“Yo! Hey! Excuse me,” the man called, waving his arms. “Stop a minute. Wait up. I’m lookin’ for someone.”
Marissa spun around so quickly that she stumbled, and Masoud caught her arm. She jerked away and stared at the man jogging toward them. He wore a Padres T-shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap. When he stopped a few feet away, Marissa studied his unshaven face partially hidden in the shadows of his hat. She bit her lip and blinked rapidly.
“Mornin’, guys. Thanks for stoppin’,” the man said with a friendly smile and a warm Southern drawl. But his cool gaze moved slowly around the group as if memorizing each Arab face. “I’m lookin’ for a dude named Ameen Ali.”
With that announcement, his blue eyes connected with Marissa’s, and his right eye twitched or winked—it was hard to tell. Unspoken thoughts passed between them. She pressed her lips together and swallowed the words she longed to say. She fought the sting of tears. He tore his gaze away, but hers followed his face.
“Any of you guys Ameen?” He stared again at the terrorists.
Fateen stepped forward. “No. Ameen works in the mosque office,” he said brusquely.
“Oh, sorry, dude. I’m gonna convert to Islam, and I’m supposed to talk to this Ameen fella about it. He sounds like a real great guy. Ya know, the kinda dude you can trust to do the right thing. I’m sure he’ll help me do what I need to do. Sorry to bother y’all. Have a nice day.” His eyes flicked to Marissa’s once more before he turned and ambled toward the mosque.
* * *
Ben stepped around the corner of the mosque and peeked back at the group. His hands clenched at his sides, he watched until they drove away. Seconds later, a black sedan pulled out of a side street and followed.
“Don’t turn around,” a deep, harsh voice behind him ordered.
Ben tensed for battle.
“Those are evil men. Stop them before they hurt Baheera.”
Surprised, he waited for more, but there was none. When he looked over his shoulder, a plastic shopping bag and a huge knife lay on the ground. Although Ben had never heard a single footstep, the man with the warning was gone.
* * *
Still stunned, Marissa sat silently with the four terrorists in a large booth at a nearby restaurant while they stuffed themselves with food and chattered in Arabic. She didn’t even bother to remind them to speak English. She picked at her breakfast and pretended to listen as her mind raced. Something much more important needed her attention.
Oh, my God. Benja’s involved in the op. How could he have found out about it? Her breath caught. She recalled screaming his nicknames when she thought she was going to die. Could he…? Impossible, but still… She exhaled slowly and brought her thoughts back to reality.
His message about Ameen was clear, but how did he know she’d requested intel on the man? Benja must be in contact with Rawlings. Even stranger, why had Rawlings allowed him to make personal contact instead of her handler delivering the news? Unless Rawlings doesn’t know…
Marissa realized too late that she was smiling broadly, and the men had stopped talking to stare at her. “Morning prayers have rejuvenated me,” she said, bestowing her smile on each of them. “Finish eating. We must go soon. I have much work to do today.”
The last part was true. The feeling she was running out of time weighed heavily on her. She had to get away from the cell to make her phone calls: one to Juan Gonzalez, whoever he was, and the other to her handler. Hopefully, Washington had some answers for her. She had important new information and, as always, many questions. Had they found the pig? How close was Husaam on her trail?
She tried not to think of the time in the utility room with Ameen. People did strange things under extreme stress. She wanted to explain the kisses that way. Under different circumstances, she would have admitted there was more of a connection but not today. Ameen had proved useful, but now she needed to keep him at a distance.
“Baheera,” Tareef said, yanking Marissa from her thoughts.
All eyes were on her.
“What, Tareef? And speak English.”
“How will we pay?” He glanced nervously at the others. “We added up the money we each have, and it will not be enough.”
She gasped, secretly enjoying their dismay. “You do not have the money to pay for your food? What will we do?” She wrung her hands as if distraught. “I have heard that American businesses will not let you leave, that they call the police to take you to jail. Should you have thought of the money before you ate?”
“But Samir always paid,” he explained defensively.
Marissa’s reaction changed from anxious to stern. “As will I.” She aimed her index finger at each of them in turn. “But that does not excuse your carelessness of not thinking of payment before eating. Do you wish to attract unwanted attention to us? It is bad enough that you sit here talking in Arabic instead of English. Do you not notice the other customers staring uncomfortably at us?”
“Let them be uncomfortable. Even better, let them be afraid,” Yasir sneered.
“Imbecile,” she muttered. “How did my husband choose such stupid men for this jihad? From now on, you will think and speak English. Understand?”
They nodded in unison.
The last thing she needed was for another civilian to get suspicious of the group and interfere, possibly crippling the op. She hadn’t survived the past two weeks to have someone screw it up now. Ameen was problem enough.
She watched their surprised expressions with satisfaction when she pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her purse. After the waitress returned with her change, she left a large tip and led the chastised men outside. They crammed into the small car for the short drive back to the apartment. On the way, she laid the groundwork for the day.
“Fateen and Masoud, you are to relieve Saleem and Rashad in Tijuana this morning. I will be there some time tonight.”
“We drove down there twice yesterday,” Fateen complained. “Make Tareef and Yasir go.”
“If you would not whine like a baby to Samir, you should not whine to me,” Marissa rebuffed him. Better to stop insubordination before it took hold. “Besides, Yasir has to work at the ballpark tonight. Right, Yasir?” She enjoyed the amazed looks on everyone’s faces. Each unexpected detail she could drop would reinforce her leadership. She didn’t know how much Samir had told them before she arrived, but once she joined the group, he’d shared very little with anyone.
“Yes, every game for the next week,” Yasir grumbled.
“Good. I will need the truck for the rest of the day. I have a hundred things to do. Unfortunately, I was in such shock over losing Samir and Omar that I forgot about the meeting with the Mexican yesterday. I have to fix the problem today.” Confused frowns all around confirmed they didn’t know anything about Samir’s appointment with Juan Gonzalez. On this, she could’ve used some help, for she had no more clue to the Mexican’s involvement than they did. But no one spoke.
She raised the next issue. “I need my clothes. Where did Samir put them?”
All eyes darted away.
“Well?”
Tareef squirmed and confessed. “Samir put them in the trash.”
“What? No! Idiot. Bad decisions like that are what made Husaam so angry.” She pressed her fingertips against her temples. “I need regular clothes to blend in. Now I’ll also have to go shopping when I don’t have time for such nonsense.”
No one spoke again until they reached the apartment. Marissa immediately ripped off the abaya and niqab and tossed them on her bed.
Even with her pushing, Fateen and Masoud took over an hour to get on the road to Tijuana. Then she told Tareef and Yasir to walk to the grocery store and purchase supplies for the next week. Now finally, finally, she had the apartment to herself.
Relieved, she systematically searched drawers, closets, and cabinets for additional information. Frustration built with each empty result. The search had yielded nothing useful when she heard the two men returning wi
th the groceries. She grabbed her purse and brushed past them as they entered.
“Clean the apartment,” she ordered over her shoulder. She didn’t look back at the indignant scowls she knew were on their faces.
Chapter 13
Sitting at his desk, Ben stared blindly at his computer screen. Amber had just called, and their conversation had left an uneasy feeling in his gut.
Her boss had given her two tickets to the Padres’ game on Wednesday night. Normally, Ben would’ve been thrilled at the prospect of attending a game at the downtown ballpark, but this op had 24/7 written all over it. When he’d turned down her invitation and suggested she take someone else, his girlfriend’s disappointment had been palpable. What worried him was that there might be more to her reaction than just disappointment.
Last night, he had simply told her Marissa was safe. Amber had seemed okay with the news until she’d asked some questions—questions he couldn’t answer. Not because he was hiding something about Marissa, but because he couldn’t reveal anything about the operation. Amber knew he loved her so he didn’t think she was jealous.
No, his concern ran deeper. Had his middle-of-the-night conversation with Ian opened a Pandora’s Box containing all the reasons why a serious relationship with an FBI agent was so difficult? God, he hoped not.
Surely after what they’d already been through, Amber could handle the downside of his job better than Ian had handled Marissa’s career. Unlike the foundation of the other couple’s relationship, which had been formed during a low-key time in Marissa’s job, his and Amber’s bonds had been forged under adversity and baptized by fire.
She still suffered nightmares about what had happened, but they were working through it as a team. He nodded to himself and smiled. They were good together. Amber was strong, stronger than Ian, he figured. She was also the sun in Ben’s life, and an occasional cloud wasn’t going to change that.
Abruptly, his cell phone dragged him from his thoughts.
“What the hell were you doing, Alfren? Contact was not authorized!” Kevin Rawlings hollered on the phone.
Ben grimaced. Damn. Marissa’s tail must’ve tagged him and snitched to their boss. He pictured the steely-eyed man from the videoconference call, but now the man had steam coming out his ears. Ben grinned and responded glibly, “Since Special Agent Panuska’s opportunities to contact her handler have been so infrequent, I thought it was the most expedient way to inform her that Ameen Ali is clean.”
“Like hell you did. You wanted her to know you’re involved in the op. Don’t make this personal, Alfren, or I’ll kick your ass out of the sandbox.”
Ben bristled. “As I recall, sir, you wanted my personal insight into Special Agent Panuska’s personality and behavior. Understanding her as I do, I knew communicating in this manner would be…beneficial.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Rawlings halted his tirade to take a breath. “I saw your report. I knew we’d looked at him before when we did the assessment of the entire mosque, but nothing substantial on him individually. I still haven’t figured out Panuska’s interest in him. I don’t think she even had time to read the assessment before she went undercover. It all happened so fast. She’d never been to the mosque before today so she’s never seen the guy.” He exhaled in frustration. “Anyway, you agree Ameen Ali is clean?”
“Squeaky clean.”
“No goddamn contact with him. Understand?”
“Yes, sir, I do. But Ameen didn’t get the memo.”
“What?” Rawlings sounded like he was coming through the phone to strangle Ben.
“Ameen spoke to me at the mosque and gave me a present.”
“Shit! What kind of damn present?”
“A plastic bag containing the dead guys’ wallets, the sat phone, and a fucking scary knife.”
“How the hell did he get his hands on that stuff?”
“Damn if I know. Maybe he found the bodies before we did.”
“Okay, but why would he give the stuff to you? He has no clue who you are or your connection to Panuska.” The poor man sounded completely confused by the incident. Ben was in the same spot.
“Right, except he must’ve seen me talking to Marissa and the cell. Ameen told me we had to stop the ‘evil men’ before they hurt Baheera. He knew her name,” Ben said, emphasizing each word. “So somehow, somewhere, sometime, Ameen has already connected with her.” He frowned, and his eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know how. We’ve never witnessed or heard of any contact between the two of them,” Rawlings said.
Ben’s mind rewound through the events of the last two days. Then he knew. “That night. When your guys lost Marissa. And the assholes tried to behead her. Ameen is the one who shot Samir and Omar, and then hid Baheera overnight.”
“Damn, it fits. But why didn’t she tell us?”
He swallowed hard. “Maybe she just hasn’t had time. Or didn’t think it was critical info. But that would explain why she wanted us to check him out. And he’s smart, so she may think she can use him. He’s Arab—it could help.”
“But he’s known to the cell.”
“Just my personal opinion, sir.”
Rawlings chuckled. “Right. I admit your analysis has merit. We need to get some new intel to Panuska ASAP. Do you have another contact planned?”
“Is it authorized?”
“Look, Alfren, we’re on the same fucking side, but I’m in charge. Let’s play nice. There’s too much shit going down for me to have time to worry about what you’re going to pull next. The real Baheera Abbas is comatose and about to die on us. Husaam’s screaming on the phone, climbing the walls, ready to fly halfway around the world to look for the fake Baheera himself because he has no addresses or phone numbers for the cell in San Diego. Thank God, al-Qaeda is so fractured they don’t even know who the hell each other is. We tapped Husaam’s call to the electronics plant in Tijuana, and he didn’t even know who to ask for. When the receptionist told him there were two dozen Arab engineers, he got belligerent, and she hung up. Fucking hilarious.”
“Yeah, real funny. What’s the new intel?”
Rawlings hesitated. “We know where the pig is, but it’s too risky to operate.”
“Operate?”
“Don’t ask. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
The phone went dead. So much for playing nice.
* * *
Later Tuesday morning, Ameen slouched in the chair, staring out his office window. His face was expressionless, his demeanor stoic. But inside, he was coiled like a cobra. And the reason scared the shit out of him.
Baheera. What was it about the woman that fascinated him? Everything. What aroused him, as he hadn’t been in ages? Everything. No serious relationship in years. He’d also willed his lust into submission. But since meeting Baheera two days ago, he thought about her all the time. In ways Allah and his uncle would not approve.
And now, she’d kissed him. And he’d damn well kissed her back.
What her kiss had done to him was downright embarrassing. He’d felt like a sex-starved teenager with hormones on steroids. If they hadn’t been at the mosque, he probably would have taken her. Right then. Right there, in a damn utility closet. He’d definitely sensed she was ready and willing.
Damn, what a horrible thing to think of someone so special. And Baheera was, indeed, special. In many ways. He knew it instinctively. And he wanted more. He glanced down at the bulge in his pants and muttered an Arabic curse. He shook the lust from his mind and focused on less sexual matters concerning Baheera.
He hated her plan. Dealing with drug-gang scum was dangerous, and not knowing what Samir had cooked up made the situation even more unpredictable. But Ameen had agreed to be her messenger, and he wouldn’t renege. His help might reinforce her trust, and he’d use that trust to convince her to get away from the cell.
At 10:05 a.m., Ameen watched Juan Gonzalez park the black Suburban at the curb. The Mexican surveyed the grounds before climbing out and l
eaning back against the side of the vehicle with the same brash attitude as before. When he rearranged the gun stuffed in his front waistband, Ameen’s eyes narrowed. He watched Juan fidget and look at his watch every thirty seconds.
Ameen unlocked a desk drawer and retrieved his own pistol. He checked the magazine and started to stash the gun in his waistband, but then remembered the secretary he would have to pass on his way to the front door. Swearing under his breath, he slipped the pistol into his pants pocket where it was not nearly as accessible. Let’s just hope I don’t need it.
Juan studied Ameen suspiciously as he approached. “Where’s Samir?”
“He couldn’t be here, but someone will call you today at noon. They still want the deal,” Ameen said calmly, keeping one eye on the man’s hands.
The guy straightened away from the SUV. “That wasn’t the plan, asshole.”
Ameen tensed and slid his hand into his pocket. “Plans change, Juan.”
The use of his name visibly shook him. His eyes made a quick sweep of the area. “My boss won’t like this.”
“Too bad. Hey, I’m just the messenger.”
Ameen turned and sauntered back into the mosque. From his office window, he observed Juan making a call. The Mexican paced and gestured angrily while he talked. When he finished, he kicked a tire before yanking the Suburban’s door open. He must’ve been right about his boss.
As Juan Gonzalez drove away, Ameen wondered if the deal was still on. For Baheera’s sake, he hoped it wasn’t.
* * *
What the hell?
Ben peered through the binoculars as Ameen casually approached the cocky Mexican. Despite the calm façade, the gun evident in the Arab’s pocket told Ben this wasn’t a social visit.
The meeting lasted less than a minute. Was Ameen just telling the likely gang member to get lost? Or was something else going down?
Ten minutes later, Ameen was in his truck. When he turned onto El Cajon Boulevard, Ben followed, three cars back, in his dark blue BMW. Once he determined Ameen was heading to the cell’s apartment, he took an alternate route. He’d already parked on a side street when he saw the truck go by. Ameen circled the block twice, with Ben ducking each time before the truck passed. Finally, he parked half a block in front of the Beemer, giving Ben a good view.
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