SECRET SOLDIER --- Can't wait to get the book to see what trouble Spike is going to get himself into? Take a peek at the first chapter below:

CHAPTER ONE

Jack 'Spike' Logan crouched behind the counter, his finger on the trigger. He couldn't hear them, but he knew they were out there somewhere in the cold night, waiting to take him down.

They were welcome to try.

He scanned the kitchen and its three possible points of entry: living room, laundry room and back porch. Too many. He kept in the cover of the counter as he crept toward the sliding glass doors.

Something rustled the azalea bush behind the swing set outside.

Not the wind. The trees and other plants in the backyard remained still, outlined against the background by the waning moon.

Somebody behind that bush was waiting to kill him. He could have shot the man from where he stood, but the sound of gunfire would have brought the other two running. He had already neutralized the rest of the twelve who'd gotten the unfortunate assignment to take him out. Still, three assailants were plenty to set a tidy trap. The man in the bush could be a decoy. Spike lifted his finger from the trigger. He needed a plan.

Careful to keep out of the patches of moonlight that illuminated the kitchen, he moved back toward the living room and waited to make sure it was clear before he entered.

The line of narrow windows looked out onto the backyard, but dense hemlocks blocked the view. Millimeter by millimeter, he pushed up one of the panels. Cold wind slammed into his face as he stuck his head out far enough to make sure no surprises waited for him in the two-foot gap between the row of hemlocks and the house. Nobody there. He should be able to get out without touching the trees and giving himself away. But first, back to the kitchen to wait.

Five minutes crawled by before the azalea bush moved again. Good, the bastard was still there. Jack lifted his gun, nice and slow, no sudden movements that might catch the other man's attention. The attacker had to be either in a crouch or lying on his stomach, facing the house. In his mind, Spike mapped the likely locations for all the vital organs. He squeezed off six shots in quick succession then dropped to the floor and rolled. No return fire. He didn't get up until he was in the living room. He made it halfway to the window when one of the two remaining men popped up outside, grabbed the sill and vaulted in.

Spike shot the guy in the middle of the chest, the hit confirmed by the red patch that immediately bloomed on the man's bodysuit. He heard a faint scraping noise but couldn't tell from what direction it came. Since the man he'd just shot came in the back, he figured the other one would break in through the front. Spike shoved the man out of the way and jumped through the window, landing softly on the mulched ground. And the next second felt the cold metal of a gun in the back of his head.

Rodriguez. He didn't have to turn to know who it was. There was only one man on that team who could hope to come close enough to touch him. And nobody but Rodriguez was cocky enough not to take a shot when he had the chance, but think he could bring in Spike alive.

He put his hands in the air as he straightened, looking for the slightest opportunity. And it came, as it always did for those who were ready. The gun wavered slightly against his skin as the man behind him shifted. Spike dropped and threw his body weight against him, and shot him twice in the heart before they hit the ground.

'Get off me.' Rodriguez swore in Spanish. 'My beeper went off.'

'What the hell are you talking about'? It had to be a trick. What was Rodriguez hoping for? The computerized grid built into the man's training suit had already registered the fatal hit and signaled it with the red fluorescent circle.

'It's Nicola, you idiot. I've gotta go.'

Spike rolled off him and squeezed between two hemlocks to get to the open yard from the narrow spot behind the trees. 'I took you fair and-- Nicola'?

'The baby is coming.' Rodriguez pushed through the branches, grinning like an idiot. 'I've gotta run,' he said and hauled ass at combat speed.

Spike stared after him, stunned to speechlessness. Alejandro Jesus Rodriguez, one of the most dangerous and toughest men he knew, one of the very few he actually respected. And the woman had him on a beeper.

It couldn't be happening. Not to a man like Rodriguez.

And yet it had.

Spike brushed off the front of his full bodysuit, free of red circles, as if what Alex had was catching. Hell, no. That was never going to happen to him. He shook his head and watched the rest of the team come in.

'What's wrong with Rodriguez'? The special agent who had organized the PLT suit testing--Precision Laser Technology-- came around the corner.

'His wife is having a baby.'

'No kidding' Her first? What's the rush? She'll be at it for a while. First time around, takes forever and a day.'

'Yes, sir.' Spike looked at the ground trying to think of something to say to change the conversation, which didn't seem fitting for the FBI training course.

'He must have had a beeper.' The man sounded nostalgic.

Did this kind of thing happen all the time? Spike stepped back, not wanting to breach this previously unknown territory. Better to stay ignorant. He didn't want to know if men out there jumped and ran to commands beeped from their wives. He might never again be able to enjoy his freedom with the knowledge of such atrocities on fellow members of his gender.

'Let's go inside and have a quick evaluation.' Special Agent Mullock, one of a handful of men at the FBI who was aware of the SDDU's existence, pointed toward the house now that all eleven of Alex's team had arrived. 'Please don't reset your suits until I confirm that the computer made an accurate recording.'

Spike grunted. Nobody seemed to care that it was two o'clock in the morning. The cold front coming in all the way from Canada tried its best to freeze his balls off in the thin PLT training suit, clearly designed for fair-weather exercises. He didn't remember the last time temperatures had been this low in September. Of course, the trainees were eager to prove they were tough enough for the SDDU, Special Designation Defense Unit, America's secret weapon against terrorism. And Agent Mullock was probably too excited about testing PLT's latest wonder to think of something as mundane as the comfort of Spike's testicles.

No, that wasn't fair. Evaluating an operation was most efficient and productive if done as soon as possible afterward, while all events were most clear in the participants' heads. Spike took a deep breath and followed after the men who filed into the house through the sliding glass doors.

He partially unzipped the top of the training suit, pulled his cell phone from his T-shirt's front pocket and turned it on. Message from Colonel Wilson, received half an hour ago. 'Call me at the office.'

Didn't anybody sleep anymore?

He stepped back outside, punched the numbers.

The Colonel picked up on the first ring. 'Where have you been'?

'FBI training course. We were testing the new PLT suits.'

'I didn't know you did training.'

'As a favor to Rodriguez, sir. He asked me to be the target for his new team.'

A moment of silence, then, 'How do you feel about doing some damage control for the CIA'?

'I can be in your office in fifteen.'

'Go straight to Andrews. We have a plane waiting to take you to Beharrain. Everything you'll need is on board. An agent will fill you in on the details on the way over.'

'Is it a joint operation'?

'You'll be one of multiple simultaneous efforts, but working alone. They're having trouble with a new terrorist group that's trying to make a name by executing a large-scale attack in the U.S. A couple of dates popped up in the chatter. We've got about two weeks to stop them.'

'But I'll be reporting to you'? Spike asked just to be sure.

'Correct. I will be your sole point of contact.'

Good. He preferred it that way. He was ready for some action, hoped the assignment to the Middle East was a good one. It had to be something unusual. The CIA didn't come around to ask the SDDU for help every day. There had to be more to the story. 'You said damage control'?

'They lost some woman.'

He wasn't real. She had to be hallucinating. Another heatstroke. Great. Dr. Abigail DiMatteo gaped at the stranger coming out of her mud hut, forgetting about the headache she'd gotten from her mother's nagging. She felt her forehead--sweaty but not feverish. She pinched the skin on the back of her hand, and it snapped back as soon as she let it go, rather than smooth out slowly, displaying visible lack of elasticity as when people were severely dehydrated. Phew. No heatstroke. Excellent. She hated the puking.

The man, about the same height as her hut, walked to his Jeep, surrounded by more children than she'd thought lived in the village, and grabbed a load of bags then disappeared behind the worn length of fabric that served as her door. If he was an inch wider in the shoulders he would have had to go in sideways.

Who on earth was that?

She cranked her neck as the truck she was riding in flew over the road toward the 'square'--the largest common area around, and the starting and arrival point for the weekly 'market shuttle'.

She willed her bones to keep from rattling apart as the truck bounced over the uneven ground. The rest of the passengers didn't seem to mind. The platform of the old Russian-made Kamaz was filled to capacity with men, women and children who had gone into Rahmara for the weekly market. They looked like some ragamuffin paramilitary group, with rifle barrels glinting in the sun. No man left the village without his gun, and weapons were in abundance thanks to the recent civil war. She had seen goatherds armed better than half the soldiers who occasionally rode through the village.

The truck slowed as it reached the center of the shantytown built on the ruins of Tukatar, a once-prosperous village destroyed by six years of war. The driver brought the vehicle to a halt, gears screeching to high heaven, and Abigail lifted her large bundle onto her back, as eager to get home as the rest of the people jumping to the sand.

Home. It was the first time she had thought of her mud hut as such since she had arrived four days ago. Amazing how a death-defying trip across the desert could make you appreciate what you had.

Home indeed. With a mysterious visitor. She walked as briskly as she could, considering the heat and the load on her back. She hadn't expected anyone. The man couldn't have looked more out of place if he tried. Tall, blond, and well-built, the all- American poster boy. But he must have been at least somewhat familiar with the culture since he wore long pants instead of shorts, and a simple white shirt--nothing to offend. Despite the clothing usually thought excessive by westerners for hundred-plus degrees of heat, he didn't look like he was breaking a sweat.

She, on the other hand, was baking under the long black abayah she'd chosen to wear out of respect for the local customs. The veil that covered her head kept the dust out of her hair, but her face had half a pound of sand stuck to it, and her body was drenched in sweat. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been more in need of a bath. And, of course, there was no chance of that whatsoever. She barely had enough water at the hut to drink.

Her bundle of wooden bowls, sacks of flour, a jar of honey and other essentials, weighed more by the minute. But they were things she needed, things unavailable in the small village. She could get milk, cheese, eggs, fruits and vegetables from her neighbors, but for anything beyond that she had to go to town. The villagers had scarcely enough to eat after two years of drought, rarely any surplus to sell.

Tired to the bone, she shifted her load to the other shoulder. She was having a really rotten day, not in the mood for visitors at all. He'd better have brought food and some articles of comfort.

She didn't want to have to go into Rahmara for a while. Although seeing a bigger town had been interesting, the trip was murder. And she had felt compelled to call her mother as long as she was near the only phone for a hundred miles around. And her mother never missed an occasion to drive her crazy.

Abigail adjusted the bundle on her back. Next week when she went into Rahmara, she would buy a goat. She had tried to buy one from a farmer in town as soon as she'd arrived, but he refused. Probably because she was a woman. Rahmara was bigger, not as backward as Tukatar. Tukatar was strictly under the thumb of the local mullah.

The mullah. Oh, my God. She broke into a run. Had the village's religious leader decided to give her hut to someone else? He hadn't liked the idea of her project from the beginning and had let her stay only because of the money.

She slowed as she got closer to her hut, tried to catch her breath. The Jeep was still there. The children greeted her in a chorus, none with a wider smile than Zaki, a seven-year-old ragamuffin who'd lost his left leg in a land-mine accident.

The man was nowhere in sight.

'Hello,' she called out.

No response.

Well. She didn't have to wait for acknowledgement. As far as she knew, it was still her home. She pulled aside the cloth that served as a door and marched right in.

'Hi.' The intruder stopped unpacking and came toward her with his right hand extended, his handsome face splitting into a wide smile that revealed movie-star-quality sparkling teeth.

He overwhelmed her in every way: his size, his good looks, his incredible blue eyes. He looked somewhat swarthier up close, his face covered by the beginnings of a beard, a shade or two darker than his hair. And yet, even that could not detract from the perfect lines of his strong, masculine face. His smile radiated charisma, as his body radiated power. 'I'm Gerald Thornton from the Barnsley Foundation.'

Her annoyance at a stranger making himself at home in her hut evaporated as fast as water from desert sand. He was bringing money that would save countless orphans. She lowered her bundle onto the already cluttered dirt floor and shook his hand, twice as large as her own, feeling swallowed up both by his presence and his touch. She pulled back abruptly and looked away, then back at his confident smile, trying to figure out what about him made her feel skittish. It wasn't like her to be so easily intimidated. Ignore the man, focus on the business.

'Does that mean I received the grant'? She drew up her eyebrows, trying to act surprised. No sense getting Lilly into trouble by letting on that her friend had leaked the news weeks ago.

His smile widened, his tanned face crinkling into laugh lines around his vibrant blue eyes and super masculine mouth. 'You've got it. Congratulations!'

'Thank you. I'm stunned. And thank you for coming all this way.' She certainly hadn't expected that.

'No trouble at all, Dr. DiMatteo. Bringing good news is always a pleasure.'

She liked his voice. Not the kind of deep baritone that resonated in the chest, like Anthony's, the voice she had fallen in love with so much that she had ignored the rest for too long. Gerald's tone was friendly, straightforward, with a hint of smile in it. It matched the ever-present grin on his face. He was the most handsome man she'd ever met, despite the beginnings of a beard. She'd never been attracted to facial hair, but on him it looked good--gave him a little edge.

She wanted to ask him how many days he was staying, whether he could drive her to Rahmara to the bank to deposit the check so she wouldn't have to wait until next week's market to take the truck to town. But since he had just gotten there, it seemed rude to ask when he would be leaving. He had to be exhausted from the trip from New York City.

'Do you normally deliver the awards' I was under the impression I'd be notified by phone.' She had checked her voice-mail at home from Rahmara, but there were no messages from the foundation.

He unzipped a black leather case and pulled out a camera. 'I'm going to record your entire adventure. For promotional purposes.' The smile he flashed her was lethal.

She barely noticed. The words 'entire adventure' echoed in her head and revived her forgotten headache. He was going to stay with her indefinitely? The ten-by-ten mud hut seemed to close in on her. She should have known the whole thing was too good to be true. No such thing as a free lunch.

He couldn't stay. She had plenty of things to do. Her project of rehabilitating war orphans was barely off the ground. No time to baby-sit some city boy. And he was a real charmer, just what she didn't need. If he as much as looked at a woman in the village, they'd both be kicked out. Or worse. What she needed was to come up with a nice polite way to say no.

'Listen, mind if I crash'? He flashed her a disarming smile that would have been enough to give any woman palpitations. 'Jet-lag is catching up with me.'

She flushed with embarrassment. He'd caught her so off guard, she'd forgotten even the most basic courtesies. Hadn't even offered him a glass of water yet. Inconvenience or not, he had traveled halfway around the world to reach her. 'Would you like a drink or something to eat'?

'Thanks. I think I'm okay for now. More tired than anything.' He settled onto his sleeping bag with fluid, precise motions. He was well-built, handsome as sin, with that larger-than-life quality of rock stars. He definitely looked as if he belonged in front of the camera rather than behind it. What an earth was she going to do with him?

'Goodnight, then.' She tried to adjust to the thought of him sleeping within arm's reach to her. Right. That would take more than a few seconds.

She stepped outside, needing a little distance, and watched the kids who still seemed enamored with the Jeep. They were her number-one priority. She would deal with the man inside her hut somehow. Shouldn't be that hard to come up with an excuse that would send him back.

Zaki hobbled toward her on his makeshift crutch, stumbling as it sank into the sand but catching himself in time. The bruises on his face had faded quite a bit since she'd first seen him. Because of his disability, he'd often been more successful with begging than the others, which resulted in being beaten up regularly when the bigger boys came to take his food away. She had stopped that by making it clear that any meals she gave were contingent on no more fighting. The boys took her seriously.

Zaki smiled as he greeted her. His cheeks were filling out. She smiled back. This was what she was here to do, not pose for the camera. She would talk to the kids, discuss tasks for tomorrow, give out as much food as she could and think of a polite way to get rid of Gerald in the morning. She didn't like the idea of someone looking over her shoulder twenty-four hours a day. And her instant physical attraction to him made her like the man even less.

Abigail opened her eyes, then closed them again against the bright light that streamed through the small windows. People were talking outside. She had slept longer than usual, having spent half the night awake, wondering about what to do with Gerald.

He was still sleeping. She sat up. Should she wake him? No rush. Might as well let him get enough rest before she told him he couldn't stay. He had a long drive and an even longer plane ride ahead of him.

Someone outside called out a greeting.

Gerald's eyes popped open and focused on her--deep mountain pools of sparkling blue crystal.

She cleared her throat. 'We have visitors,' she said, then stood without looking at him again.

She covered her hair before stepping outside to see who it was and what they wanted. Gerald came right behind her. They'd slept fully dressed.

The mullah stood in front of her hut with a handful of men. Probably checking out the new arrival. He'd done the same thing to her.

'Assalamu alaikum,' the mullah said to Gerald, and she was about to translate the greeting--peace be upon you--when Gerald responded in fluent Arabic. Better than hers.

She struggled to catch his words as he invited the Mullah into her hut and apologized that he didn't have any qahwa ready to offer him. No coffee meant she was definitely failing as a hostess.

The men who had come with the mullah looked over the brand-new Jeep, with more reserve than the children had the day before but with just as much curiosity. None of them so much as glanced at her. She wished she could go inside and find out what was going on, but of course women did not sit in conference with the men. The best she could do was eavesdrop.

She could hear bits and pieces of the conversation, the exchanging of pleasantries, a discussion on the greatness of the Prophet Muhammad--may peace be upon him--then laments on the persistent drought. She only understood about every third word, but it was enough to get the general idea. The mullah asked if she was Gerald's wife, if they were related. Gerald told him they were working together and explained about the foundation. Then there was a heated discussion, too fast to understand, although, from the change in his tone of voice, it seemed Gerald was on the defensive.

A half hour passed by before the mullah stepped outside, followed by Gerald.

'He says we can't live together if we're not related or married.'

Right. In the surprise of his arrival, she had forgotten all about that. It solved her problem just fine. Looked like the mullah was going to do her dirty work for her and kick Gerald out. Much better than if she had told him to leave. The Barnsley Foundation was giving her a substantial amount of money. No sense in stepping on any toes.

She did her best to look dismayed, and to her surprise, found that she did feel a little sorry for him. If his job was as important to him as hers was to her, he must be disappointed.

'You could probably get a place in Rahmara and come out here every couple of days to film.' She could handle an hour or so a week. He could get his documentary without invading her personal space and getting on her nerves.

'That's not an option.'

Flexible he was not. 'You could build yourself a mud hut,' she said just to spite him, but he seemed to take her seriously.

'Even if I didn't live with you, we would still be working closely together. We'd still be alone a lot.'

He was right. It would be best if he left. 'Maybe filming the project is not a good idea. I mean, under the circumstances. And it's bound to be a diversion, which I can scarcely afford.'

'Without the Barnsley Foundation, you couldn't afford the project at all.'

Would they withdraw the funds if she refused to cooperate with the documentary? Was that what he was hinting at? Diplomacy was what she needed, not an outright confrontation. She had to show him some deference, at least until the money was in her bank account. 'What do you recommend'?

'Marriage.'

'Very funny.'

'It will allow us to work together. We can get divorced as soon as we're back in the States. If it means saving countless children from starvation, I'm willing to do it.' His piercing blue eyes pinned her down.

And of course, after that last line, she couldn't very well say she wasn't. Still. 'I believe in the sanctity of marriage,' she said as a good Catholic girl should.

'Having a man around could make things infinitely easier for you.' He flashed her a smile that was the devil's own.

He was right. Getting things done was hard almost to the point of impossible, as most men refused to talk to her due to her gender. Her project would move twice as fast with Gerald's language skills and his ability to relate to the villagers.

But she couldn't get married like this. If her mother found out, she would need resuscitation. 'I'm sorry, but I can't. You will have to return.'

'You don't understand. You living as a single woman on your own made the mullah nervous. You were setting a bad example, corrupting morals. He only let you stay in the first place because you told him you were bringing foreign money into the village. The more prosperous the village, the more prestige he has.'

'So' I'll still bring the money. The grant is not tied to you being here, is it'? Diplomacy aside, she had to know where she stood.

'It's gone past that. He asked me if I was willing to marry you and I said yes.'

'And I say no.'

'Technically, you don't really get a say, although I'm prepared to respect your wishes. But if you challenge the mullah's authority like this, I doubt he'll let you stay.' He looked away.

Why did she have a feeling there was more? 'And'?

'You spent a night with a man who's not your husband. They can stone you for that here.'

'That's ridiculous. Beharrain has a modern court system. Stoning has been illegal for years.'

'In theory, yes. To make the country more acceptable to western sensibilities and attract more foreign aid. But reforms take a long time to take root, especially in outlying areas like this. In this village, the mullah's word is law, and I'm telling you, he's a very old-fashioned man.'

Abigail stared at the dust at her feet, unwilling to look at the two men who had so swiftly arranged her fate. She didn't want to get married. She especially didn't want to get married to pretty-boy Gerald Thornton. But staying single wasn't her main objective. Saving children was. And if she had to sacrifice some personal preferences to achieve her goals, then so be it. It was temporary.

'Fine,' she said. 'Can he marry us'?

'Probably not. We're not Muslims. But he wants it done before nightfall.'

'Great. And wouldn't you know it, there's not a priest in sight.'

'I bet the U.S. Embassy at Rahmara has a justice of the peace.'

The man seemed to have an answer for everything, didn't he? She gave him the evil eye, but nodded. Gerald translated for the mullah and the man responded at length, speaking too rapidly for her to understand.

'What did he say'?

'He's going to get one of the village elders to come with us as a witness and his widowed sister as your chaperon.'

For crying out loud. She seethed in silence as Gerald and the mullah said their ceremonial goodbyes. Unbelievable. She backed away, into the sanctuary of her hut. How did this happen? Her life had turned beyond ridiculous in a blink of an eye. Thanks to Gerald Thornton. She sank to her mattress, unable to think; then after a moment, she stood again. She couldn't afford to fall apart.

She had to get ready for her wedding.

'I do,' Spike said, grateful that they weren't really getting married, that the woman next to him was pledging eternal love and faithfulness to Gerald Thornton, a man who didn't exist outside a fake passport.

He wasn't the marrying type and even if he were, he wouldn't have chosen her. She had looked frightful when she'd walked into her hut and he'd first seen her, and cleaning up only marginally improved her appearance. Her figure remained hidden under the shapeless abayah, her hair under a black scarf. He caught a glimpse of it in the dim hut that morning, a nondescript brownish color, tied into a bun. The women he normally associated with were always expertly done up, from their expensive pedicures to their hairstyles and form-fitting designer clothes.

He liked feminine women, flirty and wild. Nothing wrong with that.

Except that he had just married a humorless, ordinary, goody-two-shoes academic.

Not for real. And just for a few weeks, no more. He had to keep that in mind. And in the meanwhile, it could work to their advantage that she was the plain-Jane type. Certainly nobody would think by looking at her that she was up to something.

The justice of the peace went on, and the witnesses, understanding not a word of the ceremony, fidgeted behind them.

'You may kiss the bride.'

Spike bit back a smile at the unhappy scowl on her face. Technically, the buildings of the U.S. Embassy counted as U.S. territory, but physical contact would have been grossly offensive to their witnesses who no doubt would have complained to the mullah. No reason to unnecessarily aggravate anyone. 'We're skipping that part,' he said.

He could swear he heard her sigh of relief. Which was really strange. The one constant in his life was that women responded well to him. Enthusiastically well. Except Dr. DiMatteo. She was an odd bird, hard to figure out.

The justice of the peace smiled at them. 'Congratulations.'

Spike shook the man's hand. 'Thank you. I appreciate'? His ringing cell phone cut him off. 'Excuse me.' He stepped away from the small wedding party as he clicked it on. 'Thornton.'

'Have you made contact'? The Colonel's voice cut in and out.

'Yes.' He couldn't say more than that with Abigail and the others standing a few feet from him.

'Well done. Remember the CIA's multi-pronged approach I told you about' Their asset turned up dead yesterday. Then this morning, they rushed the house they'd been keeping under surveillance and found it cleared out. You are it, Logan. You and Dr. DiMatteo. You need to start her evaluation immediately.?

'Will do.' He had begun the second he'd set eyes on her. From what he could tell so far, she was not fit for the job. She was as see-through as fancy negligee. The idea of recruiting her for the CIA seemed worse by the minute. Definitely not undercover material. Her face showed every wayward emotion that crossed her mind. She had known that she'd gotten the grant. He'd seen it in her face and had wondered who'd tipped her off. And she had planned to send him packing, which was why he'd gone to bed early, pretending to sleep to gain time until morning.

He had counted on the mullah's vigilance and it worked. They were in a country where unrelated men and women didn't eat, work or spend any time together whatsoever. He couldn't very well evaluate, recruit and train her like that. But now they were married, and in this part of the world that meant she was under his power in every way, tied to him. He needed that to complete his mission successfully.

He had two weeks to lead the CIA to the terrorists? headquarters, probably a training camp either in the mountains or in the desert. If he failed, the U.S. military would have to come in and bomb a variety of possible targets. And since the Beharrainian government refused to give permission for any type of U.S. military operation in the country, that kind of intervention would mean out-and-out war.

And still, there would be a chance that El Jafar--aka Suhaib Hareb, the head of the terrorist group, according to CIA intelligence--could slip through somehow and succeed with his attack against the U.S.

Spike dropped the phone into his pocket. Somehow within the next two weeks, he had to find a way to pin down El Jafar. And his temporary wife was the key to the whole operation. He hoped to hell she was up for the task.

Dana Marton: SECRET SOLDIER