Targeted (FBI Heat)

by Marissa Garner

  “Husaam doesn’t know specifically where they’re living. Again, damn stupid, if you ask me. But I’m sure they thought keeping it secret provided another level of security. He obviously knows which San Diego mosque they attend, but Special Agent Jabbar is confident the religious leadership isn’t involved. These terrorists are outsiders.”

  “Agreed. But the mosque could be Husaam’s key to locating the cell.”

  “Who’s he going to send to find them?”

  “I don’t know…yet. What do you get from his reaction to his wife’s disappearance?” Rawlings asked.

  Miller cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

  “He figured out the woman he was speaking to wasn’t his wife, but he has no clue where the real Baheera Abbas is. So, is this how you’d react if your wife disappeared?”

  Miller frowned. “Of course not. But then, I’d never send my wife to be a suicide bomber. I guess he’d already written her off as dead.”

  Rawlings stroked his chin. “Yeah. Husaam’s definitely not the grieving husband. I think he sounds furious and frustrated. Maybe a bit panicky but not on a personal husband-and-wife level.” He grinned at Miller’s puzzled expression. “Clear as mud?”

  “Yeah. Where are you going with all this touchy-feely talk?”

  He stared off into space. “Remember the weird exchange between Husaam and Panuska about seeing the doctor? Panuska asked us to research the doctor issue, so she’s obviously drawing a blank too. I’ve had staff go back over all the wiretapped calls, and we can’t find a single goddamn reference to a doctor. What the hell is the deal with the doctor all about?”

  “Beats me. Must’ve been something they both already knew about but didn’t involve anyone else. Why would she need to see a damn doctor before blowing herself up?”

  “I don’t know, but my gut tells me there’s a connection between the doctor and Husaam’s reaction.”

  Miller shook his head. “Good luck with all that. I don’t see it. Now give me an update before Winslow calls again. The White House is real antsy.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  * * *

  Moonlight streamed through the open window blinds, illuminating the bedroom as the passing hours pushed past midnight into Tuesday morning. Marissa lay awake. Waiting. Thinking. Planning. She listened. Snoring, loud snoring. Convinced the four terrorists in the other two bedrooms had finally fallen asleep, she rolled silently out of bed.

  She pulled a tiny flashlight and a paperclip from her purse as she tiptoed across the bedroom to Samir’s chest. The locked box in the bottom drawer was her target. The drawer of the thrift-shop chest slid open with a soft scraping. She stopped, listened. Carefully, she lifted the box from the drawer, finding it much heavier than she’d expected, and set it on the floor. What a joke that Samir would purchase such a cheap box to hold the important documents she expected to find inside.

  Marissa leaned down to be eye level with the lock, switched on the flashlight, and directed the beam at the box. The paper clip defeated the simple lock in less than a minute.

  She listened again. Only snoring.

  After raising the lid, she positioned the flashlight to illuminate the inside of the box. Cash. Bundles of hundreds. She took out the money and counted $95,000. She slid ten one-hundred-dollar bills from a pack and stuffed them in her purse. She wouldn’t be caught penniless again in this operation. Money spoke all languages, and cash could mean the difference between life and death in covert ops.

  Beneath the cash, unlabeled files and envelopes were jumbled together. She flipped through the contents. No sign of any organization. She would simply have to start at the top and work down.

  The first envelope contained a handwritten note that must have come with the satellite phone from Husaam. She read the Arabic message giving Samir specific instructions on how the phone was to be used by the cell. Virtually all communication was supposed to be incoming phone calls. Husaam’s sat phone number was written with a strict warning that it be used only in the case of an extreme emergency. Marissa frowned. Should she have kept Samir’s phone? At the time, it had seemed too risky. But was it really less risky to give it to a stranger? Since she wanted to keep the phone safe so Homeland Security could eventually analyze it for intel, Ameen had been her only option. She would have to trust him.

  A San Diego Padres game schedule was the only other item in the envelope. Someone has written “Yasir” at the top. He had been gone most nights and the first weekend after she arrived. No one told her where he was during those times. But this schedule explained why the pattern had discontinued for the past several days. The team had been out of town for the last week, but a nine-game home stand was starting tonight. She frowned. Why is Yasir working when Samir has almost a hundred grand in cash?

  The toilet flushing startled her. She instantly switched off the little flashlight. She heard the bathroom door open and footsteps approach her bedroom door. She held her breath. The doorknob jiggled, and her heart lurched. The man on the other side of the door mumbled an Arabic curse and then retreated down the hallway. She closed her eyes and breathed again but didn’t move for five minutes.

  She opted not to use the flashlight when she pulled out the first folder, instead scooting into the pool of moonlight. Inside were two pieces of paper with handwritten notes. One note dated four days ago included the name Juan Gonzalez and a phone number. Who is he? The second note listed yesterday’s date, a time, and $20 with a question mark. Shaking her head with frustration, she folded the papers and added them to the purse.

  Her hands shook when she realized the significance of the information in the next folder. Detailed diagrams with labeling and instructions in Arabic explained how to assemble a dirty bomb. As part of her hurried prep for the operation, she’d studied—as well as a linguist can study engineering drawings—the diagrams and documents recovered in 2003 in Herat, Afghanistan, and these looked frighteningly familiar.

  Khaleel, the Tall Elf, had referred to instructions. Are these a copy of what he has?

  Khaleel. A knot tightened in Marissa’s stomach as she silently cursed Ameen’s traitorous friend.

  Another file held profiles of all eight terrorists. A quick review of the information revealed Samir had arrived in San Diego directly from Syria on a student visa. All the others had moved from the Seattle area.

  Digging through the rest of the papers yielded no additional useful information. No mention of where the radioactive material was, how it was being delivered, or who was bringing it. Nothing. Where the hell is it? Apparently, even Samir did not know.

  Inside the last folder she found several maps. On a map of Tijuana, someone had circled and labeled the location of the hideout and the Abdul-Jaleel Electronics plant. She held the map close and squinted. Two other locations were marked, but unlabeled. One was practically on the border near the Tijuana airport, probably in an industrial area. The second unlabeled spot marked with an “x” was barely across the border from the first spot and technically located in the San Diego community of Otay Mesa. The cell had never taken her to either site.

  What are these places? What’s their significance?

  The next map was of San Diego County and contained several labeled circles. Potential targets? Every military facility, large or small, was identified. Damn, there are so many. Three civilian sites in San Diego were also circled: the city government complex, San Diego State University, and Petco Park. Marissa didn’t know anything about the local sports teams, but the men had watched the Padres on television. Petco Park must be where they played and where Yasir worked.

  The third map she opened displayed a detailed street map of downtown San Diego. A large red star marked one location. Not far from the airport and across the bay from Coronado. The deadly decision had been made.

  A place filled with tens of thousands of unsuspecting people. The cell wanted to kill innocent civilians and contaminate the center of one of America’s largest cities with radiation.<
br />
  Oh my God! The target is Petco Park.

  Chapter 12

  When the cell phone on the nightstand rang, Kevin Rawlings reached for it without raising his head from the pillow. “Rawlings,” he mumbled, opening one eye to read 3:58 a.m. on the alarm clock.

  “Sorry to wake you, sir, but we have a situation,” an anxious female voice explained curtly.

  In his world, the word “situation” could mean just about anything so Rawlings was upright and wide-awake by the last syllable. “What is it, Special Agent Zafar?”

  “Baheera Abbas, the al-Qaeda woman. She’s gotten much worse.”

  “Define ‘worse.’”

  “She’s…bleeding…,” Jamila Zafar started hesitantly.

  “Bleeding? Did she fall? Cut herself?”

  “No, sir. She’s bleeding…vaginally. Heavy.”

  “Goddammit! Could it be a miscarriage? Did she tell us or did we check to see if she was pregnant?”

  “No indication of pregnancy, Mr. Rawlings. She’s also…vomiting blood…”

  “Jesus.”

  “And screaming in pain. The medics have already administered morphine, but it doesn’t seem to be helping.”

  “Son of a bitch. Have her taken by ambulance to the hospital. Immediately. Send all the security personnel that are on duty with her and call for backup. I don’t want to take any chances. I’ll meet you there. I’m on my way.”

  He kissed his wife and told her he was leaving. He’d gotten home at midnight, and now he was on the move again at four. In the last two weeks, he had not slept for more than five hours in any one night, and tonight was no exception. This is Tuesday morning, right? He grimaced. He couldn’t lose track of time even if the long days and short nights blurred together.

  Not taking time for a shower, he pulled on his clothes. He scowled at the reflection in the mirror while combing his hair. Had he aged a decade in the last few months?

  As he barreled down the stairs, he ticked off a mental list of calls he would start making from the car. Beginning with the White House.

  * * *

  A sharp rap on the bedroom door woke her. In the dark, Marissa rolled over to check the clock before responding. The numbers mocked her. Her body still begged for sleep, but it was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

  “Baheera, we are going to the mosque for morning prayers,” Fateen called from the other side of the door. “Masoud will stay here with you.”

  The mosque. Ameen.

  “Wait, Fateen. I’ve heard you speak of the women’s prayer room. I’m going with you.” Marissa scrambled out of bed. She yanked off her nightgown and grabbed her blouse and pants.

  “What? You have never gone with us before.”

  “Another one of Samir’s stupid decisions. Don’t you think I should thank Allah for protecting me in Tijuana Sunday night?” I should thank Allah for sending Ameen to protect me from your fanatical Samir.

  “Of course, we will all thank Allah for keeping you safe,” he said. “And we must remember to pray for our martyred brothers, Samir and Omar.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. She would never understand how terrorists—intent on killing thousands of innocent people—perceived themselves as devoutly religious.

  “Give me ten minutes to get ready.” She grimaced when she looked down at her clothes and realized she would have to wear the long, black abaya and niqab to the mosque. She certainly didn’t want to attract attention to herself by dressing disrespectfully. With a sigh, she put on the Muslim clothing over her wrinkled garments.

  The squat, flat-roofed mosque was located barely a mile away and sat among single-family houses and small apartment complexes in a lower-middle-class neighborhood. Nicely maintained grounds surrounded the aging, white stucco building, but the wood trim needed paint. Outdoor walkways provided access to most of the rooms. Only the crescent-moon-and-star symbol next to the main office door identified the building as a mosque. Although it had a name, no sign announced it.

  The four men escorted Marissa to the women’s prayer room. As soon as they left, she surveyed the handful of women and scooted out the door. Hoping to find Ameen, she hurried along the walkways. She couldn’t involve him in the operation, but that didn’t lessen her desire to see him. Not a good sign.

  Marissa had just walked past a closed utility room door when she heard it open behind her. Before she could turn, a large hand covered her mouth through the veil, and a strong arm snaked around her waist, lifting and yanking her into the dark space.

  The door shut. The lock clicked.

  A muscular, male body pressed her back against the wall. She struggled to ram her knee into his genitals, but he pinned her legs. She swung her head from side to side, trying to free her mouth to scream or bite her attacker.

  “Baheera, stop. It’s me, Ameen,” he whispered roughly in her ear. A gasp caught in her throat and she went limp. “I’m going to remove my hand. Okay?”

  She nodded. He slid his hand away and lessened the pressure on her body, although he didn’t step aside as he could have.

  Marissa’s eyes found his in the darkness. “This is unwise, Ameen. But since we are here, I should apologize for seeming ungrateful yesterday. You saved my life, and I want…I need to…I don’t know how to thank you.”

  After living with the enemy for two weeks, she was starved for the touch and taste of compassion. Marissa lifted the veil from her face, then cupped his cheeks and brushed his lips with hers.

  Ameen stiffened but didn’t resist, so she molded her mouth more firmly against his. God, she wanted to part his lips, slide her tongue inside, and taste this man. Almost as much as she wanted to be tasted. She fought the temptation but moaned with the effort.

  Even through the cumbersome robe, she could feel his hard muscles and masculine strength. The heat radiating from his body seemed to spread through her, wrap itself around her, and hug her closer.

  The urgency burning through her kiss must have dissolved his defenses, for his lips softened and moved against hers. His hands rested on her shoulders and massaged gently. His touch relaxed and reassured her. His warm lips melted the iciness of being alone for so long.

  She needed him to wrap her in his arms and… Not happening. She groaned and pulled her mouth away.

  When they separated, her head rolled to the side, and she grimaced. “I’m sorry. I realized last night that I never properly thanked you for saving my life. But it is wrong for me to kiss you, completely inappropriate behavior for a decent Muslim woman,” she whispered.

  “Why do you worry, Baheera? You are not a Muslim woman.”

  She leaned back and studied him for a long moment. “But I must behave as one. Be careful what you learn about me, Ameen.”

  “That is not what worries me.” He lifted her chin. “The men will be finished soon. We don’t have much time. I have news.”

  She frowned. “News?”

  “Yes. Yesterday morning, after I came back from Tijuana, I spotted a Mexican man loitering in front of the mosque. He was dressed like a drug dealer, and I feared he was here to sell drugs to our young people. When I went outside to get rid of him, he asked if I was Samir.”

  Samir’s note. Marissa kept her expression impassive and didn’t respond.

  “The guy was brash, cocky. He said Samir was supposed to meet him. I offered to give Samir a message, and the punk said he’d give Samir one more chance to meet him here at ten today. If Samir didn’t show, the deal was off. Does this mean anything to you?”

  She hesitated, then took the plunge. “Juan Gonzalez, eleven o’clock Monday. I found the information and a phone number in Samir’s stuff.”

  “Is the cell dealing drugs to raise money?”

  “Possibly, but I don’t think so.”

  He waited as if hoping for more explanation. When it wasn’t forthcoming, he sighed. “What should I do if he comes back this morning?”

  Frantically, Marissa evaluated. Did she dare let Ameen get more involved
? She knew it was never a good idea to let a civilian into an op, but maybe she could use him…this one time. “Call him ‘Juan.’ Tell him someone will phone him at noon. We still want the deal.”

  “Baheera, you’re playing with fire.”

  “Then pray I don’t get burned.”

  He shook his head impatiently. “How will you get away from the others to call him? And I have the sat phone.”

  “The cell is no longer my shadow or my handcuffs. I have Samir’s truck and one of their burner phones, so I can call from anywhere.”

  Ameen peered straight into her eyes. “Would you like to call from my place? You would be safe there.”

  She smiled. “I would like that very much, but it would not be wise. Giving my message to Juan is the best way for you to help me. I must go now.”

  Their gazes, intense and worried, remained locked. Ameen tentatively stepped toward her. Grasping her shoulders, he pulled her close and brushed his lips across hers. He hesitated and then kissed her again. Longer. Deeper. She wanted so much more.

  “I’ll go out first,” he said. “If it’s clear, I’ll say, ‘The restroom is that way.’ You go right, and I’ll go left.”

  “Be careful, Ameen.”

  “Allah be with you, Baheera,” he said and slipped out the door.

  A moment later, he gave the signal, and they departed in opposite directions.

  Ameen’s kiss still fresh on her lips, Marissa repositioned the niqab as she hurried along the outdoor walkways toward the exit. Less than a minute later, the others arrived.

  Red-faced and bristling, Fateen stomped in front of her. “Why did you not wait for us in the women’s prayer room? You should not walk unescorted in public,” he chastised her in Arabic.

  “Speak English,” she responded, ignoring his complaints. She turned on her heel and headed for the car parked at the curb.

  By the time the group of five reached the sidewalk, they were arguing about where to go for breakfast. Marissa’s mind was miles away, thinking of Juan Gonzalez and the unknown deal. When the four men stopped suddenly, she realized someone was yelling at them.