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“Trace?” Her voice was hesitant and his reaction definite.
That voice, he knew it. From what part of the world? Or which female op? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t know anyone named Marlena McCloud. He would’ve remembered a name like that. When he first heard it, the name stuck with him, as though it were too soft to be that of an operative or too fluffy to be in intelligence.
She turned her head. Even though the black jungle night hid all details, a sudden, very clear realization settled over him.What. The. Hell.“Mallory?”
“Something like that.” She dropped her head then shrugged out of his hold. He could barely make out her features, but there was no mistaking that voice—just as soft as the name McCloud.
Brock barked in his ear, “Rendezvous. Now.”
Handing her back her rifle, he couldn’t put two and two together. “You know how to use this?”
Because the Mallory he knew didn’t know how to use an assault weapon. She was a pretty girl barely legal enough to be at a bar, an American who had had a couple of beers. She was giggles and gumdrops and nothing that would know how to fire one those babies.
The woman snagged the gun. “Please get me the hell out of here.”