Accidental Commando by Ingrid Weaver Page A

do.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Have you eaten?”
    “How could I?” She waved her arm behind her, then grabbed the collar of her robe as it slid off her shoulder. “There’s no phone in my room, not that I would expect the palace to have room service, but I’m pretty isolated here. My cell phone doesn’t work, either. That reminds me, what kind of phone service does your major have? I noticed his phone worked.”
    “It’s military issue. You can share breakfast with us. We eat in our quarters.”
    “I never thought to ask. Where are you staying?”
    “Upstairs.” He used his index finger to slide her robe back onto her shoulder. “First you might want to put on something that doesn’t play peekaboo.”
    She shuddered. The silk had a mind of its own and wasn’t that easy to hang on to, so he probably hadn’t meant to trail the backs of his knuckles over her skin. “I’ll try to find a dress without bullet holes.”
    He dropped his hand. “If you’d rather join us later…”
    “Not on your life. A deal’s a deal. I plan to take advantage of every minute.”

    The minutes seemed like hours. The first day of Emily’s embedding with Eagle Squadron dragged into the second. Little changed other than the hall they were positioned in. She chaffed at the lack of activity, but it didn’t appear to bother Tyler. When he was on duty he appeared as calm as a living statue. About as talkative, too. Currently, they were outside the conference room while the envoy attended yet another meeting. This one included a group of sober-faced men and women who made up the president’s cabinet. The carved wood doors were too thick for the sound of voices to penetrate, so Emily couldn’t guess at the topic.
    Whatever it was, both President Gorrell and Helen Haggerty appeared to be deep in discussion, their gray heads angled toward each other, whenever they were together. Neither spared her more than a glance when they passed by, so Emily had stopped fretting about what to wear a day ago. She redid her ponytail, tugged at the cuffs of the cardigan she was using to make her sundress more respectable and looked around.
    Vic Gonzales was teamed up with Tyler today. He stood at the bend in the corridor, and though he seemed relaxed at first glance, he’d been as alert as Tyler whenever there had been a sign of movement. He had an expressive mouth and sparkling dark eyes that made him appear to be on the verge of a smile—he’d have to be good-humored to accept the nickname “Gonzo”—yet he’d been as reserved around Emily as the rest of the men. They had the neutral, don’t-give-away-anything expressions of on-duty cops or football players on a Sunday in December. They were wearing their game faces.
    The only exception had been the bald man who had been in charge of the monitoring equipment upstairs, Chief Esposito. He reminded her of her uncle Wade, not chatty but approachable. He’d inputted her description of El Gato into a computer program that he’d said he’d obtained from Homeland Security. Emily realized that by sharing her knowledge so early she had weakened her bargaining position. She hadn’t really considered withholding it, though. She wasn’t going to play games with an innocent woman’s life. Thanks to the help of Duncan Colbert, who had some kind of connection with Army Intelligence, they’d managed to construct a good likeness of the assassin. It had been printed out and distributed to the entire team as well as to President Gorrell’s elite palace guards.
    Those guards were as no-nonsense as the American soldiers. Rather than suits, they wore tan uniforms that were belted at the waist with dark leather. They appeared to do regular patrols throughout the palace, as she’d noticed the same pair of men walk past the conference room three times this afternoon. And she was certain it was the same men, since she’d made sure to scrutinize them each time.
    Tyler nodded and mumbled something she couldn’t