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farce, that Philippe wasn't a multimillionaire, that he only needed Kurt to approach the consortium
and in-
vest in his oil development" She shook her head. "Kurt is a vindictive man," she added quietly. "He'll
kill Philippe if he can. He's lost his shirt. He may not even be able to buy guns on consignment to sell
to people in the Middle East. If it gets out that he's hired men to invade and overthrow a sheikhdom,
the international community will go after him. He can't afford to leave any witnesses around."
"You're absolutely right," Pierce agreed. 'Til do what I can for Sabon," he added reluctantly. "But not
because I want to. I just don't want Brauer to get away with it."
Neither do I." She turned and stared at him
quietly. "Philippe isn't at all what he seems.
Despite his power and whatever wealth he re
alizes from his oil development, he has so lit
tle." J*
"Tell me why," Pierce demanded.
She shook her head. "It isn't my secret to tell." She walked away from him and sat down on a boxed
crate nearby. How long will it take to get to Savannah?"
"I'm not sure," he replied, distracted. "Why don't you try to get some sleep? I'm going to find Tate and
Mufti."
She looked around. There were some old
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sacks nearby. She lay down on them and pillowed her cheek on her hand. She hadn't realized how
tired she was.
"They won't get us, will they?" she asked drowsily.
"No." He sounded supremely confident. She smiled and went to sleep.
The freighter pulled into Savannah harbor and the four passengers in the hold were suddenly
confronted by men in dark suits.
The tallest of the three newcomers glanced from one tense face to another, then lingered on Tate's. A
look passed between them.
"U.S. Customs," the tall, suited man said abruptly, and flashed open a wallet, showing a badge. He
closed it before it could be seen clearly. "Come with us, please."
The four passengers were marched up on deck. Brianne felt for Pierce's hand and held on tight. She
was seeing a lengthy trial while they tried to explain their predicament, followed by a jail sentence.
She hated closed places. She'd never get to college. She'd never be a real wife and mother. She'd be a
jailbird.
Once inside at the customs gate, they were stopped by other customs officials who listened
to the curt explanation the tall man gave them. There was some difficulty, but it was quickly sorted
out, and Brianne and her companions were hustled from the building and out into the humid heat of
Savannah with its perfect squares and live oaks and secret gardens. Brianne longed to see it all, but
she wasn't a tourist.
Their escorts led them down the side of the building, into two waiting stretch limousines. Black, of
course.
"We've been captured by the 'men in black,''' Brianne moaned as they waited for the suits to get into
the car. "We'ft never be seen again!"
Tate chuckled. When the tall man was in the front seat and the car was moving, he opened the glass
partition and leaned over the plush black leather seat.
"I damned near had to deck the customs guy," the tall man muttered. "Why couldn't you just fly into
Miami?"
"We were expected mere," Tate said. He held out a hand and the other man handed him an Uzi. He slid
it under his jacket. He glanced at his puzzled companions. "This is Marl-boro," he introduced them.
"He works for me," he added. "So do the other two."
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"You're not customs officials?" Brianne burst out.
"No, but we did used to belong to the government," the tall man said sheepishly. "I'd tell you which
part, but then I'd have to..."
"Shoot us," Brianne muttered. She sighed. "See? Everybody says that!" she told Pierce.
"That's true. But he isn't kidding, either," Tate murmured dryly.
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
The tall man grimaced. "I don't like shooting women."
Brianne actually gasped.
"It was only one woman, and she turned out to be a male foreign national with a pack of plastique
hidden in her...his...well, never mind," Tate muttered. "Anyway, it was a matter of national security and
the 'woman' drew first."
"Where do we go from here?" Pierce asked, confident that his security chief would get them where
they were going in one piece.
"Straight to D.C.," Tate replied. "By way of a private airstrip."
Trust Tate to know someone everywhere he needed assistance, Pierce thought amusedly as the car
pulled off on a dirt road and stopped,
finally, at a deserted airstrip where a small jet was parked and waiting.
"Don't tell me," Pierce murmured as they climbed aboard the small, neat aircraft. "Someone owed you
a favor."
"Well, he did," Tate said enigmatically, and grinned. "So did this pilot."
"Hiring you was the best thing I ever did," Pierce told him.
Tate chuckled. "I'm glad you noticed. I'll sit
up front."
Brianne found herself sandwiched in between the two security men, with an irritated Pierce and a
silent but amazed Mufti across the aisle from them.
"You married?" the taller man asked Brianne expectantly.
"Yes, she is," Pierce said tersely.
"Gee whiz, the best ones always are," the tall man said. "Guess your husband will be glad to see you
back home and safe, huh?"
"Her husband is sitting across the aisle from you," Pierce said in a voice that was pleasant enough; it
was his eyes that made threats.
The taller man unfastened his seat belt and got up at once, moving to a seat behind
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Brianne. "Sorry, Mr. Hutton," he said in a strained voice.
"No harm done." Pierce didn't move to sit beside Brianne. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Brianne glared at him. Some husband, she thought angrily. Dog in the manger, more like. She closed
her own eyes and shut him out.
As they suspected, the plane didn't land in Washington, D.C. It landed on a palatial estate in Virginia,
which Brianne learned later was owned by a shadowy figure with ties to the world of espionage. He,
too, apparently owed Tate a favor.
A car was waiting for them, and three more suited men were standing around it, also wearing
sunglasses, and carrying automatic weapons.
"Aren't automatic weapons illegal?" Brianne asked worriedly.
Of course,'' Tate assured her.
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