they couldn’t pull with the rest of the team in a crunch. Another reason he preferred to depend only on himself.
Savoring this rare solitary moment, Nunez pulled out his secure reading tablet and inserted his ID CAC—common access card—into a slot on the top and tapped in his code. The screen lit up secure green while the CV-22 engines droned. He began reviewing reports and intelligence assessments he would need before stepping on the streets of Turkey as Miguel Carvalho, a bored banking heir from Spain. He had three bars on his target list near the NATO base. All three had been the last known site for soldiers who’d later disappeared.
Chatter from the crew over his headset distantly registered in his brain as he worked. Jimmy Gage’s flat midwestern accent growled low.
“If it was a bomb on the boat, who was the target? I find that so much more pertinent than who did it.”
Vapor’s clipped Chicago tones interrupted. “And why would that be more interesting, my friend? Is there something on that boat that intrigues you, the busty cage dancer, perhaps?”
“Backup singer,” Gage snapped.
Half smiling, Nunez scrolled through the latest update on his data, searching for . . . he wasn’t sure what. But he would feel it when he saw it. He needed to study every aspect of the three locales, because life threw enough surprises his way on its own.
Smooth strode past him in the cargo hold, pressing a hand to his headset. “I hope no one associated with the USO group is involved.”
Vapor keyed up the mic. “I say there is no way the USO babes are involved in anything. Where would they hide weapons in those skimpy outfits? Although, once they get wet, those costumes are as dangerous as a stun gun. Wouldn’t you say, Jimmy?”
The squadron commander cleared his throat. “I have a better question. How about we pay attention to flying this airplane? What do you think about that?”
Nunez shot a quick look at the women working to repair their hair and makeup while dealing with the constraints of their seats. At least they couldn’t hear what was being said. He tuned out the voices and focused on work.
He thumbed the track ball down, down, down through the maze of data. Paused. Scrolled back up a couple of pages and stopped. Went back and read the list of employees on that fourth bar again.
Anya Surac.
He knew he hadn’t seen it before. Still, something about it niggled at him. He scanned through the list of all the bars again, even ones farther up in northern Turkey, looking for . . .
Then he saw it. Marta A. Surac. She was on their persons of interest list, given that she owned establishments in two of the areas where American service members had gone missing. But so did a lot of other investors.
The bar where this Anya worked was a couple of kilometers farther away from the NATO air base than some others on his list but still within his radius of interest. He stared at the display so long his labyrinth screen saver popped up. An image of a tile meditation path on a cathedral floor bounced around the monitor in time with his ping-ponging thoughts.
The common last name could be coincidental. One woman owned a bar, another with the same surname worked as a waitress in another bar, both in Turkey. It was possible in a country that large, but it was still worth investigating more on this Anya Surac.
Could be a relative. Could be no connection at all.
Or it could be the same person.
Regardless, as Miguel Carvalho he would be meeting this Marta-Anya Surac—whoever she really was—very soon.
The speakers in the back of the plane hummed to life with instructions to prepare for landing. Nunez powered down his computer and stowed it away. Eyes closing, he rested his back, thunking against metal vibrating from the engine drone.
In the time it took the plane to touch down, Mike Nunez disappeared and became Miguel Carvalho.
FOUR
INCIRLIK AIR BASE, TURKEY
Chloe mentally prepped for her next show
Savoring this rare solitary moment, Nunez pulled out his secure reading tablet and inserted his ID CAC—common access card—into a slot on the top and tapped in his code. The screen lit up secure green while the CV-22 engines droned. He began reviewing reports and intelligence assessments he would need before stepping on the streets of Turkey as Miguel Carvalho, a bored banking heir from Spain. He had three bars on his target list near the NATO base. All three had been the last known site for soldiers who’d later disappeared.
Chatter from the crew over his headset distantly registered in his brain as he worked. Jimmy Gage’s flat midwestern accent growled low.
“If it was a bomb on the boat, who was the target? I find that so much more pertinent than who did it.”
Vapor’s clipped Chicago tones interrupted. “And why would that be more interesting, my friend? Is there something on that boat that intrigues you, the busty cage dancer, perhaps?”
“Backup singer,” Gage snapped.
Half smiling, Nunez scrolled through the latest update on his data, searching for . . . he wasn’t sure what. But he would feel it when he saw it. He needed to study every aspect of the three locales, because life threw enough surprises his way on its own.
Smooth strode past him in the cargo hold, pressing a hand to his headset. “I hope no one associated with the USO group is involved.”
Vapor keyed up the mic. “I say there is no way the USO babes are involved in anything. Where would they hide weapons in those skimpy outfits? Although, once they get wet, those costumes are as dangerous as a stun gun. Wouldn’t you say, Jimmy?”
The squadron commander cleared his throat. “I have a better question. How about we pay attention to flying this airplane? What do you think about that?”
Nunez shot a quick look at the women working to repair their hair and makeup while dealing with the constraints of their seats. At least they couldn’t hear what was being said. He tuned out the voices and focused on work.
He thumbed the track ball down, down, down through the maze of data. Paused. Scrolled back up a couple of pages and stopped. Went back and read the list of employees on that fourth bar again.
Anya Surac.
He knew he hadn’t seen it before. Still, something about it niggled at him. He scanned through the list of all the bars again, even ones farther up in northern Turkey, looking for . . .
Then he saw it. Marta A. Surac. She was on their persons of interest list, given that she owned establishments in two of the areas where American service members had gone missing. But so did a lot of other investors.
The bar where this Anya worked was a couple of kilometers farther away from the NATO air base than some others on his list but still within his radius of interest. He stared at the display so long his labyrinth screen saver popped up. An image of a tile meditation path on a cathedral floor bounced around the monitor in time with his ping-ponging thoughts.
The common last name could be coincidental. One woman owned a bar, another with the same surname worked as a waitress in another bar, both in Turkey. It was possible in a country that large, but it was still worth investigating more on this Anya Surac.
Could be a relative. Could be no connection at all.
Or it could be the same person.
Regardless, as Miguel Carvalho he would be meeting this Marta-Anya Surac—whoever she really was—very soon.
The speakers in the back of the plane hummed to life with instructions to prepare for landing. Nunez powered down his computer and stowed it away. Eyes closing, he rested his back, thunking against metal vibrating from the engine drone.
In the time it took the plane to touch down, Mike Nunez disappeared and became Miguel Carvalho.
FOUR
INCIRLIK AIR BASE, TURKEY
Chloe mentally prepped for her next show
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