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Alex leaned back in his uncomfortable airplane seat and pretended to sleep.

Why hadn’t CIA satellites picked up anything at all on the shooter at his condo, yesterday?

He’d been on the phone no more than two minutes after the shooting and André had promised the agency would take a look at its live security telemetry of the nation’s capital.

The day had been sunny and clear. They should have seen something .

A car, a figure moving away from the area on foot, a flash off a gun scope.

He’d given André detailed descriptions of all three of the perches a sniper could possibly use to hit that planter on his terrace.

How hard could it have been to check out three lousy hides?

His gut churned alarmingly. Something was wrong. What wasn’t André telling him? His instincts warned that the agency’s analysts had seen something but elected not to share it with him. What? And why were they hiding it from him?

And now they were sending him to Cuba, a known swarm of Russian intelligence activity, on a flimsy excuse. What did they think Roman was up to? Or were they just using his father’s name as a hot button to get him to race down to Cuba?

André had been cagey when he’d pushed his boss for details.

Fortinay had flatly refused to divulge why he and Katie specifically had to go to Cuba and what exactly they were supposed to be looking for when they got there.

No way was this a random aid mission. The CIA was up to something.

But André had steadfastly avoided revealing even a hint of what was up.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Alex really didn’t like the fact that D.U. was determined to send Katie with him. He tried to talk André out of it but failed spectacularly. He got that they wanted someone watching him, but he resented them trying to use his civilian girlfriend that way.

This whole business of playing by the rules was starting to grate on him. He was tempted to go back to the good old days when everybody hated him and he lived on the edge, tiptoeing between his enemies to stay alive.

Katie’s head landed lightly on his shoulder and he shifted to make it into a more comfortable pillow for her. She might give his life purpose, but God, the cost of being with her and Dawn was daunting at times. He so wasn’t an inside-the-box kind of guy.

The plan was to wait out Hurricane Giselle in Florida and then make their way to Cuba after it passed. André’s contact in Cuba had flatly refused to let Alex bring any of his own equipment or supplies into the country.

The unnamed Cuban had apparently assured D.U. that plenty of emergency medical supplies were in place on the island. Riiight . Alex smelled a whole bunch of meatball medicine under horrendous conditions forthcoming.

Katie woke up as they made their final descent into Miami International Airport, and he missed the weight of her head on his shoulder. Sheesh. When had he become so sentimental?

The airport was as huge and chaotic as he remembered…and even more crowded than the last time he’d been here. He purely hated crowds. Too easy for a hostile to hide among the civilians and take him unawares.

He glanced over at Katie, who smiled excitedly at him, and he just shook his Her mile-wide adventurous streak had gotten her in trouble before, and he had no doubt it would do so again.

They collected their bags and found a shuttle to take them to their hotel.

He had to give D.U. credit for springing for upscale lodgings.

Most of the time, D.U. staffers lived in miserable field conditions—crude tents with no running water or electricity—among the refugees and destitute whose injuries and diseases they treated.

It was demanding work under the best of circumstances.

He had faith Cuba would be closer to a worst-case situation in the aftermath of a major hurricane.

Speaking of which, the sky overhead looked ominous.

By the time they reached the hotel, fat drops of rain were starting to fall and the wind was picking up.

Miami was forecast to get hit by the storm’s peripheral rain bands, but the hurricane was expected to track south of Florida and head for the Yucatan peninsula.

He and Katie checked into their room with no trouble. He was amused that André had booked them one room with a king-sized bed. Keeping the watcher and the watched close, much?

“How bad is the weather supposed to get, here?” Katie asked as rain pounded at the big windows.

He flipped on the TV to check the latest updates. The weather channels were still showing a direct hit on Cuba. Giselle, a small, but strong, category four storm was still intensifying toward category five, and expected to run, literally, the length of the island.

He called into the bathroom where Katie was unpacking her girl goop, “Lots of rain and gusty winds here in Miami, but nothing severe. Cuba, however, is going to get clobbered.”

“Where will D.U. send us?” she called back.

“East end of the island where the need for our services will be highest. The mountains down the spine of the island should weaken the storm, and the west end of Cuba won’t get hit nearly as hard.”

“Have you ever been to Cuba?” she asked curiously as she stepped out into the hotel room.

“Not on our list of approved conversation topics,” he replied shortly.

“We still have one of those?” she asked in dismay.

“You thought having sex with me entitled you to all of my secrets?”

“Well…yes.” She looked crestfallen.

He grinned and shook his head. “You’re such a newbie to the world of spooks.”

“If you won’t tell me anything, then can we at least have sex?” she asked hopefully.

His grin widened. He started toward her, but his phone rang, and he swore under his breath.

“Alex Peters,” he snapped.

“Am I disturbing you?”

His father’s unwelcome voice startled him, and he replied tersely, “What do you want?”

“I hear you’re taking a little trip. Is there anything I can do for you while you’re there? I have a few contacts who might prove useful.”

Alex’s jaw dropped. How in the hell did Roman know about their secret trip to Cuba? Obviously not so secret a trip, dammit. Who else knew about their supposedly secret infiltration onto the island?

He glanced over at Katie in alarm. She was heading into the line of fire with him. On the one hand, he was glad to have her close by where he could personally ensure her safety. But on the other hand, he’d promised her she would never be in life threatening danger again if he could help it.

Yeah, he did bet his Russian spy father had plenty of contacts in flipping Cuba.

Why did Roman feel obliged to let his son know he was aware of this little junket?

What was his father’s play? Was he worried about Alex’s safety and warning him that this mission was on the Russians’ radar?

Or was Roman putting him on notice that his every move was being watched?

Or was it merely part of their long-standing pissing contest over whose intelligence sources were better—the FSB’s or CIA’s?

It was always like this with his father: circles within circles. Layer upon layer of hidden meaning. Sometimes, he got so damned tired of it all. Maybe that was why Katie’s directness appealed to him so strongly.

How to answer Roman? His father had asked if there was anything he could do to help.

Belatedly, Alex replied, “Actually, there is something you can do for me. I’m going to need medical supplies when I get there. Nothing fancy. Stuff a field medic would carry. Bandages, antibiotics, clean surgical implements.”

“They’ll be waiting for you when you get to Baracoa.”

The air rushed out of Alex’s gut. His father might as well have punched him. How in the hell did his old man know exactly where he and Katie were going when the two of them didn’t even know specifically where they were going.

Did Roman’s mole at D.U. figure it out, or worse, did the information come from the Cuban government? Either way, it was a stunning display of intelligence power. Russia might be a fading empire, but its legendary spy service wasn’t dead, yet.

Not that it mattered at the end of the day.

He and Katie would go where they were sent, treat the sick and injured, discover what was being smuggled, and go home.

But that was all. He was damned well keeping his nose out of any other CIA or FSB business.

He ended the call abruptly and jammed his phone in his pocket.

To hell with them all . He joined Katie at the window overlooking the ocean and, as she turned to him, drew her close, reveling in how she melted into him. She and Dawn were all he needed.

Katie stood back from the steamy mirror to inspect herself. Nobody would know she’d just screwed the living daylights out of her boyfriend…she hoped. Her cheeks were rosy and skin flushed, but that could be put down to good health and a hot shower, right?

The water cut off behind her. “Could you pass me a towel?” Alex asked.

She handed a dry towel into his outstretched hand with its long, strong fingers and dark tan.

She would’ve expected a surgeon of his skill to have more delicate hands.

Softer. His were anything but. They were what she would expect of a trained killer.

He even had the telltale callous at the base of his right thumb that came from shooting handguns. A lot.

Her dad and brothers had the same shooting callus. She certainly knew how to handle a pistol—it was impossible to grow up in the McCloud house without learning how—but she kept meaning to ask Alex to show her how to use a rifle one of these days. More specifically, a sniper rifle.

She tugged her t-shirt down to the top of her snug jeans. She might only be a nurse, but she knew how to fill out a pair of designer denims. And she could handle herself in a crisis, compliments of her upbringing in a family full of soldiers and cops.