“Oh yeah, I forget. Your love life’s so full. How’s Mr. Sun?” There was a studied casualness in Llallana’s voice.
Amber raised an eyebrow. Bradford Sun, a powerful man working for the UN peacekeeping department, was a friend, nothing more. But sometimes it helped to let the local thugs think she and the tall striking man had a closer relationship.
“Brad’s fine. Busy as always. Anything else you want to know?” She studied Lily closely, but her friend was very good at hiding her true feelings. “You can join us for a late dinner tonight if you like.”
Llallana shook her head. “I’m busy.”
“Uh-huh. Why do I get the feeling you’re avoiding Brad?”
Llallana gave her a bland look. “Me? Let me get the facts right. I just came into town, remember? You called to tell me about the new CIA guy.”
“I also called to tell you that Brad has found a few more girls in need of help,” Amber reminded her soberly. “You have to find time to talk to him about them.”
Without warning, Llallana swung around again and headed for the doorway. “Get some info for me at your dinner tonight if I don’t show up, Amber,” she called over her shoulder.
Amber settled back in her office chair, biting her lower lip thoughtfully. Llallana steadfastly avoided Brad. If she didn’t know her friend, she would think Lily was afraid.
Hawk frowned. That had never happened before. Being cut off so abruptly could only mean one thing. He had been compromised—someone was tapping into his conversation with Jed’s personnel. Dilaver? He dismissed the suspicion.
No, it had to be last night’s assailant, of course. Leaving that note was just a distraction. The real intent had been to tap his phone. Hawk looked down at the small cell phone in his hand. Radio frequencies were easy to capture, but his had a built-in voice modulator that automatically changed frequencies to avoid being captured on radio. To trace calls from his cell, one would need a microchip specifically made to send wireless frequencies to a satellite source that would then send the signals back to the motherboard. Not an easy thing for the layperson, which meant his attacker from last night was not only good at martial arts but at electronics and, no doubt, computer programming.
Hawk unscrewed the top of the antenna, pulling it out of the phone. He inspected it closely for a minute and slowly, with thumb and forefinger, lifted a sliver of hairlike material attached to it. Some kind of fiber optics. His lips quirked, part of him filled with astonished admiration. That was one small delivery guy. Where would the tracer chip be hiding?
Carefully laying the sliver onto a piece of white paper, he returned his attention to the cell phone, flipping it open and closing it, trying to figure out what was done to it. For the tracer chip to copy and relate the dialed numbers to the thief-antenna, it would need to use energy for power. Stored memory. Of course, the battery.
He turned the phone over and pressed on the release button to the backing. Pulling out the battery, he found another, longer sliver of fiber optic, following it to the SIMM chip which stored the information for his phone. They had his number now, of course, and perhaps the number he had dialed. He wasn’t sure whether Jed had pulled the plug quickly enough to escape being traced.
Hawk cursed softly. His fault. He had let his guard down somehow and could have put Jed in danger.
He had been in Macedonia for a few months and hadn’t been challenged mentally or physically quite this cleverly till now. Being a friend of the top gangster had given him a measure of freedom that few foreigners here had—he had gone in and out of places that would have gotten other people into trouble with local KLA members.
This was his first visit to Velesta and he had been warned, even by Dilaver, to be on his guard. And look what had already happened on his first night here. Not only was he attacked at night, in his own bedroom, but he’d been assaulted and compromised. He thought of the note in his pants pocket. Sexually assaulted, he corrected grimly. He was damn lucky it wasn’t more than a note tied to his dick. Except that it was.
Fuck. Disgusted at his own carelessness, Hawk stared at the pieces of fiber optics, barely visible against the whiteness of the paper, weighing his options. He could get to Jed from another phone; that wasn’t his immediate problem. What he really wanted to do was get out of Dilaver’s crowd for a day and track down thisproblemand exact revenge. Hell, he was alone in Macedonia. He didn’t have to follow team protocol and wait for instructions for every move.
What happened last night made it downright personal. Hawk pinched his chin thoughtfully. He was looking forward to making it even more so.
3
Bradford Sun unclipped his official badgeas he exited the UN security offices. He walked at a quick pace, unruffled by the knowing side glances and questioning looks from those outside the meeting who had heard the muffled but obviously heated exchange of words between the head of CIVPOL’s Trafficking and Prostitution Investigation Unit, the operations chief of CIVPOL’s Terrorist Unit, the general accountant of CIVPOL UN funds, and various other department heads.
“Too many damn heads,” muttered Brad.Speaking too many damn languages,he silently added. The trouble with assigning personnel from different countries to be in one department was that there was no way to achieve the world peace the United Nations hoped for. Too many different opinions, too many ideological motives. Everyone was still working their own agenda to move up the diplomatic rung of their government. After all, no one wanted to be stuck in Macedonia. Not his predecessor, for sure.
His lips twisted wryly as he punched the elevator button for the garage level. He was the new head of the drug-and sex-trafficking department and technically held quite a bit of power. But he was also considered the new boy in town, and had to be “shown the way.” Words like “protocol” and “procedure” had the same meaning in English, French, and German. He spoke all three languages like a native, and he knew meaningless shit when he heard it.
He gave a short bark of laughter. Meaningless shit indeed. Four hours of debating whether to take down the biggest piece of human garbage in town, and his hands were tied because three out of five votes were against him. All he needed was one more person on his side, and he’d thought he would get Cezare’s, but something had happened between the meeting and the last time they’d talked at his office. Something had frightened the man badly.
Brad sighed. Probably a threat. Everyone was living under a threat of some kind in these parts. The man he himself replaced had survived two car bombs during his tenure.
The elevator doors opened and he stepped into the underground garage, half filled with cars. Out of habit, he looked around, checking for signs of trouble. One couldn’t be too careful, especially in this war-torn climate.
The vote against action forced his hand. He wasn’t going to sit back and let those animals continue any longer. He was going to call the newspaper reporter first thing tomorrow morning and give that interview. It would be interesting to see what happened after that.
He strode toward the section where his car was parked. He needed some food and drink. Having missed lunch today, he was hungrier than usual, and a few glasses of wine sounded like heaven right now. Good conversation, with classical music playing in the background, a friend and confidante he could trust—all very rare things in Velesta. He smiled for the first time that day as he climbed into his vehicle. He knew where to find good company and excellent food.
Once he passed the security booth, he activated his car phone’s remote dial, which allowed him to speak hands-free while he negotiated his way around the notoriously fast traffic in town. The evening sun was almost gone, and he turned the heater on higher.
“Hi, Brad.” Amber Hutchens’s voice was smooth and low.
