been blameless in the destruction and demise of
her marriage. Equally important, seeing the ring on her
finger reminded her why, as long as she remained an
operative, having a relationship was about as smart as
Jack's recent intermittent attempts to drink himself to
death.
Tapping the remote clipped to her visor, she blew past the
first gate, glimpsing signs posted on the fence every
eight feet: Use Of Deadly Force Authorized.
She and the other S.A.S.S. operatives stationed here were
the deadly force.
A mile in, Maggie came to the second wire fence. This one
was topped with razor wire so sharp it'd cut soda cans
tossed at it. A speaker was attached to the gatepost.
Inside was an artillery battery; dormant but maintained
and ready to be used if needed.
She tapped the remote and the brakes, stopped and waited
for the gate to swing open. The remote didn't have the
range here that it had at the first gate, and the gate
itself was slower to open. There was a specific purpose
for that. Whoever was manning the monitors inside the
S.A.S.S. bunker could take a look at who was coming in and
have sufficient time to react.
Maggie waved at the surveillance camera and then drove on
inside, whipping down the weedy trail to the shack. She
parked in her normal spot, next to Kate's yellow Hummer.
Colonel Drake and the Providence Air Force Base commander,
Colonel Donald Gray, were still neck-deep in a pissing
contest over authority, and he assigned everyone their
offices. So Gray had strutted his stuff and dumped the
S.A.S.S. unit out in the middle of an abandoned bombing
range twenty miles north of the Florida base. For an
office, they had a shack. For water, a well. For
electricity... There was no electricity.
It had been impossible to handle S.A.S.S. operations out
of the shack, which had more holes than roof and walls.
And it would've been hell for the unit to actually
function out of the trailer parked out back, which was
where Colonel Gray believed the unit had set up operations.
Gleeful at their primitive conditions, he had been
generous and given them a generator. Not one that actually
had the capacity to run their equipment, of course. He
wanted Colonel Drake โ and anyone who worked for her โ to
suffer because she'd beat him out in a head-to-head
competition for the S.A.S.S. command job. But neither
Colonel Drake nor the unit operatives complained to the
honchos higher up in the chain of command to intercede.
The operatives took on this challenge just as they did any
other and focused on a solution.
Captain Mark Cross had been instrumental in the entire
process. He'd used his money โ rumor was he had a lot of
it and he must, considering the palace he'd provided them โ
and his talent to build the S.A.S.S. unit an underground
bunker. A top-notch, technologically advanced, freaking
fabulous bunker with impressive offices twice as nice as
any of those assigned to the Pentagon honchos, Maggie
thought.
Maggie slid out of the Jeep into the brisk air and stepped
over to the shack. A hand-carved wooden sign hung above
the door and read Regret. Mark had carved it as a reminder
to all who entered. If Gray thought he'd won by sticking
the unit in a primitive hellhole, he'd regret it.
Across the board, everyone with access to the bunker
conceded that Colonel Gray had seriously lost the office-
space battle in the Gray/Drake pissing contest.
Gray thought he'd won โ luckily he didn't inspect very
often.
Inside the falling-down shack, thin rays of sunlight
filtered through the cracks and spilled onto the dirt
floor. Maggie stepped to the right and pressed a board
that looked more gray and aged than those around it. A
split door slid open, exposing an elevator that led down a
floor to the bunker's vault.
She stepped in and pushed the button to take her down. Of
course, if Gray ever found out about the offices S.A.S.S.
actually had, he'd commandeer them for himself and toss
the unit into some other rat's nest or swamp without power
or water. To avoid that, S.A.S.S. operatives had created
an early warning system signaling outsiders' arrival,
practiced scrambling regularly and kept their secret to
themselves. So far, Colonel Gray remained in the dark.
He'd never seen anyone in the S.A.S.S. unit anywhere other
than in the trailer parked out behind the shack.
When the elevator door opened, Maggie stepped out into the
crisp white hallway. Private offices lined the walls. At
the east end, broad doors led to the Operations Center and
beyond them was Darcy's private domain.
Captain Darcy Clark had been an operative until a mission
had gone south and she'd received a serious head injury.
It'd taken a while and a lot of determination on Darcy's
part, but she'd recovered โ with a kick. Total recall. The
injury had taken her out of the field, but her new gift
made her a hell of an asset for assimilating intel reports
from around the globe.
Yet no gift comes without costs, and Darcy's were high.
Around others, she suffered serious sensory-input
overload. A trip to the mall was sheer hell. More often
than not, she required total isolation to function
normally, which meant even within the unit, she needed a
place to retreat. Mark made sure she had it in her
isolated office.
The good news on Darcy was that, since she had spent some
time on a mission down at the Texas/Mexico border with
Customs Agent Ben Kelly, she hadn't needed as much private
time as she had before. Maggie was glad for that, and
hoped the trend continued. Life in isolation had been hard
on Darcy.
Maggie walked past the broad screens covering the common
walls, past the photos of the FBI's Most Wanted, Homeland
Security's suspected terrorists and the S.A.S.S."s watch
lists. She checked the hot-spots board and was relieved to
see things were relatively calm worldwide, with the
exception of Iraq, which was never calm these days. Soon,
she prayed.
She dumped her purse on her desk then headed to the
kitchen, located just this side of the Operations Center.
Captain Amanda West, a S.A.S.S. senior operative, was in
the adjoining common room, throwing darts at a picture of
Thomas Kunz tacked to the center of the dartboard.
By presidential decree, the S.A.S.S. unit's primary
assignment was to intercede, interrupt and intercept Kunz.
So far, the world's most successful black marketer of top-
secret, cutting-edge technology and weapons-systems/arms
sales had three darts stuck right between his eyes.
Seeing his photo raised Maggie's hackles. Kunz was German,
hated America and wanted to destroy it, preferably through
the destruction of its economy. Unfortunately he'd had
some success and he'd been as elusive as Bin Laden. Worse
for the S.A.S.S. operatives pursuing him, Kunz and GRID โ
Group Resources for Individual Development โ his raunchy
band of greedy mercenaries, would use any tactics to
succeed. Their loyalty was to money at any costs, which
often made the work for Maggie and the others opposing
them disheartening and sickening. When fighting an enemy
dedicated to a different ideology โ even if it's twisted โ
it's easy to respect the dedication. But there is no
respect in greed. There is only fear and destruction.
Another dart whizzed through the air and stuck in Kunz's
forehead, well within Amanda's one-inch group. "Thinking
this morning, huh?" Maggie asked. Amanda always threw
darts at Kunz when pondering something.
"Yeah." Amanda sighed and nailed him again. Maggie
paused. "Is he up to no good on something new?"
"Kunz is always up to no good. You can take that to the
bank. But we haven't heard any new intel on a specific
operation yet today." Amanda hiked a shoulder. "Of course,
the day is young."
It was about eight o'clock in the morning. "Then, what's
on your mind?"
Amanda frowned, wrinkling the skin between her
brows. "It's Mark," she confessed, talking about Captain
Mark Cross, with whom she'd had a serious thing going for
nearly a year. "What's wrong with him?" Maggie liked Mark,
and these days she didn't like many men, which was just
one of the many undesirable emotional stages of divorce: a
merciless roller coaster that included far too many
downsides and even more sadness. She repeated her mantra:
one bump at a time.
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