Page 2 of Out of Control

The AV guy pushed the usual nondisclosure paperwork across the table, and Spencer signed it without bothering to read it. This was not his first rodeo. The upshot of the pages of legalese was that the CIA would, in fact, if he ever told anyone what he was about to hear, shoot him.

Because he’d specialized in undercover operations in the Navy Criminal Investigative Service before cross-training into the SEALs, he’d been pulled out a few times early in his SEAL career to run undercover ops for Langley that he was uniquely qualified for. But it had been a while since that had happened. Not since that last mission with Dray—

He sharply cut off that train of thought. Nothing good ever came from going down that mental road. Bile, or maybe just bitterness, burned the back of his throat, and he forced it down.

“Lights, please.” The CIA briefer—probably the handler—a lean, intense guy who’d introduced himself as Charles Favian, nodded at the AV guy, and the overhead lights dimmed, leaving a white plexiglass screen glowing in the wall. A grainy photograph flashed up on it. “Lieutenant Newman, do you recognize this man?”

Speak of the devil.Spencer had spent years learning the fine art of suppressing his emotions, but he barely managed to do so now.

Drago Thorpe.The name rolled through his mind, conjuring a string of conflicting emotions more quickly than he could catalogue them. The result was a turbulent stew of suckage in his gut.

“Yes,” he bit out. “I know him.”

“How do you know him?” That was the first time the gray-haired man at the head of the table had spoken. Spencer pegged him as the dude in charge of… whatever this was.

He’d met Drago on a CIA op, for crying out loud. Gray Hair surely knew that. So why ask? Probably gauging his reaction to seeing Drago’s face. Logical, given how disastrously the two of them had parted company.

It was hard to tell how much or how little Drago would have reported about their personal relationship after the mission from hell. Knowing the bastard, he’d written down every lascivious, humiliating detail of their affair and had taken pleasure in doing so.

It was a freaking miracle he hadn’t been court-martialed after that mess.

Schooling his face to be completely blank, Spencer answered stiffly, “I worked with Mr. Thorpe on a surveillance operation approximately ten years ago.”

God. Had it really been ten years? It seemed like yesterday that he’d sat in a room much like this one and been assigned to work with Dray on a deep-cover op to observe a possible terror cell in Beirut. The mission: identify and report on the group’s target.

Easy peasy.

He and Drago had failed. Spectacularly. The cell had slipped away from them, made its way to a resort in Tel Aviv, and bombed a giant high-rise hotel, which had collapsed, 9/11-style. Over a thousand innocents had paid with their lives. He’d almost hung up his uniform after that disaster. His belly gurgled with nausea even now.

Only a dare from Drago had stopped him from resigning. It had been the last thing the bastard had said to him before they parted ways, hopefully never to see each other again.I dare you to stay in the Navy and keep your secret. I’ll bet you a buck you can’t do it.

Favian was speaking again. “…approximately nine days ago, Thorpe was spotted in Berlin, entering a brothel. Here he is leaving the establishment.” On the screen, more grainy imagery played, this time of Drago exiting a residential-looking building from the rear fire escape, fleeing on foot. Shot at night, the film looked to have been captured by some sort of surveillance drone.

Favian continued, “Shortly after Thorpe exited the facility, the body of a man named Fayez Khoury was discovered dead.”

The implication was obvious. Drago had killed Khoury.

“Who was Khoury?” Spencer asked.

“Yemeni national. We don’t know much about him.”

So, not on the CIA’s radar. Meaning the guy wasn’t a high-profile terrorist or a low-profile suspected terrorist. Why did the CIA want the guy dead, then?

Gray Hair leaned forward, abruptly tense. Here came the grenade tossed in the door, about to blow this antiseptic little briefing to hell. Spencer mentally girded himself. He was undoubtedly the unlucky bastard they’d chosen to jump on their grenade and suppress the damage.

Gray Hair said heavily, “Mr. Thorpe did not have permission to engage in wet work, let alone eliminate a foreign national.”

Boom. The blow to his gut was a painful punch. Drago had gone rogue, had he?Aww, Dray. What were you thinking? You knew these guys wouldn’t let you get away with murder.

Truth be told, he wasn’t that surprised. Drago always had been a rebel at heart. He hated rules, hated to be told what to do. He had a reckless, angry streak in him. It might be sexy as hell and make him a wickedly effective operative, but it landed Dray in trouble sometimes.

Like now.

The third man—what was his name? Akuba? Akaba?—spoke for the first time. “This incident has caused an international diplomatic flap with the German government, and the State Department is scrambling to cover its ass. They’re yelling at us to get control of our guy.”

Of course they were.

Gray Hair leaned forward. “Lieutenant Newman, do you believe you could make a successful approach to Mr. Thorpe?”

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