Cold Allies by Patricia Anthony Read Free Book Online Page B

Parisi saw the other man leap to his feet. Around the terminal, waiting passengers were starting to look her way.
    She had to fight down a victorious smirk when the green-eyed agent turned to his partner and in a satisfyingly frantic voice snapped, “Call an ambulance.”

    THE PYRENEES

    Gordon didn’t find the laser. What he found was a T-72 tank on the side of the road, its engine cover up and no soldiers around.
    Through the screen of trees he caught a flash of blue.
    The blue light had been there when he came on line, and it had stayed with the CRAV since, following it like a shy stray dog.
    Ignoring the light, Gordon pushed through the undergrowth that paralleled the road. At the crest of a hill near a burned-out farmhouse, the trail forked, one gravel-and-mud path leading west, another, even more rugged, leading east. He drove the CRAV forward and studied the ground.
    No more treads to follow. But tire tracks. Big ones. The mark of the Brazilian-made Laser Deployment Vehicle. The tire tracks went east, straight up the mountain.
    Gordon jerked his head left to bring up the display. The road to Spanish Vielia was a mile or so ahead. A good road, he saw, a decent French highway. The LDV wasn’t going up that. Oh no. It had to go the hard way around, up through the goat trail to the Pico de Forcanada.
    What the hell? Are they lost? Gordon wondered.
    He looked up at the exposed grassy slope. What the LDV had climbed was a muddy pasture, complete with cow patties the shape of cinnamon rolls.
    No telling what was on the other side of that hill. It might be a long haul, and his stomach and bladder were telling him it was break time. He eased the CRAV to the back of a destroyed barn and buried it in a manure pile while two rubbernecking Guernseys and blue Rover looked on.

    CRAV COMMAND, TRÁS-OS-MONTES, PORTUGAL

    Gordon closed his eyes and felt the odd sensory jump as the CRAV powered down. Taking off the gloves and goggles, he stood, stretched. It was past break time, apparently. His dinner lay, gelatinous and cold, on the side table.
    Jerking open the warped door, he walked to the end of the corridor, to the restroom. After a pit stop, he paused at the refrigerator to grab a can of Coke. In the freezer, stacked next to the icemaker, he discovered a cache of Snickers.
    42 Patricia Anthony
    Chewing on the ice-hard chocolate, he ambled back toward his room, halting dead at the open doorway of Stendhal’s cramped command center.
    She was obviously in the midst of a difficult move. Her head was thrown back, her face streaming sweat. Her gloved hands plucked the air.
    Not all the operators minded being observed. Stendhal, Gordon figured, relished it. Her camouflage blouse, as usual, was open all the way down, exposing her Army-issue undershirt. Sweat had darkened the olive cloth between her small breasts, and her nipples were at erect attention.
    It was only because she couldn’t see him that Gordon dared look at all. Stendhal wanted the other guys’ eyes on her, he knew, not his shy, cowlike regard.
    He was so engrossed in Stendhal that he didn’t notice the man from Mitsubishi approach until the rep was right beside him. Gordon jerked his gaze away from Stendhal’s nipples and nearly choked on a piece of Snickers.
    Ishimoto, following the line of Gordon’s leer, raised an eyebrow.
    “She is good,” the Japanese said.
    “Huh?”
    “A good operator. I monitor her as well.”
    Gordon pressed his lips together and fought not to let his gaze slide back to Stendhal.
    “You put your unit into a dung heap,” Ishimoto said.
    “Yeah.”
    Ishimoto’s impassive expression broke, his lips cracking upward into a smile. “A very clever maneuver. So. After you eat, you will follow them up the hill?”
    “Yeah,” Gordon replied, then remembered his Army manners and amended it to “Yes, sir. Of course I’ll use the hill as a defilade, but, hell, the Arabs could be just on the other side. And I’d sure like to know where