ZACH HAD IGNORED the knowing smiles the other security personnel gave him as he returned to his seat, and he was thankful that they were seasoned enough to not say a word. It was all in their eyes when he’d returned to their section, and innuendo about him being one lucky mofo was interspersed through dealing decks of cards and supposedly talking about the mission. But sleep eventually took them all, until their synchronized watch alarms sounded.
Thankful for the few hours of shut-eye, he still had awakened tortured. Sleep hadn’t given him the respite he’d hoped for. Two international stops later and Anita Brown still invaded his dreams just like she’d invaded every cell in his body. But he had a job to do.
It was sheer pandemonium on the plane as they got close to touching down in Baghdad. Stylists were flitting between the wide aisles, dancers and singers were changing into costumes. The band members trudged to the bathroom, waking up and drumming on seats as they passed them.
He’d never seen the backstage commotion that took place before a show, much less seen it happening on a private jet. No one had the least bit of modesty as they stripped and got into their performance gear. Anita just turned her back to the aisle, stripped down to her underwear, no bra, and allowed her stylists to dress her— he and the security squad tried their best to seem nonchalant . . . like they were looking at anything but her. But that was impossible. Zachary finally forced his gaze to the floor as the captain announced that everyone had to take their seats and buckle up.
This job was in and out. Baghdad was too dangerous, so the brief show would be held right at the airport for military personnel in a hangar. While they did the show, the plane would be refueled, half of his team would stay with it to be sure there were no issues or anything suspicious loaded onto it, then they’d all get back on board and head to Kuwait— a much less hostile location.
The moment the flight crew opened the hatch, Zach was out, surveying the steps and then held out a hand for Anita. He watched her transform into Queen B for the swarm of paparazzi who had been allowed on the tarmac. She now wore a red, silver, and blue metallic halter that looked like a flag, red stilettos, and a tiny sequined white skirt. He kept his eyes forward, gaze roving behind his shades, but had he not been in front of a crowd, he would have been tempted to salute her . . . red, white, and blue never looked so good.
Backing her up were three burly guards, and the four of them cut a swath through the cameras after the plane exit photo op. The USO had rolled out a red carpet for her; he kept his gaze sweeping, moving her forward, and getting her through perfunctory security and into the hangar to the applause and cheering of hundreds of appreciative soldiers. The others had been escorted in by the balance of his men, and they rimmed the stage in dark suits, taking strategic positions.
Zach was in a backstage position, on post closest to the hangar’s rear entrance— but in this environment, Anita Brown was probably the safest woman in the world. With more than two hundred arms-bearing servicemen and servicewomen who adored her, the biggest worry was getting her out of there on time, because he could tell the moment she hit the stage that she was going to sign an autograph for every enlisted person there . . . which only endeared her to him more.
Her voice was down-home, warm, and welcoming, and he listened to her thank the men and women in uniform for all that they did. Her compliments of their ser vice and the real respect that filled her voice made him and all the others stand up taller. There was no fraud in this woman, she was the genuine article. Then she broke out into her dance routines that put soldiers on the feet.
Taking the opportunity to connect with Lowell, he switched on his satellite phone to let him know the first leg of the job was going well. As he waited for the connection to go through, he also turned on his BlackBerry and watched it boot up— glad that he and his squad also had gone through the necessary measures to allow for international access. Several voicemail messages came up on the touch screen. No one was answering the satellite phone, which was odd. Anne Marie should have picked up. He went into his voicemail and listened hard. Anne Marie’s voice was ragged.
Words that made no sense poured into Zachary’s ear. Lowell had gone into a convulsion and they’d found benzene hexachloride in his system?
Immediately he dialed the cell phone number that Anne Marie had left in the message. Eight rings and she picked up the telephone, sounding groggy.
“Anne Marie, it’s Zach— what happened?”
“Somebody poisoned him, Zach,” Anne Marie said, her voice gaining strength as she woke up. “I’m in the hospital now. That’s why he was so swollen and looked jaundiced . . . this stuff is what they use for flea-and-tick powder and it affects the liver and kidneys— but looks like the flu. Vomiting, diarrhea, the same as the bug, but it takes like three to six hours before symptoms hit.”
“How is he now?” Zach clutched the phone, almost unable to hear with the loud music behind him.
“He’s in the cardiac ward— my mother has the boys; I’m in a family lounge, because I can’t take my cell phone up on the ward where they’re working on him and I have to stay in touch with Mom, if anything changes.” Anne Marie’s voice hitched. “He went into a mild convulsion, Zach . . . they said he could get pulmonary edema from this so they’re trying to get the toxin out of him now. If I hadn’t come in, he could have died at home and it would have looked like a heart attack— and the poison would have been un-traceable . . . totally gone
from his system before anyone knew.”
“You hold on, all right, honey.” Zach closed his eyes and raked his fingers through his close-cropped hair. “When you can, I want you to give me a list of who he was with three to six hours before he started coming down with the so-called flu. Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah . . . I can look in his appointment book, and check his BlackBerry, too.”
“Good. Call the police and give them everything you know, and call me any time, day or night. I want you to keep the boys with your mother— don’t you go home alone, either. Make sure you take somebody trustworthy in there to get some things and then stay away from the house until I can get back there, all right?”
“Okay.”
He heard Anne Marie sniff and anger imploded within him. Someone had gone after his family and he was sure it was related to the contract.
HOURS PASSED LIKE minutes; they always did when she was performing and working with a crowd. This gig, unlike many of the others she’d been on recently, felt like it gave her more than it gave the adoring fans. She’d signed every black-and-white glossy photo that her PA had passed out, as well as took pictures with everyone who’d presented a digital camera, even the brass.
On a natural high, she and her entourage tumbled back onto the plane, exhausted, giddy, and without a care in the world. If this was how the rest of the tour was going to go, then she couldn’t wait. But Zachary Mitchell seemed more aloof than usual; all she could chalk that up to was he and his men having their game faces on.
“So, how did I do?” she said happily, accepting a shrimp salad platter from Megan.
“You killed!” Megan said, beaming, and gaining whoops from the rest of the plane. But Megan’s smile only widened as she glanced over her shoulder. “Terminator is on the way, girl— might want to ask him what he thought of the performance, hmmmm?”
“Sssssh,” Anita said, shooing Megan away. She looked up but her smile instantly faded as she stared up at Zachary’s expression.
“May I sit down?”
“Sure,” she said carefully, worry lacing her brow. She dabbed her throat and forehead with a towel. “What’s wrong?”
“Earlier . . . when I came for the job, I heard you arguing with a man named Ron.”