by DiAnn Mills
Kord gripped the phone. “Yes, sir.” Prince Omar had placed his life in danger and those around him, and Kord was well aware of the precarious situation.
The call ended and he rejoined the prince. “Amir, may I have a word with you in private?”
The consul general and Malik stepped into the hallway. Kord relayed the conversation from Nasim but didn’t give his informant’s name.
“Can you trust him?” Prince Omar said.
“He’s not failed me in the past.”
“I’ll have Malik send the information home. Tell them to search until they have suspects to question.”
“You won’t release news of an arrest?” Kord said.
“Consul General al-Fakeeh agrees with you, so I’ll postpone the report.”
Kord doubted any of the crimes would have closed stamped on them today or tomorrow. The players had strategized their plot to ensure success. Those who’d committed their lives to keeping the prince and his family safe were seemingly handcuffed with no idea of the next plan of attack. “I’m waiting on security camera footage from yesterday. Once I’m able to—”
“What’s the delay?”
Kord grimaced. “I know a judge signed the search warrant. I’ll check again.” He texted SAC Thomas. A response buzzed his phone—within the hour.
“Are we ready for the drive to MD Anderson?” Prince Omar said. “The consul general will follow us in his car to the medical center.”
Kord had no idea the man planned to visit Prince Omar’s mother. What else had transpired in his absence?
IN THE PRIVACY OF HER BEDROOM, Monica used her laptop to study security footage from the cameras located near Frozen Rock. Unfortunately nothing showed evidence of anyone involved at the crime scene. Kord had been the first to rush forward when Zain stumbled and fell. The camera caught the anguish on Kord’s face and the way his reflexes swung into action. She paused the video and peered intently into her partner’s face. A scowl etched his features. The anger that motivated him to find the killer was equal to his responsibility as an agent. A double hit for whoever was behind the attack. She had her own reasons to ensure no more victims, and hers were about redeeming her past mistakes.
She moved on to what needed to be probed—every angle of activity inside and outside Paramount High School. Although Kord and other investigators were reviewing the same footage, each had a different perspective. Teachers, students, and construction workers had been interviewed, but none had anything more to report than what they already knew. All the remarks and opinions would be tossed into a pot of ideas until something substantial surfaced.
Theoretically it all sounded good.
Techs would take hours to scrutinize each moment, but she could scan through it now for her own take. The time stamp on the school footage in the parking lot began two hours before the crime. She zoomed in on every face—a professional hit man had his plan memorized, reviewed it mentally, and put it into action. High probability the shooter worked alone on the rooftop to carry out the assassination. But he could belong to a terrorist group, and pulling the trigger was his role.
She paused the video overview and closed her eyes, putting herself into the mind of the killer. . . . He’d parked a vehicle that had easy access to the side street of the school. Exited, grabbed a toolbox, panned the area for police officers, and walked toward an entrance. On the way, he asked the teen for directions to the janitors’ office. Made his way there. Met Chip inside. Lured him to the back room, probably by force. Took his shirt and keys. Murdered him. Unlocked the door leading to the rooftop. There he assembled the sniper rifle and pulled the trigger on Zain, thinking he was the prince. Monica calculated twenty to twenty-five minutes if the killer knew the precise time the prince’s entourage planned to stop for ice cream. Impossible to follow the limos and position himself before Zain walked toward the shop.
Her phone alerted her to a text.
Ready 4 MD Anderson?
Monica had lost track of time. She closed her laptop and locked it in a metal case. Shoving the device into a closet, she grabbed her weapon and tucked it into her back waistband. After slinging her jacket over her shoulder, she ensured her earbud was in the pocket and hurried down the stairway.
Outside, three bodyguards stood beside Prince Omar’s limo. Monica wanted to question them, examine their answers, but the prince and bodyguards might not value her conversation unless they initiated it. Consul General al-Fakeeh waited with them, and he offered her a nod. Points for his side.
She rode in the rear of Prince Omar’s second vehicle with Wasi and Saad, leaving Fares and Karim to protect the Saud home. The Lexus behind them transported the consul general. He’d requested to see Prince Omar’s mother, and once he visited her, he’d leave for his office with Prince Omar.
Later she’d tell Kord the consul general had been most respectful, obviously well-versed in Western ways. He could be a liaison in working through the protection detail.
In the eighteen-minute drive to the hospital, she studied the vehicles around her, memorizing license plates out of habit. The vehicles reached the medical center, renowned for its advances in technology to promote healing. Perhaps the professionals here could help Prince Omar’s mother.
This afternoon during the prince’s downtime, she had many things to confirm with Kord, beginning with whom he or the FBI suspected of carrying out the plot to kill the prince.
As they turned onto Holcombe, she texted Kord. Would u ask Prince Omar if I can visit Princess Gharam?
Her question wasn’t inappropriate as long as she filtered it through Kord. A few minutes later, he responded.
A brief mtg 2 introduce yourself as my assistant. Nothing else.
Ok. Thanks.
She is unaware of ur protection detail.
At the hospital, Monica sat outside the office door where the other men gathered with Dr. Carlson and two other physicians. She stepped into her people-watching mode. At times she wanted to say, “Stand up straight” or “Cute children” or “Great smile.” Tough habit to break. She continued for thirty minutes until Kord exited.
“I’ll escort you to see Princess Gharam,” he said. “The prince has another meeting for a second opinion on her condition.”
She joined him en route to the elevator. “Bad news?”
“The cancer has metastasized to other organs and her brain. This morning they started testing her body’s ability to handle the trial drugs. Dr. Carlson recommends a double mastectomy. He doesn’t sound very optimistic about her recovery. Just buying time.” He sighed. “Prince Omar wants to be sure he’s making the right decision.”
She mulled over how the culture protected their women, made sure they were properly taken care of. “I assume he’ll determine the treatment, perhaps without consulting her.”
“Possibly so.”
“What if she believes the surgery is necessary and he thinks otherwise?”
Kord glanced at her. “What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t survive under his rein, and I do mean r-e-i-n.”
“The truth is, if the surgery and treatments lengthen her life for one day, she wants it. Her children mean everything to her. The prince has seen her suffering, and it’s a tough decision.”
“When is the surgery scheduled?”
“Monday—if she gains strength.”
The elevator doors opened, and they entered what looked like a hotel suite. The prince had spared no cost for his mother’s stay. The furnishings and traditionally styled decor in soft shades of cream and healing shades of green caught Monica’s attention and calmed her. The princess definitely needed an environment conducive to healing.
“Before we talk to her, I need to update you,” Kord said. “My informant heard there’s a mole in the prince’s house.”
“Betrayal fits with how the sniper knew when to be in position.”
“I agree.”
“How did Prince Omar respond to the possibility of one of his men b
eing a part of the assassination plot?”
“Staunchly denied his men’s involvement.”
“Not surprised.”
Inside Princess Gharam’s room, a nurse wearing a hijab tended her. The familiar clothing and another woman to possibly share prayer times must be comforting.
Kord approached her bed. “Princess Gharam, it’s good to see you. As salaam alaikum.”
She returned the greeting. Exhaustion deepened the lines around her eyes.
“I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Monica Alden,” he said. “She’s my assistant.”
The princess turned to Monica and held out her hand. Monica held it gently. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I apologize for sleeping yesterday in the limo.”
“Not at all. You need rest.”
“My son said you’d be helping Kord.”
“I’m honored,” Monica said. “It’s a wonderful opportunity to learn from the best.”
“He’s been such a good friend to Omar.”
“We all need friends to walk through life.”
“I will remember your words.”
“Princess Gharam, I’m praying for you.” Healing, physically and spiritually.
“Thank you.” A wisp of Fatima and Yasmine graced her smile.
Monica sensed relief the woman hadn’t questioned the origin of her beliefs. So hard to choose when to announce her faith in Jesus and when to establish friendship.
“Princess Gharam,” Kord said, “we can stay but a few minutes. You need your rest, and Prince Omar will be here soon. Promise me you’ll do all you can for the days ahead.”
“I’m fighting. I want to look happy for Omar and my daughters. It saddens them when I’m weak and in pain.” She hesitated and a wave of discomfort passed over her face. “I want to hear what the treatments will be. Not knowing is a little frightening. I’d rather be prepared for what’s to come.”
“Overseeing your care shows Prince Omar’s love.” Kord spoke tenderly. “If you like, we can visit you another time.”
“I’d enjoy that very much. Perhaps I’ll feel better when you see me again. I miss my daughters today. Every moment is precious.”
Monica kept her composure despite the sadness and ultimate reality of the woman’s illness. What would she do in the same situation? She thrived on good health and despised the idea of being bedridden.
THE MOMENT PRINCE OMAR entered the room, Monica sensed his presence, an essence of confidence and authority. He moved to his mother’s bed, and Monica and Kord stepped back with Consul General al-Fakeeh and three bodyguards. Princess Gharam’s eyes glistened in pure adoration for her son, and the sight gave Monica pause to observe the power of love. Since the beginning of time, families had shared a bond that stepped beyond the boundaries of culture to a special place in their hearts.
Monica waited for Kord to act. He excused himself from the room, and she followed. Two additional bodyguards were posted outside the door, and a third stood near the elevator. Kord chose seating where they could keep an eye on anyone exiting the elevator or moving toward Princess Gharam’s room.
“You put on a good show.” His tone cut like a razor.
What had crawled under his skin and laid eggs? “Excuse me? A show?”
He glared at her. “Your statement about praying for Princess Gharam. Were your words supposed to put you into the inner circle? I heard you speak the God thing to the prince and the janitor. But trust me, Prince Omar’s God and the janitor’s aren’t the same.”
Was he grieving Zain’s death, tired, or an atheist who’d just confirmed his new partner placed God in the center of her life? He could deal with it. “You’re mad because I told a sick woman I’d pray for her. I have been and will continue to pray for her healing, not to Allah but the Judeo-Christian God. If you have a problem with my faith, that’s your issue, not mine.”
“Am I talking to a God-fearing Texas gal?”
“Is this a stumbling block for you?”
“Only if the God thing gets in the way of job performance.”
She longed to laugh, yet how regrettable he didn’t know the God who ruled the universe. “Faith just might be in your best interests considering what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.”
His features tightened. “Let me get this straight. A shooter has a weapon aimed at you, and you’re going to ask him to prayerfully think before pulling the trigger?”
“Take another look at my résumé.” She pointed to the phone in his hand while a rush of memories punched her hard. “I can hold my own in a firefight. We had this discussion earlier. Nothing stands in the way of my job performance.” She wished she believed her own words.
His scowl seemed permanent while he scrolled through his phone. Ignoring him, she calculated how many steps from the elevator door to Princess Gharam’s room and how fast she could intercept a potential shooter. Although her legs were short, she had the marathon-running gene, a trait she shared with her four brothers that was handed down from a dad who played pro ball for the Yankees.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Kord continue to read. She might have exaggerated her qualifications, but she had a few accomplishments under her belt.
“Monica.”
She turned to him.
“I owe you an apology. Originally I skimmed your résumé. I’ve been a jerk. Again.”
“No problem. I’m good. Try explaining it to God since He’s the one you’ve offended.”
He groaned.
“I’ll give you a little slack. We have two murders hovering over us, and your friend Zain is one of them.”
“That doesn’t justify my actions.”
“Right. I gave you a break.” She couldn’t resist a grin. “Next time is another matter.”
“For the record, I’m a proponent of only sure things.”
“Me too. Has the prince released his intel?”
“Still waiting. While we have a little time, let’s look at the security footage. The sound of the elevator will alert us to anyone.” Kord bored his attention into his phone while she did the same to hers.
She logged on to the secure site and found where she’d left off.
“Take a look at 9:35 a.m.,” Kord said.
“I looked at this earlier.” She found the footage. “The man rotated his body in the opposite direction whenever cameras could have captured his face. The only thing he couldn’t avoid was his height.” She paused the screen and studied it. “I’d say approximately five-six or -seven like the young man at Paramount High School said. The killer is scary skilled. Before it’s over, I want to find out who trained him. And where.”
“Right. None of the footage gives us the ability to run him through facial recognition software.” He stretched his neck.
Her mind spun back to who could be behind the attempted assassination. Suspicion crept into her processing. While she’d assumed a member of the prince’s entourage was responsible for the deaths, what about Americans who were upset with Prince Omar’s visit? Those who thought they were doing the world a service? She’d check backgrounds on every person she could think of before she and Kord compared notes.
No more murder cases with her name on them.
PRINCE OMAR AND CONSUL GENERAL AL-FAKEEH exited Princess Gharam’s hospital room with their bodyguards. Kord stood and Monica joined him. A light floral scent gave no doubt to her femininity. Trying to figure out the woman from her background proved more difficult than he imagined. Her Middle East missions proved her ability to outthink the enemy. But how did he size up a determined operative? But her innocent face and Jesus-freak attitude completely threw Kord for a loop.
He could trust her to have his back. No problem. But having her on a detail with an Arab prince who believed it was a man’s world . . . Could Kord work effectively when he might have to run interference between Monica and Prince Omar? And she’d already compiled distrust against Ali.
“She’s either very good or will
disrupt all we do,” Ali had said when confronted with what she’d lip-read. “Your government shouldn’t have assigned a woman.”
Kord valued loyalty. “Or her gender could be an asset.”
Now Prince Omar approached him. “Kord, the consul general is leaving. My plan to join him at his office has been postponed. Dr. Carlson wants to speak to Mother and me together.”
“I’ll escort Consul General al-Fakeeh to his driver.” Kord needed to explore the two conversations he’d missed between the prince and the consul general.
The consul smiled his thanks. “A limo is waiting outside. My driver texted earlier to arrange for a replacement.”
“Is he ill?” Kord said.
“A family emergency.” He reached for Monica’s hand . . . in front of the prince.
Monica grasped it. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you. Have a good day.”
Kord turned to her. “I’ll keep you posted on our wire.”
She reached inside her jacket and positioned the earbud before taking a stance between the elevator and Princess Gharam’s room.
The elevator opened, and Kord gestured for the consul general and his two bodyguards to enter. The door closed with the protectors shielding Consul General al-Fakeeh.
“How was your time with Princess Gharam?” Kord said.
The white-haired man grimaced. “As well as can be expected. The surgery and clinical test is her last chance to lengthen her life. The prince said longevity is more important to her than quality, and her condition grieves him.”
“I have no idea how I’d feel in her position. Has to be different for each person. The doctors here have worldwide distinction for their success in treating her type of cancer. I hope they can bring her and the prince promising news. Strength and optimism are a disease’s enemy.”
Consul General al-Fakeeh stared at the descending elevator numbers. “I understand she doesn’t know about the threats to the amir, only about Zain’s death. She expressed her sorrow in the loss.”
“Princess Gharam is an intelligent woman. I’m sure she’s aware of danger wherever the royal family travels.”