by Louise Dawn
“Why the hell not? If you do a great job, I’ll use you in the future. Besides, who’d know?” Wayne’s face flushed with frustration.
Max relaxed, knowing the little turd’s worst crime was infringing on a business agreement and not trying to assassinate a target.
“For starters, I would know. I’m sorry but you’re on your own. Having an upstanding reputation in the design industry means everything to me. I refuse to have my name muddied by an illegal transgression. I won’t replicate company materials.” Abby stood and shouldered her bag. “Good luck to you, I hope you find success in whatever you do.”
“You sanctimonious bitch!” A pudgy hand grabbed her wrist with surprising speed. Abby yelped as Max reacted. Wayne opened his mouth to say something and instead squealed in pain. Max bent the jerk’s index finger back, causing him to let go of Abby’s wrist. And then continued twisting, as Wayne fell to his knees.
“You fucking asshole! You touched her?” Now it was Max’s turn to steam in anger. He felt Abby’s hand on his arm.
“Stop. It’s okay. I’m okay! Please stop.”
Max shoved the dimwit away. “Don’t contact her again, Wayne. If you think your hand is hurting, wait until you see what I can do with your small dick and your two tiny balls.”
Grabbing Abby around the waist and watching their six, Max led her to the car.
Slater made some smart-ass chirp in the comms about the turd, but all Max could think of was calling it a day.
Abby sat quietly on the drive home, probably mad at him. Hell. He was furious at himself. Max Andersen had lost his shit in the field for the first time in his long career. He glared at Abby’s profile and felt better blaming it all on her; she pushed all his freaking buttons. Never mind pushed, she hammered away like she was banging away at an old typewriter, that was his brain. Yeah, this was so her fault. Next time, Slater could trail alongside her like a freaking lapdog.
“Thank you,” Abby said.
Max felt flummoxed. “What?”
“Thank you for being there. For putting that bully in his place.”
“Ah, no problem.”
“That was pretty funny… ‘Wait until you see what I can do with your small dick and two tiny balls’!” Her husky impersonation of Max’s voice had him answering her with a smile.
They stopped at a four-way stop.
Abby rubbed her wrist as she pondered. “I’m half tempted to call Blue Corp and warn the CEO about the little weasel working for him. Could I be that mean?”
Max was only half listening. His rage ran back up to a boil as he eyed her wrist. “He hurt you.”
“Relax. This is the wrist I broke in Sharjah. It’s sensitive—one wrong twist or squeeze and it gets a little sore. Besides, his hand was too sweaty to get a decent grip, it was only greasy desperation. He wasn’t trying to hurt me.”
Max frowned at her arm. “When we get home, put some ice on it and take a break, maybe watch a movie.”
“Yes, sirree.”
Once they were home, workaholic Abigail Evans didn’t put her feet up and didn’t watch a movie. Instead, she was back behind her desk, racing through design ideas. The rest of the week passed uneventfully. Abby retreated into an industrious shell, catching up on design work. When she wasn’t working, much to his team’s delight, she cooked and baked up a storm. Max sensed that busy energy was a cover for a deep pool of inner angst. In truth, he felt equally on edge.
Friday saw Max on a secure line with Fort Bragg and Washington, negotiating for most of the day. They revised plans and relayed new information on the mercenary cell that they hunted. The following morning, Max called Slater and Johnny in for a briefing. Donnie and Max had sat up for most of the night. It did little to appease the disquiet running through him. One of his favorite quotes, “theories look great on paper until reality scribbles all over the page,” kept playing over in his head.
Donnie ran across the way to keep an eye on Abby as he’d already worked through a separate briefing with Max.
As the other two men rolled through the door, Johnny waved a grocery bag in the air. “I picked up sandwiches for lunch, and I got your gummy worms.” He threw a packet at Max. “A pain in the ass to find the all-natural, dye-free shit you eat.”
“Natural gelatin is good for the joints,” Max said as he tore open the bag.
Slater started in with his wisecracks as he wandered to the fridge to grab a Red Bull. “Arghh boss, you made me leave the happy place…to come to the sad place.”
Max raised a brow. Slater shoved the fridge closed with his foot as he continued. “What? Evans’s place smells nice. There’s a beef stew on the stove, and it has cake. This place? Nothing in the fridge and it smells like FAN.”
Max rolled his eyes at Slater’s slang for feet, ass, and nuts. “Those are probably your dirty socks stinking up the place, and if I find any of those soggy missiles hiding behind our equipment, I’ll stuff them down your throat. Now sit your ass down.”
“Don’t get your Nordic thunder cock in a wad!” Slater threw himself into a seat with a grin.
Pulling up a chair, Johnny addressed Max. “After the briefing and lunch, I’ll stop by Lizzy’s. Shift work means that I’m only able to meet her some evenings after she gets out of beauty school. We need a new schedule so she’s not left unprotected.” Max sensed a fine thread of tension running through his teammate.
“We’ll get to that after lunch. First, we’re running through the updated intel. An informant came through for us.” Max turned to projected images on the wall. “Another Somalian canary came forward, contacting AFRICOM.”
“A reliable source?” Johnny asked.
“AFRICOM has used him before. Apparently, Khalid is planning that South African hunting trip. He knows Evans is in country.”
This was their one chance to take Khalid out. The Sandpiper had been holed up in an extremist stronghold in Somalia for months. No allied team could get near him. The entire Southern region was under Khalid’s control.
“We get one chance. Khalid won’t have his al-Shabaab buddies to cover his ass. We’ll go over possible scenarios later. I need you all on point.”
Max tapped on a photo of Roman Petrovich, a Ukrainian mafia henchman turned mercenary and a high-value target. “Roman is now second-in-command in Khalid’s cell. His predecessor died two days ago in a backwater clinic with cerebral malaria.”
“Shit, lucky break for the crazy bastard,” Slater said.
Roman was indeed a crazy bastard—rumored to have purposely run over his brother with a truck on one occasion and also to have murdered his wife, mounting her head on a stick for burning his dinner.
Roman ran sex trafficking rings in Eastern Europe, over and above his campaign of violence against innocents in East Africa. He was responsible for setting hospitals alight, blowing up food markets, targeting hotels and destabilizing regions for profit. Roman was now second in charge—that didn’t sit well with Max.
Max then switched to an image of Viktor Maslov. “As we know, the Russian has been Khalid’s bodyguard for the past five years. That hasn’t changed. The man does not exactly blend in, built like a tank. Not just any tank, like a freaking M1-J10 Main Battle Tank. He makes Johnny look like a flea.”
Johnny grunted. “Give me five minutes in a ring with the Russian bear, and I’ll rip his spleen out.”
Max’s mouth curved up dangerously. “I didn’t say he’s better than you, just a bit larger. He shouldn’t be hard to spot once they step onto South African soil. Mandla has his canaries on the lookout in every suburb and border-entry points.”
After the briefing, Johnny unpacked the ham sandwiches, and Slater grabbed bottled waters from the fridge. Max stared intently at Abby’s open file as they sat down to eat.
Slater nudged Max’s foot. “I get that you’re focusing like a laser-beam, but lunch is up.”
“Just checking our profiling,” Max said as he ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his neck. His te
ammate read frustration in the action.
“What’s up, maybe we can help?” Johnny asked.
Max tore into a gummy worm and leaned back in the chair. “I can’t get a thorough read on her. The majority of the time, I’m on point with building a target’s dossier. Finding the core of what makes them tick. But she’s an enigma.”
Slater spoke carefully. “I’ve read your profiling and agree with your assessment that she’s cool-headed, polished, has tremendous self-control, but there’s more to her. That’s just her armor.”
“Tell me what you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, she has an amusing way of looking at the world. Now and then, a little gem slips out of that pretty mouth.”
Max bristled at the ‘pretty mouth’ comment.
Slater continued, seemingly unaware of Max’s annoyance. “You wanna hear my theory on that?”
“Go for it.”
Taking a swig of Red Bull, Slater dived in. “All her adult life, Evans has strived for control. But it doesn’t come naturally to her. She has to work at it and she’s got it down—seamless in executing a serene dance through life. Without that iron fist she believes she’d fall over the edge. I bet she was a very different little girl before her father beat her down. Cheerful, passionate, spirited. Now she’s stressed. Her life is being turned upside down again. What does a human do under long-term stress? They revert to their base instincts. The past week, I’ve seen a new quirkiness beneath that cool exterior.”
Johnny piped in. “He’s right. I spotted something on the monitors the other day.” He propped his feet up on the opposite chair, getting comfortable. “Evans polished the furniture in the living room. I suddenly hear a shriek, and she jumps back in full geek-out mode. I can’t find the threat.”
Max leaned forward, listening intently.
“Then I see her staring with wide eyes at the television, but it’s switched off, so I zoom the camera in, and I see an insect sitting on a shelf. Evans starts speaking to it and says, ‘Hey, Mr. Mantis. You gave me a fright; I thought you were a grasshopper. What ya doing, buddy?’ So I zoom in a little more, it’s a praying mantis, just chilling. Then she cracks a joke. ‘It’s a nice day outside, bug man, why don’t you go out and pray?’ She slowly grabs one of her sketch pads from the shelf and tears off a sheet of paper and says, ‘Now I’m still working through my fear of spindly legs, so be patient while I rescue your skinny ass. Don’t you dare fly at me, else I’ll be a blubbery mess.’ It took her five full minutes to get him out to a leafy bush near her patio.” Johnny started grinning. “And get this, her parting shot to the mantis before walking back inside was, ‘Don’t lose your head, little buddy. Safe sex means wearing a helmet.’”
Max was taking a sip and almost sprayed water over the table, grabbing a napkin as he guffawed with laughter. Johnny smirked in response.
Slater looked around in confusion. “I don’t get it?”
Still chuckling, Max replied, “The king of one-liners doesn’t get it! Dude, the male praying mantis loses his head after mating! The female eats it.”
Max finished the rest of the meal in amused silence as the other men chattered about their new interest in rugby and how it differed to American football. He was just about to stand when Slater took him unawares.
“I studied Abby’s medical records last night. Fucking brutal.” Intensity rolled off Slater.
Where was he heading with this? “I agree. And?”
“There may be similarities between Nasari and Evans, but they are not the same woman.”
Max gathered the sandwich wrappers. “We’re not doing this right now.”
“I’m just saying; I know you’re drawing parallels. Hell, we all are. After Sully’s death, it’s natural to be overly cautious.”
Max sighed. “And your point is?”
“Sharon Nasari came to us with bruising and lashes. As we now know, it was all for show, to set us up. Abigail Evans, on the other hand, the sheer brutality of her attack is off the charts. Extensive internal damage. It was solely about teaching her a lesson that she would never walk away from.”
Johnny interjected, “I agree, but what if Khalid broke Evans, threatening retribution if she didn’t join him?”
Slater nodded. “It’s a possibility. The timeline is off though. Khalid assaulted Evans around the same time as the Black Friday bombing. Sharon Nasari had little detail on Sully’s unit. Her cell assumed we were FBI, and after the attack none of our names were leaked. Khalid doesn’t know about MIT2, thinking that just the CIA is after him. MIT2 is currently invisible. He’d first need to know his enemy to plant Evans as a lure. On the off chance that he waited this long to ambush us, it’s not in his character. Khalid has never been all that careful and is becoming increasingly arrogant. It’s just a matter of time before his luck runs out.”
“Besides, after Nasari, we won’t get caught again,” Johnny said.
“Won’t we?” Max asked. He enjoyed his team’s interplay, getting their perspective on the mission.
“Even if Khalid knew of the existence of our team, he doesn’t know what type of men we are. Name how many operators you know who wouldn’t give a fuck about her injuries and just see Evans as a means to an end.”
“Aren’t we doing the same thing?” Max asked.
“Nope, protecting our asset is just as vital as catching Khalid,” Slater stated emphatically.
Max nodded. “Good to know we’re on the same page. Fort Bragg gave the go-ahead to keeping her in place until Khalid lands on South African soil. I’ll continue with the boyfriend ruse. Abby is seeing two clients next week, shopping for art supplies and returning to swimming sessions. Lizzy’s birthday barbecue is being held next Sunday at her family home.”
Max stared at the whiteboard. They still had zero intel on the attack in the parking lot at La Coraggio.
He tapped Johnny on the shoulder as he rose. “Time to build a roster that includes Lizzy’s protection detail. You’re going to be one tired mother. You’ll be balancing your focus between both Lizzy’s and Abby’s detail.”
Johnny nodded. “Fine by me, casualties of this war won’t be happening on my watch. Let’s hammer out the details.”
Chapter Twelve
Later that afternoon, Max got some shut-eye and had just awoken and was doing push-ups alongside the bed when Donnie poked his head in. “Yo, Batman, as nice as it is to ogle your ripped, bare-naked chest before dinner, I have some news.”
Max gave Donnie a rude sign as he bounced up and grabbed a shirt. “A man takes one small nap in twenty-four hours and this is what he gets? What do you have?”
“Omar Salib,” Donnie answered with a grin.
“What about him?”
“He’s landing in Johannesburg early tomorrow morning. He has a connecting flight to Mogadishu later in the afternoon.”
“Great. What’s his ETA?”
“0600 hours.”
“Excellent. Let’s roll out the welcoming mat.”
◊ ◊ ◊
This was her cleaning day. Thanks to a combination of anxiety and claustrophobia, Abby took spring cleaning to the next level, deciding to scrub and organize all the kitchen cabinets at eight in the morning. Abby stacked the last of the pans and hefted them into the pot cupboard just before lunch. The next target was the living room. Polish in hand, Abby attacked the coffee table when she heard men at the door.
Max stood to the side, and the man who stood beside him made her blood run cold. He was backlit by morning light but…was Khalid standing at her door? Were these men working with Khalid? Was it all a big lie? A sick game? Abby staggered back. Strong hands grabbed for her as the world spun.
Loud cursing broke through her fuzz. “Head…between legs… Sit her down. Breathe. Abs, breathe.” Max’s voice cut through the haze.
She felt his fingers at the back of her neck as he pushed her head down. “Kha…Khalid.”
“No, honey. I’m so sorry. I should’ve done this right. It
’s not Khalid. It’s a friend of mine, a work colleague. His name is Omar, he works for the US Government.”
Abby felt almost afraid to look up. She trembled like a damn coward.
“Deep breaths, Abs. You’ve got this.”
No. She didn’t have this. She didn’t have any of this. Her life was a shambled junkyard of pain and shame. She had never felt as helpless as in that moment. Tears leaked as she pulled herself back from madness. After a moment of snuffled breathing, Abby raised her head slowly. For the second time in a matter of days, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
The man sitting cautiously on the edge of the chair was as tall as Khalid with a similar build. He had the same smooth, honeyed skin. His haircut resembled the terrorist’s stylish cut, but that was where the similarities ended. His face was different. Not as sterile. His nose flatter and his lips fuller. More importantly, his eyes reflected genuine concern.
“You’re not him. I’m sorry. I feel so foolish.”
He smiled kindly. “Nothing to be sorry for. I do look a little like Khalid. We come from the same town. I’m a distant cousin, but that is where it ends. I’ve been hunting him for a long time.”
He had an American accent with a slight trace of Arabic. Taking a deep breath, Abby stood on quaking legs. Max’s hand was at her back.
Extending her hand, Abby said firmly. “Let’s try this again. Abigail Evans.”
“Omar Salib. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Max cut in. “Omar has worked with our government for just over twelve years. We’ve worked together on a few missions for the last six. He’s also a good family friend. I trust him with my life. I stayed over with his family on my last vacation. His wife, Aisha, should be on Masterchef, her food is that good!”
“Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink, Omar?”
“I’m good. I won’t be staying too long. I have a connecting flight to catch.”
“No, I insist. How about joining me for at least a cupcake? I baked chocolate caramel.”