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  “What about Reeves?”

  “He wasn’t in on it.”

  Spurs’ jaw dropped. She’d sent an innocent man on a rocket ride to hell.

  Royce continued, “We think Reeves was trying to make retribution for his poor record. The speculation that he’d murdered his wife was never proven or on his record, but it still followed him around. He found out about Allah’s Jihad and thought it was a big drug deal—right down to the end. He was clinically schizophrenic—illusions of grandeur. Goodman and Chardoff probably gave him some disinformation. Allah’s Jihad used the fictitious drug Jap Rap to cover up their Dead Reckoning operation. But they wanted their Islamic terrorist organization named, to be sure that when their mission was accomplished, the world would know to whom to give the credit.

  “Reeves apparently was hoping he could, nearly single handedly, uncover the traitors and turn them in. He probably thought it’d look good on his record and maybe he’d get his choice of duty stations, give him a chance at captaining his own ship.”

  “The Enterprise,” Spurs said, shaking her head.

  “I think, from what you told me,” Royse said, “he might have felt that he was in over his head and a little overwhelmed.”

  “My God!” Spurs said, her hand attempting to shield her eyes from the truth.

  “Don’t feel too sorry for him,” Burgess said. “All our evidence is circumstantial so far, but we’ve also linked him to as many as seven prostitute murders in Mediterranean ports. We just didn’t have enough on him yet to bring him in.”

  Spurs thought of the list of women’s names she’d found in Reeves’ stateroom the night of the storm. “How were they killed?”

  “Interpol says strangled,” Royse said. “A couple of them had been drugged with roofies—Rohypnol. You know, that date rape drug. Probably dropped in their drinks.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed still not able to take it all in. She remembered the evening at the Parador del Barcelona when Reeves tried to choke her—she’d suspected that she’d been drugged.

  “Who was in the bridge—steering the ship— when they tried to ram the Enterprise?”

  “Probably Goodman,” Royse said.

  “Why did Hunter help me stop them?”

  “Had a change of heart,” Royse said. “You might have helped in that area. When you were separated that night in Tunisia, he probably told them that he didn’t want to go through with it, so they snatched him. We think Chardoff found out that Hunter was either working undercover for us or that he was the Chameleon. If Hunter was with us, he’d be in the way. If he was the Chameleon, Chardoff figured he could cut out the middleman and get more money. After you helped him escape, Hunter found out he might be able to help save the day and to get the money, also.”

  “That silver case,” Spurs said. “When he scuttled the chopper, it was inside.”

  “It had over five million US dollars in it,” Royse said. “We think he went back with a friend or two and SCUBAed down to get it. He must have had help. His right lung was too damaged from the knife wound for him to go very deep.”

  “He got away with it?”

  “He’s slick,” Royse said. “Wouldn’t want to be him, though. Not only is the US Government after him, but also some really pissed off Allah’s Jihads.

  Spurs found herself shaking her head in disbelief and staring at the picture of Burgess and Hunter with the swordfish. “Sir,” she said, “the name of your boat. . . .” Burgess glanced at the framed photo on his desk and gave a sideways grin. He nodded. “Chameleon.” Royse looked at the letter in her hand. “What’s he mean—the last part?” Spurs finished the letter.

  “I’ve got to run. It’s time again to change colors. You’ve got to admit, as lizards go, I ain’t so bad. Love, Dare.

  P. S., Mommy says hi! He’s almost completely recovered from a bad kitchen accident and says to tell you that he’s keeping a sharp Saber.”

  Chapter 75

  TRUE NORTH

  July 4, 2300 Tunisian Beach

  OF TWO THINGS, Darren Hunter was certain: he would never love another woman as much as he loved Spurs, and he would not live long enough to see her again.

  The night was still. The sea peacefully washed the glowing sand, and no one was within sight.

  Hunter sat back leaning on his elbows near the water’s edge on the white moonlit beach of northern Tunisia. One of Ma’hami’s steeds, a beautiful black Arabian, snacked patiently on a patch of desert grass thirty feet behind him. The full-faced lunar reflection shimmered on the sea giving him thoughts of a similarly beautiful night he’d witnessed a few short weeks ago. He’d shared—fallen in with love Spurs that night. It seemed like years ago.

  But he had a score to settle, now, and the only way to do so was to alienate himself from his love and his country. He combed his fingers through his thick, brown hair wondering who the traitorous bastard was that had sold out his own country and how he could find and rid the world of him.

  A dark figure racing along the beach five hundred yards away interrupted his thoughts. Although unarmed, Hunter didn’t feel threatened. No one knew where he was except Ma’hami, and he was like a brother. Ma’hami had proven his allegiance before, and it had nearly cost his Arab sibling his life.

  Still, the figure speeding along the shore made him curious. He watched as it came closer. Soon he realized it was a horse, a rider on its back hunkering low to gain the most speed. Wet sand shot from behind the horse like a cat covering up. The rider encouraged the animal fervently with rhythmic nudges from his heels. He seemed in a big hurry and an expert horseman. Judging by the long, loose fitting, striped jubbah he wore, he was probably a local Tunisian. But why was he pushing his ride so hard?

  A hundred yards away, horse and rider galloped through a small, shallow cove, the beating hooves splashing water around them explosively. Once through, they angled away. Their present course would bring them past only ten yards behind Hunter, toward a sand berm lined with palms. He figured they must be heading for the road on the other side leading to Tripoli.

  Now only thirty yards out, the horse frothed from its mouth and showed its exertion with thick lather flying back.

  As he was about to pass, the Arab suddenly yanked the reins right. Ma’hami’s Arabian horse bolted and the Arab’s horse lunged toward Hunter.

  He only had time to sit up from his elbows and turn before the rider drew a huge saber and leaped.

  The impact sprawled Hunter flat on his back. But as he fell, he pushed the attacker up and over with one foot and then dove on top.

  Just as he was about to gain control, the sword’s handle struck his temple and lightning shot through his skull. Darkness came momentarily. He recovered, sparkling lights before his eyes, and realized he was on his back again. As they wrestled, the Muslim glared down, only his eyes showing from the yashmak Arabic headdress. In the bright moonlight, the assassin’s orbs were intense—and blue, clearly blue.

  Hunter gaped as the fair-eyed Arab leaned back and raised the sword.

  He grabbed his assailant’s wrist, then realized that the saber had been held back purposely from doing its deed.

  Their eyes locked and Hunter felt suddenly mesmerized like a sparrow by a cobra. The veil fell loose from the side of the stranger’s face, revealing a beautiful woman’s smooth cheeks and sensuous full lips.

  “Spurs!” Hunter gasped.

  The sword tumbled from her hand and their burning lips met as her body fell onto his, submitting like melting butter on a hot skillet. The warm Mediterranean water lapped at their feet, and the beach’s radiating heat added to their passion as the tide began to come in.

  Their hungry mouths played, tongues teasing, moistening the kiss. She bit at his lips, chin, cheeks, then returned to his mouth with a sensuous, probing tongue. The fever from her firm body penetrated the heavy wool garment and with massaging, groping hands, he soon realized she wore nothing underneath. She began rubbing her middle against his and he joined
her knowing that she could feel his excitement growing.

  As he pulled the jubbah up from her slender, toned legs, she broke away from his kiss. She yanked the yashmak from her head and tossed it to the side, revealing her soft, strawberry-blonde hair. It seemed to glow like the sand in the bright lunar light. By the time he’d brought the robe up past her smooth hips, she’d begun to unbutton his shirt. Then, with nostrils flaring, she ripped it open, popping off the buttons like an anxious child tearing open a birthday gift.

  The advancing sea washed underneath Hunter’s back as he helped Spurs off with the jubbah and then rolled her over while stripping off his own shirt. She had his pants unbuttoned, unzipped and down to his ankles before he had time to think about it and he only had to pull his bare feet out of them to be free of clothing.

  He settled onto her and she welcomed him with legs parted eagerly. The musty smell of the warm salt water around them heightened his arousal adding to the clean but hot, naturally sweet scent of her body. Kissing her madly, he entered her moistness and she gasped and then gazed wantonly into his eyes. For a moment they took in each other’s passion, faces close, drawing in the love they had each longed for, but until now, had been denied. They were finally together. Nothing else mattered. The rest of the world could go to hell. For now they would make love and that moment alone would be worth a thousand lifetimes.

  They met with open mouths and she embraced him with her legs, arms and body. She moaned with his movements, and made soft, loving sighs as she nibbled on his ears and face, and then his neck.

  They writhed, bodies moving in perfect rhythm, but soon their feverish lovemaking was out of control like a reactor reaching critical mass, and the encroaching, tepid waves lapped over their bodies. He drove deep, her encouraging limbs pulling him into her beyond limits, and they finally climaxed together in wild, ecstatic surges until their strength was drained, sapped away in the undulating tide. He smiled down at her then collapsed on top, kissing her tenderly on the mouth, cheek and neck.

  Spurs’ lips spread in a fulfilled smile and she eased him over gently onto the soaked jubbah and rolled on top. Still coupled, she leaned back and looked down dreamily into his eyes, gently plowing through his thick chest hair with her fingers. He felt of her firm body; hips, waist and breasts and she ran her hands over his. Still grinning, she leaned back, bending him to the point of discomfort, pushing him into her deeper yet. Her fingers glided along his inner thighs behind her, then cupped them over him and caressed softly, causing ticklish shivers to run through his body.

  He gazed at her, the reality still soaking in, that he was with the beautiful, sassy, intelligent woman that he loved. It was like a dream. But no, it couldn’t be some sort of delusion. This was better than a dream.

  He wanted to go again, but first he had to tell her. “I love you, Spurs.” His eyes searched hers for reciprocation.

  She brought her hands to his sides and pulled at the jubbah as if she were tucking him into her love nest. Then, bending down she kissed him with puckered lips and squirmed, her breasts against his chest.

  Pulling back slightly, she said in a soft, low voice, “And I love you.” But her face suddenly grew somber.

  Something sharp poked into his chest and he looked at his left side to see a fingernail file set to shove between his ribs.

  She continued, “Now, tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

  Chapter 76

  ROYSE ROLLS

  Paul Royse Residence Silver Springs, MD July 6, 1700

  PAUL ROYSE STEPPED out of his fifteen-year-old dark green Mercedes and checked both ways. Seeming satisfied no one was watching, he went to his trunk and pulled out a black briefcase. Once again he scanned the area, then headed across the neatly trimmed lawn of his fine English Tudor home, unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door. Darren Hunter greeted him from the other side with an icy stare.

  Royse appeared shocked. He paused briefly before turning back toward the car. Janelle Sperling stepped out from a blue spruce tree along the drive and blocked Royse’s path.

  Hunter walked around from behind him and set a silver case on the hood of Royse’s car and opened it. Packed inside were fifty thousand, American, hundred dollar bills—five million dollars.

  “I believe you expected this to be yours,” Hunter said.

  Spurs remembered the first question Royse and Burgess had asked her before sending her on her last mission to kill Hunter. “Why?” Royse had asked, “Why would Hunter do such a thing?” She wasn’t able to answer that question. But they sent her to assassinate him because she “knew him better than anyone else and would be the only one he would allow close enough to kill him.”

  “Why?” she now asked Royse his own question, already knowing at least part of the answer.

  Two nights earlier, on a beach in Tunisia, it had taken Spurs and Hunter only a few minutes to finally put all of the pieces to the Operation Dead Reckoning puzzle together. After Hunter recovered from his injuries and found the money on a shallow shelf in the Strait of Gibraltar, he’d posed as the Chameleon in order to trap the real lizard. His idea hadn’t gone exactly according to plan, but at least they sent Spurs to track him down. And, with the clues he’d given her in his letter, Hunter had been easy to find. She was the only one that could help him piece the mess together.

  The love that Spurs felt for Darren Hunter made her believe him long enough to hear his explanation and when he’d finished, it was obvious to her that he was not the Chameleon.

  The puzzle finally meshed when they realized that Royse was the most likely candidate. He had the connections in the intelligence community. He had the ability to coordinate such a devious plan all from a cushy office in DC. He had the financial need.

  The operation that her uncle Paul required for his wife to make her whole again would be expensive. The vacation trip to the holy land that the Royses made had seemed odd to her. Now it made sense. He’d made contact with Allah’s Jihad during some point in their recent travels, probably to finalize the deal. The Atchison was chosen for his plan for obvious reasons—the new tomahawks, the drunken captain, the schizo XO, the misfit crew. Conniving with Admiral Pierce to ensure that the Atchison’s retrofit program would fail, he’d helped Pierce handpick Chardoff, Krebs and Goodman from their well tarnished personnel records, and had them transferred to the Atchison. He then won them over to the plot through an outside contact who also informed them that Hunter—North—was CIA. Most likely Royse had been wrongfully assured that the big Marine would take care of Hunter handily and complete the mission.

  It all jelled when Royse left his busy assignment and flew to Europe for the memorial ceremony. In actuality, when the Atchison sank, he’d most likely been waiting on a southern Spanish beach for Chardoff’s helicopter to return with the money. There, Allah’s Jihad would turn over the balance of the ten million and Royse would give Chardoff and his men half of the loot and the necessary visas and passports for safe passage to the countries of their choice and then vamoose with what was left.

  They’d pieced all of that together on their own from speculation and the info they’d had. Their shaky theory had solidified after speaking with Spurs’ aunt Katherine, Paul Royse’s wife, twenty minutes before Royse pulled into the driveway.

  * * *

  The young nurse smiled when she greeted Janelle Sperling and Darren Hunter at the front door.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “Mr. Royse isn’t home yet.”

  “That’s okay,” Spurs said, “we’re not here to see Uncle Paul. We’re here to see Aunt Katherine.”

  The young woman looked surprised and defensive until a voice came from another room. “It’s all right, Mary.”

  The nurse stepped aside and Spurs stepped in to see her aunt lying in a hospital-type bed, watching from the doorway of the atrium.

  “That’s my niece,” the frail woman said. “You’ll have to forgive Mary, Janelle. She’s my new nurse. Please come in. I see Darren Hunter is with
you. This isn’t social, though, is it? I think I know why you’re here.”

  Spurs and Hunter entered the large plant-filled room.

  “That will be all, Mary,” Katherine Royse said and the nurse left them to talk.

  “Good afternoon, Aunt Katherine,” Spurs said. She tried to smile.

  “Hello, Mrs. Royse,” Hunter said nodding.

  She grinned at him. “Always so formal, so respectful, my dear Darren.” To Spurs, she said, “It’s been so long since you’ve visited, Janelle—months. And every time I see you, you look more and more like your mother.” She seemed to leave them for a second, bemusing into the past. “She was so beautiful.” She soon drifted back to the present. “Paul is very proud of you, young lady,” she said grinning wide. “And, if I would have been able to have children, I would have wanted a daughter just like you. You know, you worried us sick when you were undercover?”

  Spurs blushed. Aunt Katherine had been like a mother to her ever since Spurs’ mother died. And, with her father seldom present, she’d sensed a mutual sort of daughter/father love with Royse. He’d always been the one to look out for her. And, he certainly hadn’t wanted her to be mixed up in the Chameleon investigation. Before all of this, there’d been many times she’d wished Paul Royse was her father. Now she felt betrayed, but somehow guilty for feeling that way.

  “Mrs. Royse, I’m sorry, but we’re here speak with you about . . . ,” Hunter began.

  “Please, Darren,” she said, still smiling at Spurs. “Let’s not play games. You’re here to arrest my husband and me for treason. Isn’t that right?”

  Hunter drew a deep breath.

  “Why would we arrest you?” Spurs asked. She frowned at her sympathetically.