On the Loose by Tara Janzen Page A

Park Avenue princesses in Morazán Province this week were classified as expendable assets.
    Diego Garcia might trust her to deliver his payoff, but Smith didn’t trust Diego Garcia, or Alejandro Campos, or the CIA, and as of two hours ago, White Rook was at the top of his “sketchy” list.
    Outside the hangar, he heard the familiar drone of a C-130 approaching, which did absolutely nothing to improve his mood. The Air Force loadmaster finished checking the pallet, then walked over and pressed a switch on the hangar wall. Two twenty-foot-high doors began sliding apart on greased rails, revealing the transport aircraft with its aft end facing the hangar, and its ramp coming down. In short order, a fork-lift operator was moving the pallet onto the ramp.
    Ready or not, he thought, and the answer to that was “not.”
    A serious-looking young man wearing tropical BDUs stepped off the airplane’s ramp and headed inside the hangar, approaching him and Honey. The soldier’s uniform was completely devoid of unit insignia or any other identification—one more sign that Smith and Honey were heading into no-man’s-land.
    â€œI’m Smith,” the young soldier said with a quick wink.
    â€œYeah, so am I,” Smith admitted, grinning in spite of himself and the whole rotten situation.
    â€œTwo to Ilopango,” the soldier continued. “Transload and handoff to Salvadoran army at hangar T-195, correct?”
    â€œThat’s us,” Rydell confirmed. “I need a set of BDUs for my civilian package. Do you have anything that’ll even come close to fitting her?”
    â€œYes, sir,” the soldier said, his gaze flicking over Honey before returning directly to Smith. “We were warned of a civilian VIP, female, short, size four with size five shoes.”
    Short. Smith’s grin widened. He couldn’t imagine she liked that.
    â€œWe’re setting up a dressing screen now.” The younger man continued, pointing to the right of the doors, where another member of the aircrew was busy rigging a poncho with some suspension line. “The uniform and a pair of boots will be behind the screen.”
    Smith nodded, then shifted his attention back to the pallet being winched aboard the C-130. Yes, sir, he was going to be wondering for a long time what the CIA had promised the Salvadoran government in order to get their cooperation on a load of weapons being delivered to the CNL.
    Talk about politics and bedfellows. That kind of information either never showed up anywhere, ever, or someday, some headline would catch his eye, and he’d think, “So that was what that was all about.” It had happened to him a couple of times, but he couldn’t say he’d ever gotten any satisfaction out of it. The CIA ran their own game, their own way, and anybody and everybody was grist for their mill.
    â€œYour cargo will be secure in ten more minutes,” the soldier said. “I need you on board as soon as possible after that, since we have runway priority. Wheels up in fifteen.”
    â€œWe’ll be ready and standing by, inside the left edge of the door,” Smith said. “It would be nice if the aircrew could help us give the other passenger some visual screening between the hangar and the ramp.”
    The soldier gave Honey another brief glance and returned his attention to Smith, again without a single expression crossing his face—pure professional, all the way.
    â€œAlready arranged,” he said. “See you in a few.”
    â€œBDUs?” she asked, as soon as the younger man had walked away.
    â€œBattle Dress Uniform, a camouflage shirt and trousers, cotton twill. You’ll be glad you’re wearing them,” he said, immediately launching into the hard sell in order to avoid an argument they didn’t have time to have. “They’ll be warmer and more comfortable on the plane, and less