Free Day Of Wrath by Larry Bond Page A

good-sized commercial empire.
    From time to time, he likes to help Alexei out. That’s all there is to the mystery money.”
    “Oh.” Thorn winced. He hesitated and then forced himself to admit the obvious. “Guess I look something like a jerk right now, don’t I ?”
    “Yes, you do. Maybe a little jealous, too,” Helen replied tartly.
    Then, seeing the crestfallen look on his face, her tone softened slightly. “Of course, you’re kind of cute when you’re jealous, Colonel Thorn.”
    He tried a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I can’t help it. Once Special Forces, always Special Forces. Jealousy’s just part of my Neanderthal Army training. Sort of ‘see my woman, see handsome stranger, bash handsome stranger … ”” Helen made a face. “Peter. Oh, Peter …” She chuckled and shook her head. “So here you’ve been keeping one eye cocked at Alexei Koniev—suspecting him of being everything from a Mafiya plant to a Muscovite Don Juan who’s trying to sweep me off my feet …”
    Thorn laughed quietly. “Okay, that does sound kinda stupid.
    But you’ve got to admit, the guy is pretty slick.”
    Helen’s smile grew wider. “Now, Peter Thorn, if I were interested in somebody suave and debonair, would I be interested in you?”
    Thorn laughed and shook his head. “Probably not.”
    “Right. So stop worrying.” Helen leaned over and kissed him.
    Suddenly, a snide, perfectly modulated voice washed over them. “Well, well, well. What an interesting investigative technique, Special Agent Gray.”
    Helen pulled herself upright, already turning red.
    Thorn swung around in his chair. He took an instant dislike to the middleaged man standing leering at them from the entrance to the tent.
    Everything about the stranger seemed out of place in this rough working camp deep in the Russian wilderness. His perfectly tailored suit, crisp white shirt, and expensive black loafers without a trace of mud on them all shouted “rear-echelon motherfucker” to Thorn—or, worse yet, “politician.”
    “Who the hell are you?” Thorn growled as he stood up, not bothering to hide the anger in his voice.
    “ FBI Deputy Assistant Director Lawrence Mcdowell,” the other man answered calmly. He came closer. “And I might ask you the same question.”
    Great, just great, Thorn thought bitterly.
    He knew Mcdowell headed the FBI’s International Relations Branch—which made him Helen Gray’s Washington-based boss.
    According to Helen, he was the worst possible mix—intensely ambitious and a prima donna to boot. He spent more of his time toadying to the current administration and to powerful Capitol Hill staffers than he did managing the Bureau’s far-flung legal attache offices. Apparently, he and Helen had also crossed swords sometime in the past—before either of them worked in the same unit. Ever since then the bastard had tried to make her life difficult whenever he could.
    And now they’d given him the perfect opening to make even more trouble.
    Shit.
    “I asked you a question” — Mcdowell’s eyes flicked to the rank insignia on Thorn’s battle-dress uniform—”Colonel.”
    “My name’s Peter Thorn.”
    “Thorn.” Mcdowell chewed on that for a second or two. Then it clicked. The FBI man snorted in disgust. “The Delta Force cowboy.”
    Thorn knew what the other man was thinking. Two years before he’d led a Delta Force commando raid into Teheran to kill Amir Talehan Iranian general who’d organized a terrorist campaign on American soil that had thrown the whole country into complete chaos. When the operation started going wrong, the President had gotten cold feet and tried to abort the mission.
    Thorn had refused. He’d disobeyed a direct order from the commander-in-chief, pushed ahead, and won—though at a high cost in casualties. Success had protected him against the courtmartial he’d expected, but it hadn’t saved his career from oblivion.
    And for a climber like Mcdowell, that was probably the