by Laura Scott
One less building than they had before.
It shouldn’t be that much of a big deal.
But he knew only too well there was no logic when it came to these men. The loss of a building may be enough to push them over the edge.
Elam kept his eyes closed and began to pray. Not to Allah, but to the Christian God he’d learned to believe in.
After the past two weeks, he wanted nothing to do with the land of his birth.
* * *
September 9 – 8:10 p.m. – Washington, DC
Diana stared at the computer screen with mixed emotions. On one hand, she desperately wanted to get a glimpse of her daughter, to verify Bryn was alive and well. Yet she dreaded the idea that these men may take their anger out on the little girl, hitting her again, or worse.
She felt glued to her chair, unable to move, uncaring that she was leaving it to Jordan to clear away the remains of their meal.
There was nothing more important than Bryn.
When a message arrived in Jordan’s inbox, she twitched and quickly double-clicked on the link. Her shoulders slumped when she realized it was nothing more than a message from Sun.
Nothing to report so far. Still looking.
Diana’s stomach tightened with frustration. They needed to find Bryn. Before Mustaf landed on US soil. Before any more warehouses blew up. Before they lost any more time.
Bad enough that there was only thirty-six hours until the anniversary date. Less, if you considered the strike could very well come at midnight.
So many people at risk. So many possibilities. But deep in her bones, she mostly cared about Bryn.
Dear Lord, help me. Show us the way!
The whispered prayer that once brought comfort now felt hollow. Empty.
“Diana, please try to relax. I can feel your tension from here.”
It took all her willpower not to snap at him. This whole mess of requiring them to free Mustaf was proof Bryn being in danger was his fault.
Jordan’s job, the one he’d taken on for Security Specialists, Inc., had put their daughter’s life in danger. Not her secret mission. Her way to honor her mother’s memory.
The phone shrilled, making her jump. Before she could reach for the device, Jordan rushed forward, placing the call on speaker.
“Rashid,” he said.
“We have confirmed Mustaf is no longer in Camp Bucca,” the mechanical voice intoned. She tried but couldn’t detect a hint of emotion from Bryn’s captors. “He will be landing on US soil at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. We expect you to bring him to us by eight o’clock that same evening. If you fail to do so, your daughter will die. Do you understand your mission?”
Jordan’s gaze locked with hers. “Yes. I understand, but I need to see Bryn. You must prove to me she’s still alive.”
There was a long pause before the mechanical voice said, “Another link will arrive soon.”
“Wait! I want a live feed like last time. I demand proof she’s alive, do you hear me?”
“A link will arrive and we will call.” The connection went silent.
“She’s still alive,” Diana whispered. “This must mean our daughter is still alive.”
Our daughter. It was the first time Diana had included him, and it was humbling. “I hope so.”
The link came from an email labeled Rashidsmission that popped up in his mailbox. He clicked on the link, and instantly, an image bloomed on the screen.
As before, Bryn was sitting in a chair, her arms bound behind her back, a blindfold covering her eyes. He strained to listen for the foghorn Sun had heard, but the shrill ring of his phone had him picking up the device.
“Rashid.” He covered the microphone and asked Diana, “I need more information only Bryn would know.”
“She plays flute for the middle school band,” Diana whispered.
“Do you have a question for your daughter?” the mechanical voice asked.
“Yes. Bryn, what activity are you involved with at school?” He purposefully kept his question vague, hoping and praying for more time.
“Answer, infidel,” the mechanical voice commanded.
“I, uh, take Tae Kwon Do.”
Jordan glanced at Diana who nodded. “Anything else?” he asked.
“I play flute for the band,” Bryn responded.
“Enough,” the mechanical voice interrupted. “Do you accept your mission?”
Jordan hesitated, then heard it. The low echo of a foghorn off in the distance. He hoped, prayed that meant Bryn was in the same location as before. “Yes, I accept.”
“Eight p.m.,” the mechanical voice repeated. A second later, the link went blank and the call ended.
* * *
September 9 – 8:11 p.m. – Damascus, Syria
The delay at the airport was irritatingly long. He despised international travel, but this trip had become a necessity. The situation with Mustaf being transported far earlier than planned raised suspicion. Who had done that, and how?
He didn’t know and didn’t like it.
It was important to return to the United States as soon as possible.
Despite traveling under an alias, he knew he was taking a dangerous risk. He’d changed his features as much as possible, but was it a good enough disguise?
He wouldn’t know until it was too late.
Still, he needed to go. To make sure things went according to plan. Lives needed to be taken to atone for the past.
He would not rest until his will had been done.
* * *
September 9 – 8:12 p.m. – Washington, DC
Jordan pulled his gaze from Diana’s with an effort. Twenty-four hours. They had twenty-four hours to find Mustaf and bring him to Bryn’s kidnappers.
Or to find Bryn’s location, freeing her from their clutches.
Both seemed impossible tasks.
“She looked okay, didn’t she?” Diana’s voice was begging for reassurance. “They must not have hurt her, right?”
He strove to sound reassuring. “They won’t hurt her until they have what they want, which is Ahmed Mustaf freed from jail.”
“How can you be so sure?” Diana pushed away from the table, rising to her feet and pacing in jerky movements across the room.
He wasn’t sure of anything. Didn’t she realize how much this was killing him? That little girl bound to a chair was his daughter. The daughter he didn’t know he had, the one who’d fallen in love with baby elephants at the Atlanta Zoo, taken Tai Kwon Do, and played flute for the middle school band. What else didn’t he know about her? He gave himself a mental shake and forced himself to stay focused. “Diana, please. Don’t do this. We need to work together.”
“Together?” She spun to face him, her features creased in agony. “Remember what happened the last time we worked together? We almost died.”
“Yet here we are, despite your betrayal.” He’d couldn’t hide the bitterness in his tone.
“No.” Her denial was swift. “My uncle used my mother to find us. I didn’t tell my uncle about you and me. Never! I will place my hand on a Bible and swear that I never betrayed you.”
She sounded so certain. What should he believe? “Even if you didn’t, I was told you were dead, Diana. Dead. Do you have any idea what that was like for me? I still have your obituary in my desk drawer!”
That stopped her short. She gaped at him in surprise. “You do?”
He raked a hand through his thick dark hair, striving for patience. He didn’t understand why she was so upset, except for the obvious reason that her stress level over Bryn was pushing her to the brink. “Yes. After I recovered physically from the explosion and resulting crash, I buried myself in my work. I lived on the edge, taking risks for the FBI. Emotionally . . .” He didn’t finish. Losing Diana had gutted him. It had been a long time before he’d allowed himself to care about anyone.
He and Sloan had formed a friendship, then had become partners. He’d cared for Shari and married her, knowin
g he needed to move forward with his life. Move on from the tragedy of losing Diana.
And then Shari had died. Because of him. Because he’d left her alone and vulnerable.
Was he bound to make the same mistake again?
“And what about your . . . wife?” There was a hitch in her voice.
“I cared about Shari very much, but she was my second choice, Diana.” He pinned her with his dark gaze. “Second to you. Because I thought you were dead. If I had known you were alive, I would have done everything within my power to find you.”
“Even though you thought I betrayed you?”
“Yes. Even then.” Or maybe because of that, his motives were still a bit murky.
Their gazes clung and held for a long moment before she broke the connection by looking away.
“So now what?” She hunched her shoulders. “What can we do to find Bryn?”
He blew out a breath. It was a good question. They needed to stay focused on the present, not ruminate on the past. “Did you hear the foghorn in the background?”
Diana’s gaze sharpened. “No. Did you?”
“Yes. There is still the possibility they’ve moved her, but I’m hoping and praying she’s in the same place, with the cameras hooked up and ready to go at the push of a button. It’s the only thing that makes sense. We need to understand the purpose for blowing up the warehouse in Baltimore.”
She blanched. “You mean, someone else could have been inside? Another hostage?”
“Not necessarily another hostage, but the warehouse must have something to do with whatever is going on here. Otherwise, why did it burst into flames?”
“I . . . can’t . . . do this.” Her voice was a ragged whisper. “I can’t function when I think of Bryn being at the mercy of those men. I keep imagining the worst . . .”
“I know.” He crossed over to her, lightly resting his hands on her slim shoulders. “But we need to stay focused on finding her, okay?”
She nodded, then rested her forehead on his chest. “I raised her to be strong, Jordan. I didn’t tell her about being in witness protection, but I did teach her about always taking safety precautions. I taught her self-defense, Tae Kwon Do, but most importantly? I taught her to have faith in God. But I can’t seem to find solace in my faith at the moment.”
He bent and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I can tell from the videos that she’s smart and spunky. You’ve taught her well, Diana. She’ll be okay, you’ll see.”
“You can’t possibly know that.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
True. But frankly, thinking the worst would only paralyze him. And if there was ever a time to trust in God’s will, this was it. “I feel certain God is watching over Bryn for us.”
“Oh, Jordan. I hope so.” Her breathing hitched, and her shoulders began to shake as deep sobs racked her body.
Feeling helpless, Jordan gathered her close, wishing there was something—anything—he could do to make things right.
But he was as much of a victim in this as she and Bryn were. Maybe more. They’d targeted him to pay this ransom.
And he was fairly certain they had no intention of letting him live once he’d succeeded in his so-called mission.
“Shh, it’s okay. We’re going to be okay.” He forced confidence into his tone, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut.
Diana wrapped her arms around his waist, holding tight. As he cradled her close, it occurred to him that these terrorists had brought the woman he’d loved and a daughter he didn’t know back into his life.
And they could just as cruelly take them away, forever.
Chapter Seven
September 9 – 9:05 p.m. – Washington, DC
Jordan’s phone rang, causing Diana to jerk out of his arms. “Bryn?” she asked hoarsely.
He shook his head. “Sun.” He answered the phone and placed the call on speaker. “Did you find something?”
“There was one fatality from the warehouse explosion.” Sun didn’t mince words. “Victim’s name is George Larson, and he’s homeless, known to sleep in doorways in the warehouse district. His body was found several feet away from the source of the blast, cause of death appears to be a broken neck.”
Diana bit her lip, feeling terrible about the man’s death while secretly relieved that it wasn’t Bryn.
“What about the contents of the warehouse?” Jordan asked.
“No news on that front. They’re still attempting to figure out what was inside the building, but honestly, I doubt they’ll come up with anything as much of the interior was burned to a crisp.”
She met Jordan’s resigned gaze, knowing he’d hoped for more. “Okay, thanks. Anything else on the other warehouses?”
“I might have a line on Justice Textiles, Corp. It’s buried in another shell company, incorporated in DC.”
A flicker of hope bloomed in her chest. “You think Bryn might be there?”
“Maybe, however, the building isn’t anywhere near the water.”
And just that quickly the flicker died. “What about the other place? Freedom whatever?”
“Freedom Shoppes doesn’t appear to have any structures associated with it as far as I can find. But I’m still looking.”
Diana balled her fists in frustration. They were no closer to finding Bryn.
None.
“Thanks, Sun,” Jordan said. “Keep us posted with anything else you come up with.” He disconnected from the call.
“Maybe the foghorn sound is a trick, something they’re using to hide Bryn’s location.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized how paranoid she sounded.
“These guys aren’t that good, Diana. Trust me, we’ll find her.” He gestured to the computer screen. “I haven’t found much on Ahmed Mustaf, other than he was born in Syria and will stand trial for numerous terrorist attacks, including the London subway bombings a few years ago.”
She remembered hearing about them and did her best to stay focused. “He must be part of ISIS, right?”
“Yeah. I can’t help but wonder if there’s any connection between your cousin Tariq and Mustaf.” Jordan stared at the satellite computer screen.
Her stomach churned at the thought, but she forced herself to consider all the options. “You mean other than both of them being Syrian-born?”
“Yes.” Jordan glanced at her. “I mean, do you really think that kidnapping Bryn was a coincidence? I still can’t figure out how they learned she was my daughter.”
“Not from me,” she protested, her cheeks flushing with anger.
“FBI Agent Tony Balcome?” he pressed.
“Maybe.” She thought back. “He came to me in the hospital and arranged for me to be transferred into the care of the US Marshals.”
“Is that when you found out you were pregnant?”
She rubbed her temple and nodded. “Yes, that’s when I found out, and Agent Balcome was there guarding me when the doctor told me the news. But even if Agent Balcome knew, why suddenly tell someone now, after all this time?”
“Who is the Marshal assigned to you?”
Her gaze locked with his for a long moment. It was ingrained in every fiber of her being not to reveal anything about her past. But they were beyond this, weren’t they? The fact that Bryn was in the hands of Syrian terrorists proved that her cover was blown. Her secrets revealed for the entire world to see. “US Marshal Christopher Wallace.”
“Never heard of him.”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “Why would you? He’s my handler, not yours.”
“Those are the only two men who should know about Bryn being my daughter, correct?” Jordan asked.
“Yes.” She could see where he was going with this. “So one of them leaked the information.”
“On purpose or by accident,” Jordan agreed.
“The creed of the US Marshals is to die before revealing the identity of those under their protection.”
“When is the last time you spoke to
Marshal Wallace?”
She slowly shook her head. “I don’t know, months probably.”
“It may be time for you to call him.”
“The kidnappers told me not to tell anyone.” The protest was automatic, but now that she thought back to those first few hours after Bryn’s disappearance, she understood they must have known about her connection to the US Marshals. She drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’ll call him.” She reached for his cell phone, but he caught her wrist.
“Wait. You need to use a throwaway phone.” He released her and stood, rummaging in the computer bag. He pulled out a small old-fashioned flip phone. “Here.”
“You always have disposable phones lying around?”
“Yes.” He dropped back into his seat. “I assume you know the number?”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s not as if I programmed his information into my smart phone under US Marshal.” She willed her fingers not to shake as she entered Chris Wallace’s number. The phone didn’t ring, the way it normally did, but went directly to a message.
This number is no longer in service.
Click.
Goosebumps rippled up her arms as she stared at Jordan. “I . . . don’t understand. It states his number is no longer in service.”
Jordan’s expression was grim. “Could it be a safety measure? Something the phone does when an unknown number comes through?”
“No. I’m told to change my phone number and carrier every six months, and I always call Chris to let him know.” She’d left Chris messages on occasion in the past, but never once had she gotten this type of recording.
“What happens if Wallace is dead?”
Dead? She shivered. “I assume my case gets assigned to someone else.”
“But you haven’t heard from anyone else within the US Marshals Service?”
“No.” She stared at the flip phone, her stomach curdling with dread. If someone had tortured Chris to the point he broke down and talked, they were all in grave danger.
Not just from the terrorist group who’d kidnapped Bryn, but from her mother’s family.