Page 6 of Out of Control

“Nearest guys of ours are some observers about a hundred klicks west of you.”

“Then who’s the spec ops asshole running around tagging cars in front of me?”

“What?” Charles squawked with enough surprise in his voice that Drago believed him to be genuinely in the dark. “Get me a pic if you can. Preferably a facial shot.”

“Roger.”

The operator in question froze as a new caravan came into Drago’s field of vision in the distance and became faintly audible. The guy eased backward toward the corner of a building, paused… and then did something strange.

He flipped up his NODs, exposing his face, and took a long, three-hundred-sixty degree look around at the entire valley. He stopped, staring roughly in Drago’s direction for a few seconds before flipping his NODs down into place over his upper face once more.

Swear to God, it looked like the guy was intentionally looking straight at him. In that weird, suspended moment of connection, Drago focused his lens quickly and took the picture.

Just as his finger depressed the button, recognition slammed into him. That jaw. Those shoulders….

“Cockswinging motherfucking sonofabitch,” he breathed. He’d come. He’d actually come.They were supposed to meet up in Beirut, not here—

—but he’d come.

The soldier faded into the shadows once more and slipped out of sight.

“Beg your pardon?” Charles blurted.

“Not you. Tell your bosses I’m obeying orders for a change and moving out.”

What in the ever-loving hell was Spencer doing? Why had he come out here without contacting him? Why hadn’t he asked what was going on before barging into the middle of this operation?

What are you up to, Spence?

The guy was nothing if not highly intelligent. Did Spencer know something he didn’t? Or had always-do-the-right-thing, I-know-best Spencer leaped to his own conclusions and plowed into this mission like a charging bull?

Either way, he was now fucking up this op by the numbers. Obviously he was still the same rigid, self-righteous prick he’d always been. Dammit.

Funny how ten years had erased his memory of that irritating little personality trait. It had been easier to remember how breathtakingly beautiful the man was, how honorable, how genuinely honest.

Furious—beyondfurious—he began the tedious process of inching backward, taking the pinkish-beige net draped over his back with him. As soon as he was clear to get up and run, he was going after Spencer Newman and demanding to know why in the bloody hell he was messing with this op.

Then he was going to kill the smug bastard.

It had taken Drago nearly twelve hours to work his way from the protection of the rocks to the southeast, four hundred yards across the floor of the broad wadi to this position. But he backed out considerably faster now, fueled by his raging indignation.

“US mil has relayed intent to attack the compound,” Charles reported. “How long till you’re clear?”

“A while. Tell the military liaison there are civilians there. Children.”

“Hurry. The drone pilot was just given orders to move his Predator into position.”

“Negative, negative!” he whispered urgently. “I repeat. There aredozensof civilians in that compound!”

“I heard you the first time,” Charles ground out. “And before you bite my head off, I already relayed that to the military desk.”

Horror unfolded in his chest. Had Spencer called in the attack? He must have. Those must be homing beacons for air-to-ground missiles he had placed on the vehicles.

“Sixty seconds to green-light,” Charles’s voice said from far away, from somewhere beyond the roaring in his ears.

“Call it off!”

“Can’t. You need to get moving.”

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