by Tracy Brody
She just cocked her head at him.
Oh, well. “Yankees won four to two. Barely saw any of the game, though. NEST guys didn’t pick up any readings in the blocks around the stadium, but there are plenty of places nearby to stash the kind of bomb we’re looking at.”
“Did Weiss fill you in?”
“Cal did.” And Tony didn’t like it, but he also didn’t have a say. “Grochowski agreed to let our team help provide surveillance and backup. We’re rolling back in now.” Most of the Bad Karma team spoke at least limited Arabic, Pashto, or Dari, so they’d split up and gone on reconnaissance after this morning’s meeting. They dressed like tourists on the off chance they’d overhear something. A remote, pick-the-right-planet-in-the-vast-cosmos chance. One that hadn’t panned out yet.
He’d heard that Nuclear Emergency Support Team, or NEST, sent over a hundred of their people hoping to pick up any radioactive material with their equipment. Maybe they’d have better luck. While he’d scouted around Yankee Stadium, Angela had changed clothes, too. He hoped she had a weapon concealed under the conservative black dress she wore in hopes of meeting with Hakim.
“You get any lunch?” he asked.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
Stress strained her features and robbed her of her usual confident aura. He took hold of her hand. It was icy in his.
“Come here.” He pulled her up to cradle her against his chest.
“What if this is my chance, and I don’t find anything? What if something like 9/11 happens?” Her voice was a desperate whisper.
After losing her fiancé, he didn’t doubt it would devastate her if they missed stopping another major attack. “Don’t give up. You’re not trying to get out of dinner, are you?”
She chuckled. “No. Though worrying about stopping a bombing is kind of a mood killer.”
“Really? ’Cause I’ve heard that when people are looking at a potentially life-ending situation, they tend to have sex. A one-last-chance thing. I’m just saying …”
She put a sliver of space between them, taking in his facial expression. “I think that’s when you think you’re going to die.”
“Oh.”
“Nice try, though.”
It might be worth it. He shrugged, and she gave him the first smile he’d seen from her since this morning. “Look, the chance that they have enough radioactive material to make a dirty bomb is slim to none.” It’s what he’d told himself all afternoon.
“I pray you’re right.” She rested her head against his shoulder again.
There hadn’t been a credible dirty bomb threat in the States to date. They’d track down this bomb, and it’d just be a bomb, probably not well constructed—not on the scale of the Oklahoma City bombing or the first World Trade Center. They’d laugh over drinks about being so worried. Put it out of their minds. They’d undress each other. And after one long night of mind-blowing sex, they’d joke about sending Hakim a thank-you note for bringing them together again. Yeah. That all sounded great.
He gave her a squeeze to reassure her. “We’ll be right outside the building. If you need anything, just whistle.”
“I can’t whistle,” she said with a trace of despondency in her voice.
“Everybody can whistle. You know. Put your lips together and blow.” He hadn’t meant it literally. She had to know the movie. Right?
“I can’t whistle.” She pulled away and blew a weak fwoo sound through her front teeth.
“Okay, then.” He laughed. “If you need me, um … I don’t know … say orange or purple. Some art thing.”
“Something artsy? I’ll bring up Picasso if I need help.”
“Picasso? I don’t get his stuff.”
“Not my style, either. I prefer to look at something and can tell what it is. Okay. Picasso. And if I hit pay dirt, I’ll bring up architecture.”
“Use your many charms to get in and plant that bug. Then get the hell out. Remember, it’s not up to you to do this on your own. Be careful, because if Hakim’s invested beyond financially, he could be dangerous.”
“I’m used to dangerous,” she reminded him, though her smile hinted she didn’t mind the warning. “I don’t scare easily.”
She pinched the front of his T-shirt below his navel and gave it a tug, sending his libido into overdrive again. She had that sultry, expectant look in her eyes.
He wrapped an arm around her waist. His right hand cupped her neck, and his thumb stroked her smooth cheek.
She responded willingly when he lowered his face and claimed her mouth. Desire and need drove him. He pulled her body closer and let her feel exactly the effect she had on him.
Her lips parted, and their tongues met. He tasted cinnamon. She pressed her hips against his aroused body, nearly sending his impulse control out of the galaxy. A passionate half-murmur, half-moan escaped. Before he reached to close the door and start on fantasy number one of three hundred and twelve, she pulled back, panting. She bit on her lower lip.
Damn. Wrong place. Bad time.
Her head tilted back. She took a deep, controlling breath. “I need to get in the Sabine mindset. That’s hard enough with you in the room, much less kissing me senseless.”
Okay, maybe it was the wrong time, but the way she expressed it gave him a buzz better than alcohol or the rush of freefalling from 15,000 feet. He swallowed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to mess up your mission planning.”
“Don’t apologize. Give me a rain check for later.” She winked. “And thanks for the injection of optimism. I needed that.”
“Anytime. Glad to help.”
She shooed him out, but he couldn’t resist. He leaned over and kissed her again. A gentle kiss with the promise of “I’ll see you later.”
He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind since they recovered the missiles in Texas. This time, he was making sure they got a chance to explore this attraction for long-term possibilities. Despite what Jarrod implied about them sleeping together, he wanted to believe Angela was the faithful type.
Fourteen
“You can keep the change.” Angela handed a twenty over to the cabbie, her stomach tighter than a new pair of shoes. That nervousness kept her in character while she exited the cab in front of Hakim’s building. She walked the few steps to the entrance, conscious of nearly a dozen pairs of eyes and ears tuned in to her every word and move.
The doorman on duty was the same as the night she’d come with Hakim. His wide-eyed expression meant he recognized her. The left corner of his mouth rose, though he didn’t say more than, “Good evening, ma’am.”
The concierge set down the sports page of the New York Times. He made eye contact with the doorman before he stood. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to see Anmar Hakim.” She laid it on thick with the accent, her gaze fixed on the desktop.
“Is he expecting you? I don’t have you on the list.”
She doubted Anmar had ever put any woman on the list. “No, he is not. But I need to see him.” She raised her eyes to his, hoping her face flushed.
“I’ll have to call up.” The concierge gave her a once-over while he punched numbers on the phone. “Your name?”
“Sabine Deschamps.” She fidgeted while the concierge spoke with Hakim. He handed her the phone rather than allow her to proceed.
“Hello. I’m sorry to show up unexpectedly, but I need to see you.” She spoke softly in French and turned away from the concierge’s curious stare.
“Speak up. I can’t make out what you’re saying.” Hakim sounded more confused than irritated.
“I’m sorry. I was trying to keep this between us. I, um, left something the other night—”
“You can come up. Put the concierge back on.”
Score!
“He asked to speak with you again.” She handed back the phone, working hard to suppress a triumphant smile. Moments later, she was ushered to the elevator.
The elevator made its slow ascent to the ninth floor. She br
eathed easier. Hakim would let her in, but the tricky part remained.
“Okay, guys. Halfway there.” Sabine. Sabine, she chanted. She shook her arms and rolled her neck against the rising wave of adrenaline that always accompanied an undercover assignment. Then she closed her eyes and exhaled slow and long. Sabine Deschamps rapped twice on the solid wood door and startled when it opened immediately.
Hakim motioned her in, peering out into the deserted hallway before he closed the door and locked it. “This is unexpected. What brought you here?” He scrutinized her, keeping a bit of distance between them.
“I realized my silver bracelet is missing. I must have left it here when … well, the other night. My grandparents gave it to me. I’d hate to lose it.”
“Are you sure you had it on?”
“Yes, I only wear it for special occasions. I hope I didn’t lose it somewhere else.” She frowned and rubbed her fingers over her wrist. “Though I admit I wanted an excuse to see you.”
His eyebrows quirked up, and a flash of heat flared in his eyes. “You did?” He stepped closer and reached a hand to her face. His fingertips touched the earring dangling from her left ear.
Her stomach lurched, and her heart skipped a beat. His thumb stroked her cheek, and angling his head, he slipped his other hand to her waist. Great! Now he’s going to get it up. Dammit. If I have to do him with Tony and the whole damn team listening, I swear I’ll kill Hakim afterward. Slowly and painfully. Time to redirect.
“The other night didn’t, uh … Well, I … I hope you’re feeling better.” She broke eye contact and glanced around the room. “Do you mind if we look for my bracelet? It has sentimental value.” Biting the inside of her lip, she braved meeting his eyes again.
He huffed and dropped his hand from her face. When she stepped around him, she snuck a peek at his crotch. Oh, yeah, something was definitely up with him tonight. “If you can check around the couch, I’ll look in the bathroom.”
While he was lifting sofa cushions, she headed down the hallway to the bathroom. She placed a bug over the doorframe to his office before flipping on the light in the half bath. Then she moved the hand towel and kicked the trashcan aside enough for Hakim to notice.
Returning from the bathroom, she spied a cardboard box on the floor in front of the bookcases lining the back wall. It appeared half-packed. A prickling that started in her core raced upward, then down her arms and legs. She needed to keep him distracted—preferably with their clothes on—to plant the second bug and see what was in the box. “It’s not in the bathroom. Any luck?”
“I didn’t find anything. Are you sure you wore it the other night?”
“Yes. But if I lost it in the cab or restaurant … I guess it’s gone.” She pouted and edged a step closer to the box. “Look, I’ve never done this before”—she gave him a shy smile and shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then back—“but there are free concerts in the park next week. I hoped you’d like to go. With me.”
“I can’t,” he answered without the slightest hesitation.
“Oh.” She waited, hoping he’d provide a reason or excuse. Which he didn’t. “Was I too forward in asking?” She wandered the length of the couch, stopping near the box, and kept her gaze on him.
“I’ll be out of town.”
A chill invaded her body. “And when will you be back?” This could back up her theory that the ticket was for him.
He frowned, and his eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure.”
“Is this a business trip or …?” She pressed her luck.
“You’re asking a lot of questions.”
“Forgive me. But you don’t share much. I want to get to know you better.” With her eyes downcast, she studied the contents of the box. She could only make out two framed pictures, but not who they were of or what was below them. “What’s this? Are you—packing?” She took the last step to reach the box.
“I’m putting some things in storage.” He waved his hand, though his tone had a panicked edge. It made her more determined to see what the box contained.
She picked up the top picture and the one below and resorted to flattery. “You look so handsome.” In the picture with Hakim were a young woman and another young man. The woman had the same mole beside her right eye as the woman in the video on Hakim’s computer.
Jackpot!
“Is this the bridge in St. Etienne? I love the architecture there. And the young woman is beautiful. Who is she?” She turned the frame toward him. She’d bet her life savings that it was the mysterious Fatima.
Hakim’s face contorted. “Put it back.”
“This trip isn’t to see another woman, is it?” She angled her head, taking the jealous-woman route.
“No,” Hakim snorted. “She … she’s dead—to me.”
“I’m sorry. Were you close?”
Hakim’s speed surprised her. He grabbed hold of the picture. It wasn’t the only thing he wrenched from her hand. The dime-sized disk concealed between her middle and ring fingers flew out and skittered across the floor.
Fifteen
Tony struggled to translate the rapid French, but he had no trouble deciphering the word “architecture.” Angela had picked up on something, not that he had any idea what based on their conversation.
The change of tone in Hakim’s voice tempered Tony’s excitement, and he shifted back from the edge of his seat in the surveillance van. He’d missed the last exchange and didn’t like the Weiss way shook his head.
“What?” he mouthed to the agent.
Weiss, his face scrunched in concentration, ignored him.
Tony closed his eyes and listened, trying to catch up and picture what was happening. Man, he wished they had eyes on the inside. But putting a camera on her would have been too risky. He couldn’t figure out why she’d talk about the hanger for the picture frame until she compared Hakim’s face to a Picasso.
Picasso!
Oh, shit! Something had happened. He bolted toward the van’s back door.
“Where are—” Weiss reached out, trying to stop him.
“She’s in trouble. Bravo team, move in!” he yelled into his commlink.
“How do you—”
“Because she said Picasso,” he answered before Weiss finished.
He burst out of the back of the van to see Grant and Porter converging on the building from their posts. None of his Bad Karma team questioned his cryptic request.
“Hold your positions!” Cal ordered his agents. Fortunately, he didn’t try to stop Tony’s team.
Tony dodged traffic to cross the street. A cabbie slammed on his brakes and laid on the horn as he vaulted across the front of his yellow cab to avoid becoming a hood ornament. Only he couldn’t evade the cab in the other lane, and it clipped his leg. He spun but managed to remain upright.
Pain shot from his thigh to his toes and back up to his hip. Each step sent crushing pain through his leg. His gait uneven, he plowed forward.
Cal’s loud string of profanities clued Tony into his presence, only feet behind him. Lundgren appeared, weaving through the pedestrian traffic.
The doorman took a defensive stance at the sight of the charging men.
“FBI! Stand down!” Cal yelled, hopefully to the doorman because Tony wasn’t slowing down. He trusted Angela wouldn’t give the panic word unless it was serious.
Porter and Grant pushed past the doorman into the breezeway, where the beefy concierge was on his feet, maneuvering to intercept them. Tony cringed when he saw the Taser in the concierge’s hand—in firing position. The wired electrodes shot out and connected with Porter’s torso. His body went stiff, and he cried out from the electricity surging through him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the tile floor.
“FBI!” Cal shouted again, holding up his badge to the concierge.
Grant dropped to his knees to check on Porter.
“Shit! How the hell was I to know you guys are Feds?” The concierge knelt next to Grant.
&nb
sp; “He’s good. Go!” Grant hollered to them.
“Elevator.” Cal jabbed the button.
Tony hesitated. Normally, he could sprint the nine floors, no problem, but his leg hurt like hell, and the numbers above the door showed the elevator descending past the third floor.
“We’ll take the stairs.” Lundgren disappeared through the metal door to the stairwell, with Grant on his heels.
The elevator doors slid open. A silver-haired woman holding a small dog frowned at them blocking her exit.
Cal flashed his badge. “Official business, ma’am.”
She didn’t move fast enough. Tony gripped her above both elbows to lift her out of the way. The little mongrel yipped ferociously, his bark shriller than the woman’s surprised outburst. He set her on her feet outside the doors. She stopped blustering when they drew their handguns before the doors shut.
“Sitrep, Weiss!”
Tony silently thanked God for Cal asking what they’d missed in the commotion.
“Something is up. I think he found the bug. She’s trying to talk her way out of it, but—hang on …”
Could this elevator move any slower? Tony gritted his teeth, tracking the slow ascent. He listened to what Angela was saying, but the poor reception inside the car made the foreign words almost impossible to make out.
“How’d you know?” Cal turned his head to him.
“We talked about it before. A code word.” God, he’d only been joking with her. A hundred-pound weight settled in his chest. His hand gripped the butt of his Kimber tighter. He rocked on the balls of his feet, willing the car to rise faster. His thigh had started to swell and tighten.
“We need Hakim alive.” Cal’s voice was even, authoritative.
Tony swore, unable to meet Cal’s eyes. He tried to swallow, only his mouth was as dry as the Iraqi desert.
Seventh floor. Eighth.
He might not be able to make out the French dialog, but the sound of flesh striking flesh was clear. His blood boiled. If it would speed things up, he would pry the doors apart. Instead, he was trapped in this cage. A deep growl emitted from his throat.