She gasped for air. The bench nearby called to her like a cold glass of beer.
Just sit down for a second. Rest a bit. You deserve it.
But she knew better.
She spun on her heels, sucked in a breath, and pretended the word “exhaustion” hadn’t once tickled her tongue.
Then Alex arrived in the clearing.
“You can actually run when you want to,” he said, blue eyes gleaming like he’d been out for a leisurely stroll. She might have believed that, too, if the tight blue shirt showing off his muscles hadn’t been soaked through. He pulled a hand through his blond hair, flicking off droplets of sweat. “Thought you were supposed to take it easy while you heal.”
Skylar gave him a grin. “What I’m supposed to be doing and what I need to do are two very different things.”
“The docs might not agree.”
“Good thing you’re not a doc.”
“Damn it, Skylar.” He strode toward her with a grin then pulled up his shirt to dab the sweat on his forehead. Some women might swoon at the sight of his abs, but Skylar was immune to her partner’s charms. “You’re not just going to get yourself killed. You’re going to kill me while you’re at it.”
Skylar gave him a playful shove. “What’s the matter? Can’t handle keeping up with a broken Marine?”
Alex dropped onto the bench. “Running uphill? Come on. That’s not training—it’s torture.”
She finally let herself sag onto the bench next to him.
At least she had this small victory. One that probably wouldn’t matter to most people. She’d beaten Alex on their morning run.
She’d be lying if she told herself it didn’t feel good.
Now that Alex had admitted defeat, she didn’t feel the need to keep pretending she had her crap together. She sucked down lungfuls of air and massaged her sore legs. “You didn’t let me win, did you?”
“Why? So that way you wouldn’t spend another three weeks forcing me to run up Gambrill Mountain with you?”
“You did. You let me win.” If that was the case, it wasn’t a victory after all. “Alex…”
He laughed and stretched out his legs. “No, I swear. Last thing I want is some one-legged leatherneck beating me in a race. What am I going to tell people back at Vector?”
Now she knew he wasn’t pulling any punches. That’s why she liked him. Others looked at her as the noble, injured veteran. To them, she was a symbol—or a sideshow. But to Alex, she was his partner. Nothing more or less.
Alex twisted his wrist and looked at his watch. “Better start the walk back down. I’d like to get something to eat before we spend the rest of the afternoon running tabletop scenarios with Kasim and the crew.”
Skylar stood, stretching her arms and rising to the tips of her toes. “What do you want for—”
She felt a buzz in her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. Not her personal one but the encrypted unit.
Alex had his phone in hand too. His eyes were already tracing over the message.
She looked at the screen. If her heart wasn’t already beating a million miles a minute, it would be now.
The message was simple: Not a drill. Missing intelligence asset. Vector, report to HQ immediately.
Skylar caught Alex’s gaze.
“You up for another run?”
“You kidding?” she shouted over her shoulder, already moving. “Catch up!”
Alex took his seat next to Skylar in Vector Team’s operations center. The center was located at Fort Detrick, in the middle of some of the world’s best military laboratories. Vector was a covert initiative under the command of the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases—or USAMRIID. They were the vanguard of the United States’ defense against the twisted biological and chemical weapons lurking in the dark reaches of the scientific world.
Their missions were often dangerous—so risky, in fact, that Vector operated outside the normal auspices of US intelligence programs. They had been created so there was always a layer of plausible deniability between their operations and official US involvement.
Skylar and Alex were no strangers to infiltrating foreign territories where their very presence risked enormous political or military repercussions. If they ever got caught by their enemies, the US would disavow them.
They would never get a medal for their services or massive piles of money.
But none of the people on this team had joined Vector for fame or fortune.
Colonel Abraham Kasim, Vector’s director, sat at the head of the glass conference table. He combed his fingers through his gray-and-black beard, his reading glasses perched atop his round nose. The man was a legend to those with an interest in their field, and he worked harder than anyone Alex had ever met.
Next to him was Leo Morris, the group’s analyst and tech jockey. The guy folded his arms over his chest, baring the lion tattooed on the dark skin of his left bicep. He studied Skylar and Alex through his thick, black-framed glasses, a knit cap pulled tight over his shaved head.
Normally, Alex would expect Morris to offer a quip about their sweat-soaked, disheveled appearance. But the mere fact the analyst kept his mouth shut told Alex everything he needed to know about how serious this emergency call was.
“Let’s begin.” Kasim swiped a hand over the table.
The monitor built into the tabletop glowed to life. An image on the display showed a man in his mid- to late forties with a dark beard and nut-brown eyes. He had a slightly tawny hue to his skin.
“This is Gregory C. Ballard,” Kasim said. “He is—or was—an operations officer with the CIA. Based out of Jordan, Ballard was assigned to observe and gather intel on scattered elements of the former Islamic State. Given his sensitive position, he was operating mainly as a one-man show, cultivating his own assets in the region.”
Kasim tapped on the table. A map of the Middle East appeared. Red circles indicated areas where Ballard had been actively pursuing leads.
Alex pointed to the highlighted portions of Jordan. “I thought Jordan had a pretty good handle on stabilizing ISIS activity around the country.”
“So did we,” Kasim said. “Ballard’s interests in Jordan were only just coming to light. He was reportedly tracking arms deals in the region, especially from groups coordinating trades over Iraqi and Syrian borders. Nearly three weeks ago, he went dark. Missed his first scheduled debrief. Then another. Then a third.”
“Not great,” Skylar said. “Why’s this on Vector’s desk?”
“Because the last deal he reported on was a massive, ten-million-dollar transfer for what he suspected was a chemical weapon. Ballard thought it was headed to Lebanon.”
“So isn’t the CIA going to go after their own?” Skylar asked.
Kasim sighed then brushed over the table. The map disappeared.
“While they were able to confirm his intel on other weapons drops and transfers, they couldn’t verify anything about this particular transfer,” Kasim said. “Rumor is that it might’ve been a false lead. Maybe something to trick and trap Ballard.”
“Did they send any operatives in to continue Ballard’s work?” Alex asked.
“They didn’t,” Kasim said. “The CIA washed their hands of the whole project. They already had other operatives tracking the weapons trade, so Ballard’s work became redundant. And he had no authorization from the Jordanian government to be there. Jordan’s one of our closest allies in the region, so Langley didn’t want to go to them asking for help when they didn’t even know Ballard was operating there without authorization.”
“Ah, so Ballard was like us,” Skylar said. “Good for the United States until he gets caught.”
“That’s exactly it, I’m afraid. The operational risk is too much for their analysts to warrant a manhunt.”
“But not enough for us,” Alex said.
“Oh, if Kasim let me run risk assessments like Langley does, we wouldn’t be touching this one with a twenty-foo
t pole,” Morris said. “But like the great Han Solo said, ‘Never tell me the odds.’”
“I’m with the nerd,” Skylar said.
“Me too,” Alex said. “But I’d still like more information. How do we even begin a search like this?”
“The CIA told us Ballard was working a contact in Amman,” Kasim said.
“What kind of asset?”
“The Agency was stingy with the details. The man lives in Amman, and he might have some association with the Jordanian government. They also gave us the location of one of the safe-house sites that Ballard might have been using.”
“Does this dude have a name?” Skylar asked.
“I literally told you everything they know,” Kasim said. “Best lead we have is the potential safe house, I’m afraid.”
“So we got a whole lot of nothing,” Skylar said. “No wonder the CIA tossed this one.”
“One more thing: Apparently Ballard had some dealings with Mossad. Specifically, he worked regularly with a Mossad operative in the past.”
“Who was this operative?” Alex asked.
Another image showed on the table of a man with a neatly trimmed beard and dark-brown eyes.
“This is Elad Luria,” Kasim said. “Before you ask, I already worked my Mossad contacts. Luria reportedly was killed in one of those operations Ballard and Luria went on together about three years ago.”
“Did Mossad have anything else to say about Ballard?” Alex asked.
Kasim shook his head. “Other than confirming that he worked with Luria, they didn’t share anything else.”
“At this point, the CIA thinks Ballard is just as likely to have died in some freak accident as anything else,” Morris said. “No one’s intercepted a single message or received any blackmail that indicates he’s been made or imprisoned. I tried searching on my own, but I found nada.”
“Commander Liang saw this and asked if we thought we could handle it,” Kasim said, referring to USAMRIID’s commander and the only person outside of Vector who knew the unit existed.
Alex considered the chances that they would find a clue on a trail that had already gone cold as a Siberian winter. Three weeks cold if the CIA’s reports were to be believed. In the world of espionage, three weeks may as well have been a lifetime.
“If we agree to this, are we looking for Ballard or for the chemical weapons he was supposedly trying to track down?” Alex said.
“Weapons are the primary target,” Kasim said. “That’s our mission directive, after all. But if you find out what happened to Ballard, I’m sure Langley would appreciate it.”
Alex clenched his jaw. He couldn’t imagine how he’d feel, captured by the enemy and left on his own, knowing no one was going to be sent to rescue him. Their primary objective might be to investigate this supposed chemical weapon headed to Lebanon. But he was going to do everything in his power to find the missing operative too.
“So,” Kasim said, surveying the team over steepled fingers, “can Vector handle this?”
Skylar looked at Alex, her face betraying no emotion. He knew what that meant. She’d been itching to get back in the field, but she wanted to let him make the call.
“Of course Vector can handle it,” Alex said.
-2-
Balagh had made it out of Petra by blending in with the masses of tourists, just as Attayak had advised him. He had not run into a single police officer. Now he wandered Wadi Musa without a dinar in his pocket or any idea where he should go next.
The sun had set over an hour ago and given way to a star-studded sky. He fingered the keys in his pockets. He had spent all day walking the dusty streets near the gate to Petra, looking for the hotel that those keys belonged to. But not a single receptionist at any of those places, ranging from budget hostels to resorts with sparkling aquamarine pools, had been able to help him.
At least his headache had finally dissipated. But in its place, he was left with a hunger that gnawed at his empty stomach. His lips were cracked, and he could taste the dust in the air. His whole body and clothes were coated in the same red grit. He tried to brush some of it from his beard. He must look like a homeless beggar. The glances he got from locals and tourists alike reinforced that notion.
Instead of following the sporadic streetlights, he did his best to walk in the shadows beside the sand-colored square houses and buildings. That distant memory that someone was after him lingered. He couldn’t help but study every shadowy alley, expecting someone to be watching him.
If Attayak was right that those police had been searching for him in Petra, Balagh had a feeling it wasn’t just because he was a vagrant illegally spending a night in a protected historic site.
He trekked up the hill to the northern half of the town where yellow lights glittered from open windows. Another pang of throbbing pain bounced around his skull as he walked.
He paused at the side of a road as a white SUV passed, its headlights sweeping away a swath of darkness. Balagh thought he felt the eyes of the people in that SUV trace over him, and his heart picked up a beat until they passed.
He had to get off this road. Find somewhere he could rest.
The smell of spices and warm bread wafted from a nearby restaurant. He heard the idle chatter of kitchen staff and the clink and sizzle of cooking from a door behind him.
His stomach rumbled.
The bread Attayak had shared with him this morning was not nearly enough for all the hiking he’d done. But without money, he could not eat. Instead he reached into his pack and pulled out his last water bottle. It was warm, barely a quarter full. He took a drink and put it back, still thirsty. But he had to ration what little he had left.
He prayed that he could find the hotel his keys belonged to. Maybe he had food there. At the very least, he could fill up his water bottles and wash the cursed grit from his skin.
His stomach clenched like a fist. He thought about knocking on the door to the restaurant’s kitchen. Maybe the cooks would take pity on him. Offer him the same kindness Attayak did.
The door was cracked open just slightly. He inched toward it. Savored the aroma drifting out. Imagined how much better things would be if he had a seat at one of the restaurant’s tables. Maybe he could just sit down for a meal. Then, instead of asking for the check, he could make a run for it.
He dismissed the idea.
He might not know how he had gotten here. He might not even know his real name. But Balagh knew one thing about himself. He was not a bad man.
He refused to believe he was the kind of person to stiff hardworking restaurateurs. Especially the owners of a small business who were counting every coin to keep the power on.
He trudged away from the alley and back to the street. Each step up the hill grew harder. Exhaustion crept through his limbs. He considered finding an alley to sleep in. He was so tired, he could imagine himself curling up next to leaking trash bags to sleep without complaint.
But then he saw another SUV drive up the road, its headlights making him feel oddly exposed. There was nowhere to hide in the streets. He might have been lucky last night, saved by Attayak. He couldn’t risk relying on luck again.
Keep moving. Keep going.
Wadi Musa seemed to have an endless supply of hotels. He went into each of the lobbies, showing them the keys. Tried to ignore the brightly lit restaurants where diners gorged on piles of food, surrounded by luxurious buffets.
But at each hotel, no one recognized him or his keys.
He began to wonder if maybe these weren’t hotel keys after all. Maybe this was for a car he’d left somewhere. Or maybe they were for someone’s home.
Or, God forbid, they actually did belong to one of the hotels he had already visited. Maybe they had refused to admit the keys were for one of their rooms, fearing what this bedraggled man wanted with their hotel.
Maybe he should just turn himself in to the police. Tell them he was lost. Tell them he didn’t know what happened. Let God decide his fate.
A bank of lights illuminated a sign that said, “Wadi Musa Comfort Resort.”
The name sparked no memory. Neither did the three-story hotel just beyond the stone wall around it.
But next to the name on the sign was a picture of a mountain behind two palm trees. Exactly like the image pressed onto the leather tab of his key chain.
Balagh didn’t even bother going to the lobby. Instead, he marched down one of the corridors lined with sconces. He reached the door that matched the number on the back of the keychain: 6.
He took a deep breath and slid the keys into the lock.
They slid in with a satisfying click, and he twisted the handle. The door opened.
Finally! Something to link him to the reality that had been erased from his mind.
Most importantly, he had a place to rest and clean up. If fortune favored him, maybe even a clean change of clothes.
But when he stepped into the room, he froze, his blood running cold.
Another man was already standing near the bed, fists up like he had been waiting for Balagh.
Amman, Jordan
Normally, Alex would have spent the whole flight to Amman studying mission reports and briefings. He wanted to know every single detail about what they were getting themselves into.
But there wasn’t much to memorize. He had only learned a few scattered facts about Gregory Ballard.
The man had been with the CIA since his early twenties. A few years ago, he had been working with a Mossad agent named Elad Luria. The agent had been killed in action on a mission with Ballard.
Other than that, Ballard’s records were painfully empty. The CIA had already scrubbed most of the data. They were writing him out of existence.
Alex had an eerie feeling this was a glimpse of his own future should he and Skylar fail.
Best way to prevent that from happening was to focus on what came next.
They were already hiking through the dusty Amman streets after depositing their bags at their hotel. Though the beds looked plush enough, he didn’t have the slightest desire to fall into one.
Demon Mind (Vector Book 2) Page 2