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really haven’t figured it out?” she asked, not bothering to cover what to them would be an accent.
    Ward shook his head. “British Intelligence.”
    â€œMI6?” Ford’s eyes widened. “Get the fuck out.”
    â€œMakes sense.” The shock started to leave Ward’s voice.
    Ford’s frown suggested he was having trouble believing. “Does it?”
    If they kept talking to each other they wouldn’t need her for this conversation. Now there was a tempting thought.
    â€œWe’ll get confirmation.” The amusement left Ford’s face, and he went back to scowling. “How exactly?” She doubted MI6 opened its files whenever the CIA called. Especially not in this case, where she wasn’t even supposed to be in this country and neither were they.
    When he ignored the question, she leaned against the tree, this time not for leverage. From the cramped quarters in the tree, her right thigh muscle kept twitching. Taking some weight off it helped.
    Ward tucked her gun into the back waistband of his pants. “That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
    Since they both stared at her, she wondered if she’d missed part of the discussion. “What?”
    â€œYour name is Natasha and you’re a spy?” Ward scoffed. “I mean, come on.”
    Really, that was his concern? Man, these Langley boys misfired sometimes. “Were you this big of a pain in the ass back at the resort?”
    â€œNo,” Ward said.
    Ford nodded. “Absolutely.”
    Maybe she didn’t need them after all. They got easily sidetracked. Even now they stood close enough to striking range that they should be on high alert. Instead, they joked and slouched. Not exactly prime examples of the CIA type . . . not that she’d liked all that many of the ones she’d met.
    â€œNow that we’ve had our introductions, you both need to leave.” She tried to sound calm about it since some men got all defensive if a woman showed her strength. And if one of them called her a bitch, she’d put him in a headlock with her thighs.
    Ward didn’t move, but the air around him did. It was as if something inside him snapped to attention. “Not happening.”
    â€œYou’re going to blow my op.” She looked over at Ford. “Lose the gun.”
    â€œShe’s bossy.” Ford smiled as if he seemed happy at the idea.
    Time for a little tough love or a reality check—whatever they called it. “You guys trained Tigana. He went to college in your country. Harvard, right?” Before Ward could answer, she plowed ahead. “He enjoyed the funding you sent his way and the Stinger missiles you provided for him to shoot down planes and flip over armored vehicles.”
    â€œThat clearly was a miscalculation,” Ford mumbled under his breath.
    Ward held up a hand. “What my friend means is the US had no involvement with any weapons this hypothetical piece of shit may or may not have.”
    There was no need for confirmation, but she had it now. “He destroyed his own country. Now he has his eye on Fiji as a new playground, and you guys are here because you need to clean up your mess.”
    Ward shrugged. “Admittedly, he is not the finest example of the US education system.”
    Not exactly the response she expected. “He’s going to start a military coup, shake up the Pacific, then move on from there with his cache of surface-to-air missiles. I can’t let any of that happen.”
    And this guy would do it. He grabbed or bought—that part of the intel wasn’t clear—weapons that were easy to carry and invented to inflict maximum damage from a distance. The technical term was MANPADS, Man-Portable Air-Defense System. It could shoot three miles and depended on infrared homing, which meant a shooter could fire then run. No need to wait around for targeting. Which also meant Tigana qualified as a very