Free Species II by Yvonne Navarro Page A

who had hardly been worth the effort and were certainly not deserving of the expense of taking the helicopter up. Supposedly comprised of trained men, yet all Press saw now were bloody noses and bruised egos. Ah, well.
    Press gestured at his team, the men already lined up and waiting for his next command. He knew he looked good: a fresh haircut and a manicure would do that, and let’s not forget the two-thousand-dollar Armani suit and Oliver Peeples shades that gave him the “operative agent” look these European guys admired so much. If this were real, he’d be wearing jeans and a sport shirt, plus a good pair of Asics running shoes, no one would be able to pick him out of a crowd. As far as he was concerned, however, the guys on his assault team were the important ones, and they looked better than he did, better than better, as a matter of fact. All were dressed alike in well-fitting black-cotton BDU outfits, and all had striped their faces with black greasepaint that made them indistinguishable from each other. Only their eyes were different—beyond those, they could’ve been moving shadows even, in the daylight. Damn, but he was proud of them.
    He smiled wider, adjusted his tie, then gave them all a look of pride. “In addition to the clockwork demonstration of special services you just witnessed, Press Lennox Diplomatic Security provides the best in embassy guards and protection against kidnapping and assassinations. We have numerous contacts around the world and—” Press broke off his sales pitch as he saw his assistant, a reedy, mild-looking young man nicknamed Hawk who could kill a person in under three seconds, hurrying around the far side of the knot of observers. Damn it, now what?
    “You’ve got a visitor,” Hawk said into Press’s ear. “I told him to fuck off but he says it’s a matter of national security. And he claims it won’t wait until the end of the demo session.”
    “All right,” Press said as his jaw tightened. He turned back to the curious stares of the crowd waiting for him and plastered another charming smile across his face. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s something that requires my attention. My assistant can answer all your questions.”
    Knowing glances were exchanged, and he thought that was immensely funny—what did these people think they knew about Press Lennox’s life that could do them any good? Press resisted the urge to shake his head as he strolled nonchalantly away toward the shaded area where he’d parked his baby, a brand-new soft-top Porsche Boxster. There it was, all those coats of custom black lacquer, and some asshole in a colonel’s uniform was leaning all over it. He was five steps away from throttling the bastard when the older man turned and saw him.
    Press stopped and grimaced. “Well, well. Carter Burgess.”
    Burgess made a game attempt at a pleasant smile. “Hello, Press.” He glanced at the Boxster. “Nice car.”
    “The answer is no.”
    The colonel held up his hand. “Wait—hear me out. We’ve got another one of those fucking aliens on the loose—”
    “My sympathies,” Press said flatly. “But I’m in the private sector now. Get someone else.”
    “Come on, buddy. We’re talking about national security. Your country is calling.”
    Press didn’t budge. “You can skip the buddy-calling and flag-waving, Burgess. How clear do I have to make it? I’m not interested, and in case you missed the fun here, I’ve got a business to run.” A line of dull red crept across Burgess’s forehead just below the line of his blond-gray crewcut. For a moment Press thought the man was going to take a swing at him, and he almost smiled outright. Go for it, old man, he thought. We’ll give my future customers a live one-on-one.
    But Burgess only reached up and pointed to his glass eye, his voice cold and stiff with anger. “Listen to me, Lennox. You know how I got this damned piece of glass in my eye?” he ground out. “It’s a sacrifice I