Washington, D.C., today
The Pentagon.
Dr. Zoe Lange gazed out the window of the limo as the
driver pulled up to the Pentagon.
Damn.
She was way underdressed.
Her boss, Patrick Sullivan, had told her only that she was
a candidate for an important and potentially long-term
assignment. Zoe had figured that appropriate dress for
such a meeting meant comfortable — blue jeans, running
shoes, a T-shirt with a little blue flower print, and
hardly any makeup. She was who she was, after all. If she
were going to join a long-term mission, everyone might as
well know exactly what to expect right from the start.
She didn't dress up unless she had to.
Unless she were going someplace like, oh, say, the
Pentagon.
If she'd known she was coming to the Pentagon, she would
have put on her skintight black cat suit, her three-inch
heels, dark red lipstick and worn her long blond hair in
some kind of fancy French braid, rather than this high-
school cheerleader ponytail she was wearing. Because men
in the military tended to think female agents who looked
like Emma Peel or one of James Bond's babes could hold
their own when the going got tough. But little blue
flowers, nuh-uh. Little blue flowers meant they'd have to
hand her hankies to mop her frightened tears. Never mind
the fact that little blue flowers didn't compromise her
ability to run hard and fast, the way three-inch heels did.
Well, okay. She was here now. The little blue flowers were
going to have to do.
She put on her sunglasses and picked up her oversize
handbag that doubled as a briefcase and let herself be
escorted by the guards into the building, through all the
security checkpoints and into a waiting elevator.
Down. They headed down, further even than the B that
marked the basement floor. Even though no more letters or
numbers flashed on the display over the door, they kept
sinking. What could possibly be this far down besides hell?
Zoe smiled tightly at the idea of being summoned for a
meeting with the devil himself. In her line of business,
it was entirely possible. She just hadn't expected to meet
him here in D.C.
Finally the elevator stopped and the doors opened with a
subdued chime.
The hallway was a clean off-white and very bright, not the
dimly lit, smoky magentas and red-oranges of hell. The
guards waiting for her outside didn't carry pitchforks.
Instead they wore naval uniforms. Navy, huh? Hmm, wasn't
that interesting?
U.S. Navy Lieutenant Clones One and Two led her down that
nondescript corridor, through countless doors that opened
and closed automatically. Maxwell Smart would've been
right at home.
"Where are we heading, boys?" Zoe asked. "To the Cone of
Silence?"
One of the lieutenants looked back at her blankly, either
too young or too serious to have seen all those late night
Get Smart reruns she'd watched as a kid.
But as they stopped at an unmarked doorway, Zoe realized
her joking question had been right on the mark. The door
was ridiculously thick, reinforced with steel, layered
with everything else — lead included, no doubt — that
would render the room within completely spy-proof. No
infrared satellites could look through these walls and see
who was inside. No high-powered microphones could listen
in. Nothing that was said inside could be recorded or
overheard.
It was, indeed, the equivalent of Maxwell Smart's Cone of
Silence.
The outer door — and it was only the first of three she
passed through — closed with a thunk, followed by the
second. The third door was like a hatch on a ship — she
had to step over a rim to get inside. It, too, was sealed
tightly behind her.
Apparently, she was the last to arrive.
The inner chamber was not a big room. It was barely
sixteen by thirteen, and it was filled with men. Big men,
wearing gleaming white naval dress uniforms. The glare was
intense. Zoe resisted the urge to pull her sunglasses down
from where she'd pushed them atop her head as they all
turned to look at her, as they all rose to their feet in a
unison display of chivalry.
She looked at them, scanning their faces, looking for
someone, anyone familiar. The best she could do was count
heads — fourteen — and sort through the various ranks on
their uniforms.
"Please," she said, with her best professional smile.
"Gentlemen. No need to stand on my account."
There were two enlisted men, four lieutenants, one senior
chief, two commanders, a captain, a rear admiral lower
grade and three — count 'em, three — full-grade admirals,
complete with scrambled eggs on the hats that were on the
table in front of them.
Seven of the men were active-duty SEALs. Two of the
admirals wore budweisers, as well — the SEAL pin with an
anchor and an eagle in flight gripping Poseidon's
pitchfork in one talon and a stylized gun in the other —
which meant they'd been SEALs at one time during their
long military careers.
One of the SEALs — a blond lieutenant with an even, white-
toothed smile and a much too handsome face, who looked as
if he might've come straight from the set of Baywatch —
pulled out a chair for her. Nodding her thanks, she sat
next to him.
"Name's Luke O'Donlon," he whispered, holding out his hand.
She shook it quickly, absently, smiling briefly at both
O'Donlon and the SEAL on her other side, an enormous
African-American man with a shaved head, a diamond stud in
his left ear, and a wide gold wedding band on his ring
finger. As she set her bag down in front of her, her
attention was held by the men on the other side of the big
table.
Three admirals. Holy Mike. Whatever this assignment was,
it required this spy-proof room and three full-grade
admirals to launch it.
The admiral without the budweiser had snow-white hair and
a face set in a permanent expression of disgust — as if he
carried bad fish in his inside jacket pocket. Stonegate,
that was his name. Zoe recognized him from his newspaper
picture. He was always showing up in The Washington Post.
He was part politician, something she didn't quite approve
of in a man of his rank and standing.
Beside her, O'Donlon cleared his throat and gave her his
most winsome smile. He was just too cute, and he knew it,
too. "I'm sorry, miss, I didn't catch your name."
"I'm afraid that info's need-to-know," she whispered
back, "and probably beyond your security clearance level.
Sorry, sailor."
The senior chief next to her overheard and deftly covered
his laughter with a cough.
The admiral who had reclaimed his seat next to Stonegate
had a thick head of salt and pepper hair. Admiral Mac
Forrest. Definitely a cool guy. She'd met him at least
twice in the Middle East, the last time just a few months
ago. He nodded and smiled as she met his eyes.
The admiral on Mac's left — the man directly across the
table from her — was still standing, his face hidden as he
quickly rifled through a file. "Now that we're all here,"
he said, "why don't we get started."
He looked up then, and Zoe found herself looking into eyes
that were amazingly, impossibly blue, into a face she
would've recognized anywhere.
Jake Robinson.
The one and only Admiral Jake Robinson.
Zoe knew he was in his early fifties — he had to be unless
he'd performed his heroics in Vietnam as a twelve-year-
old. Still, his hair was thick and dark, and the lines
around his eyes and mouth only served to give his handsome
face strength and maturity.
And handsome was a complete understatement. Jake Robinson
was way beyond handsome. He needed a completely new word
invented to describe the sheer beauty of his face. His
mouth was elegant, gracefully shaped and ready to quirk up
into a smile. His nose was masculine perfection, his
cheekbones exquisite, his forehead strong. His chin was
just the right amount of stubborn, his jawline still sharp.
Lieutenant Cutie-Pie sitting next to her — now he was
merely handsome. Jake Robinson, on the other hand, was the
Real Deal.
He was looking around the table, quickly making
introductions that Zoe knew were mostly for her benefit.
Everyone else here knew each other. She tried to listen.
The two enlisted SEALs were Skelly and Taylor. One was
built like a pro football linebacker, the other looked
like Popeye the sailor man. Which was which, she didn't
have a clue. The African-American senior chief was named
Becker. She'd met O'Donlon. Hawken, Shaw, Jones. Try as
she might to memorize names, to attach them permanently to
faces, she couldn't do it.
She was too busy flashing hot and cold.
Jake Robinson.
Great glorious God, she was being given a chance to work a
long-term assignment under the command of a living legend.
His exploits nearly thirty years ago in Vietnam were
legendary — along with his more recent creation of the
Gray Group. Robinson's Gray Group was so highly
classified, so top secret, she could only guess the type
of assignments he handed out. But she could guess.
Dangerous. Covert. Intensely important to national
security.
And she was going to be part of one.
Zoe's heart was pounding as if she had just run five
miles. She took a deep breath, calming herself as the
admiral introduced her to the rest of the room. By the
time fourteen pairs of very male eyes focused on her, she
was completely back in control. Calm. Cool. Collected.
Positively serene.
Except thirteen of those fourteen pairs of very male eyes
didn't seem to notice how absolutely serene she was.
Instead, they all focused on her ponytail and her little
blue flowers. She could read their speculation quite
clearly. She was the secretary, right? Sent in to take
notes while the big strong men talked.
Guess again, boys. "Dr. Zoe Lange is one of the top
experts in the country — possibly in the world — in
biological and chemical weapons," Jake Robinson told them
in his husky baritone voice.
Around the room, eyebrows went up. Zoe could almost smell
the skepticism. Across the table, the admiral's eyes were
sparkling with amusement. Clearly, the skepticism's stench
was strong enough for him to smell it, as well.
"Dr. Lange works for Pat Sullivan," he added matter-of-
factly, and the mood in the room instantly changed. The
Agency. He didn't even need to say the name of the
organization. They all knew what it was — and what she did
for a living. Admiral Robinson had known exactly what to
say to make them all sit up and take notice of her, little
blue flowers or not. She sent him a smile of thanks.
"I truly appreciate your being able to join us here today,
Doctor." The admiral smiled at her, and it was all Zoe
could do not to melt at his feet.
It was true. Everything she'd ever read or heard about
Jake Robinson's smile was absolutely true. It was warm and
genuine. It was completely inclusive. It lit him from
within, made his eyes even more blue. It made her want to
follow him anywhere. Anywhere.
"It's my pleasure, Admiral," she murmured. "I'm honored
that you invited me. I hope I can be of assistance."
"Actually —" his face sobered " — it's unfortunate that we
need your assistance." He looked around the table, all
amusement gone from his eyes. "Two weeks ago, there was a
break-in at the Arches military testing lab just outside
of Boulder, Colorado."
Zoe stopped watching the man's eyes and started paying
attention to his words. A break-in. At Arches. Holy Mike.