My Dangerous Valentine by Carolyn McCray Page B

Pakistan or Bangladesh?”
    “Bangladesh,” Trinka replied.
    That only made it worse. That splinter group had been responsible for numerous foreign store bombings in India. The chatter was that they were working their way up to taking on America.
    And a major American mall on Christmas Eve? That would be quite the statement.
    “Get the Director looped in. Plus the FBI, Homeland and NSA.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” another voice said. “Trigger here. Standing by in case you find an explosive device.”
    “Good to know,” Val answered, imagining the clean-cut youth. He was the opposite of what a computer geek should look and act like. Unlike most CIA hackers, Trigger did not have a criminal background. Hell, Val didn’t think the kid had a parking ticket.
    Even on Christmas Eve, the kid probably had on his three-piece suit, his tie perfectly knotted. Never loosened. His Mormon upbringing shone through. He could be making ten times what the agency paid him out in the private sector, yet he was dedicated to a life of service.
    Which worked for Val. Hopefully, she wouldn’t need his expertise. Hopefully, this was just a wild goose chase led by a bored Russian. Although, as the SVR’s top asset, Ukav seldom had time to be bored.
    None of that mattered right now, though. Right now, she had to climb down a slick vertical shaft, in stilettos no less. Seriously, Bond never had these problems.
    Holstering her gun, Val braced her shoes against the sides, scuffing their perfect alligator leather. A small price to pay. Pressing her palms against the cool metal, Val lowered herself into the shaft. Foot by foot, she made her way down, following Ukav.
    Finally, her feet hit the bottom of the shaft. Beyond the thin metal, she could hear the grinding and groaning of a furnace. Crawling, Val followed the shaft that with the dust disturbed.
    Conveniently, Ukav left the grate off. At least she knew that she was hot on his trail. Crawling out of the vent, Val shook off the knot in her shoulders. Pulling her gun again, she checked her corners, then moved out into the boiler room. The place was dim and dank. Years of steam had etched their way into the concrete walls. Rivulets of water coursed down the cement.
    Huge cylinders created a maze of steel in the basement. Rusted steel. The air was heavy and humid. Val pinched her nose against the strong smell of metal. Plus it was hot. The furnace wasn’t exactly well insulated.
    Gun up, Val cautiously moved forward. “Any idea where the Harkats are?” she whispered into the darkness.
    “Looks like they took the direct route to the basement,” Trinka said.
    The only warning of the attack was the clink of metal against metal. Val twisted, aiming up, but her shot went wide as a man threw himself from the top of the cylinder. The ricochet, though, came back, puncturing the metal. Steam blasted out, blistering the man’s face. Even so, he raised the crowbar and came down on her gun arm.
    Pain jangled down the limb as the gun hit the floor and skidded under a cylinder.
    Bastard.
    Pivoting on her heel, Val came back around with her elbow, burying it in his solar plexus. The guy’s garlic hummus breath heated the back of her neck. Taking her very pointed heel, Val slammed it into his foot. This doubled him over even further. Her right arm still useless, Val came at him with a roundhouse kick, knocking the crow bar out of his hand.
    He tried to come back with a left hook—however, he telegraphed the move from Bangladesh. She leaned back, letting the fist swing right past her. In a smooth motion, she grabbed the crow bar with her left hand and brought it up against the side of his temple. The impact made a sick thunk, and suddenly there was a dent in the guy’s skull.
    He keeled over, smacking into the cement face first.
    “That’s how you use a crow bar,” Val informed him as she stepped over his body.
    “Ma’am, there are three terrorists down there, according to the footage,” Trigger informed