“Fuck the C-4.”
“Rawlings hasn’t called me in.”
“Fuck Rawlings. I don’t like the way they’ve hung you out here by yourself for so long. You’re exhausted. You could make a crucial mistake. They should’ve brought you in when your cover was blown. Have they told you yet that Husaam has sent someone from Syria to kill you?”
She stiffened. “No. Who? When?”
“They don’t know shit. It’s another reason you’re not safe anymore, another reason to come in.”
She looked down at their hands clasped together. “Benja, I need to finish this.”
He exhaled emphatically. “Why?”
“Many reasons. I need to show that I can do this. I need to know that I can do this. This is what I trained for, not to spend my time wearing headphones behind a desk.”
“You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone. They’re already impressed.”
“It’s more than that. These fanatics must be stopped. They can’t be allowed to indiscriminately kill innocent people. We have to stand up to them. You do. I do. Each and every one of us has a responsibility to stop them.” She looked away. “Ameen understands and believes as I do.”
He tried to ignore the annoyance building inside. Was the former SEAL encouraging her? Ben cleared his throat. “I’m not saying this to scare you, Gypsy, but if you get killed, you won’t be around to keep fighting the terrorists.”
She sighed. “I cannot explain any better. Please don’t be angry with me.”
He was mad as hell at the situation, but he couldn’t be angry with her. He grimaced at the memory of his warning to Rawlings only yesterday that Marissa was more likely to get herself killed by not coming in when she should, than she was to quit. Oh God, please don’t let that prediction come true.
“I should go, Benja. I have to call my handler with an update,” she said to his chest.
But he couldn’t give up yet. “I’m begging you, Marissa. Come in. Right now. With me. I’ll take you to the San Diego office. Everyone is already so proud of the awesome job you’ve done.”
“No, Benja. I will finish my job. Tomorrow, I will be done.”
It was the answer he had expected but dreaded. He wasn’t angry; he was terrified. A small part of his terror was selfish. Although they were no longer lovers, they still shared a special friendship. If something happened to Marissa, something inside him would die.
She stood up, but he continued to clutch her hand.
“Miláčku, you must let me go.”
He did, and she walked out of the church without looking back.
* * *
Kevin Rawlings paced in his office. It was now almost midnight, Tuesday night, and his long day, that had begun at four, showed no signs of ending any time soon.
He grabbed the phone on the first ring. “Talk to me.”
“Yes, sir.” The agent cleared his throat, probably thinking don’t kill the messenger. “Latest update indicates we have not located Liban.”
“Damn. Do we have anything?”
The young man cleared his throat again. “Not really, sir. Our matrix indicates Liban’s best connections would’ve been through London Heathrow. We checked every manifest from those incoming flights for passengers continuing on flights to the US. No ‘Liban’ or any of his known aliases were listed. And there were only a handful of Arab names, none of which were on the No-Fly lists and all of which we were able to track down with reasonable reliability. Chances are he’s traveling under a fictitious name with a fake, non-Arab passport.”
“Really? Tell me something I don’t already know,” Rawlings said. The agent had no response. “Has Panuska checked in?”
“Just the once, shortly after noon.”
“So she doesn’t know?”
“No, sir.”
“Be sure I get a call the minute we hear from her.”
“Yes, sir.”
For the last few hours, Rawlings had wrestled with the question of whether to bring Panuska in. There was an implicit danger in waiting. He knew she was wearing down, losing her edge. Understandable, after more than two weeks in such a high-octane situation. But losing your edge was dangerous. Deadly.
They had the radioactive material. The JTTF could move immediately and nab the cell. So why wait? Homeland Security and the White House wanted the bomb, the whole goddamn bomb. He wasn’t sure why it was so blasted important unless they wanted to trace the source of the C-4. He’d read the speculation it had come from the Pakistani military. Our supposed ally.
Twenty hours. He’d let the operation run another twenty hours, and then he’d bring the poor woman in.
Regardless of the outcome of the op. Regardless of the effect on his career.
To hell with the Secretary, the White House, or anyone else.
* * *
Marissa made the call from the church parking lot, deeming the location better than the corner of her bedroom in the apartment. Her handler confirmed the disturbing news and updated her on the sparse information about a killer referred to only as Liban. He admitted they knew almost nothing, except Husaam had sent the man. He sounded embarrassed and frustrated because they couldn’t find the assassin. Since Ben had already broken the news, she listened stoically.
The handler finished by informing her that Dr. Jabbar was ready and waiting at the hotel.
Then Marissa laid out the details of her plans for the culmination of the operation. They agreed to an update in the morning while she was at the hotel. Rawlings would rule it a go or no-go at that time.
Ben guarded her from his car while she was on the phone, and he followed her back to the cell’s apartment where he left her under the protection of Clark and Hughes. She watched him drive off in the direction of the San Diego office even though it was after ten. Her heart squeezed with the knowledge that he was so afraid for her.
The four terrorists were waiting in the living room when Marissa walked in. Uncertainty shone in their eyes, and tension tightened their expressions. The air in the room felt electrified.
After she freshened up, Marissa joined them, taking a seat at the center of the couch. She concentrated on projecting a calm, confident demeanor. If the men fell apart, their actions would be less predictable, increasing the danger. As she studied each face, she realized she had to reassure them and reinforce their confidence in her leadership.
Yasir nervously presented her with the ticket to the Wednesday night baseball game. He explained he had purchased a ticket for the grass and sand area called The Beach. Since she would be entering the ballpark carrying a beach bag with a towel inside, he thought that was a good cover. Marissa nodded. For the first time, she understood the purpose of the large beach bag and towel, which had been lying in the bedroom for two weeks.
Then she took the stage. Her role became that of a coach in the locker room. She praised, cajoled, and motivated. Pacing purposefully around the room, she emphasized her pep talk with forceful words and gestures. The men interrupted with shouts of “Allahu Akbar” and “death to America.” She injected confidence with flattery for their cleverness in deceiving the Americans and Mexicans for so many months.
She pulled them in and stroked their egos. They nodded and murmured agreement. She ranted and stoked the fire of their hate. They yelled and shook their fists.
Marissa grinned wickedly, knowing the men would think her malice was aimed at the infidels. But she reveled in the knowledge that it was aimed at them, and she was their master.
The last of her energy drained away, and she dropped onto the couch. From her pocket, she took a piece of paper with the address and a hand-drawn map for the Otay Mesa end of the tunnel. She handed the paper to Yasir and spoke softly, secretively to the group.
“When the four of you leave the hotel to deliver Allah’s gift to Tijuana, you will take both cars. On the way, you will park Yasir’s car at this location. After we all come through the tunnel, we will pray to Allah one last time together. Then the rest of
you will go back through the tunnel, while Yasir and I return to the apartment. I’ll drive him to his company’s warehouse where he’ll hide the bomb in his delivery truck to smuggle it into the ballpark. When it is time, I’ll drive myself there, leave the keys in the car for Yasir, and enter Petco Park like a regular fan. We will rendezvous at a predetermined time and location for me to take possession of the bomb. Then Yasir will leave immediately to meet you at the Tijuana airport.”
As she scrutinized each terrorist, Marissa struggled to keep her hatred from showing. Gone was their uncertainty, replaced by fiery determination. And they were firmly under her control.
* * *
The alarm clock on the nightstand read 11:30 p.m. Tomorrow is a big day. Still wired, Ben slid carefully under the covers. He felt the heat from Amber’s naked body, but tonight, it didn’t arouse him because he was still too angry from his call to Rawlings. He’d been unable to convince the son of a bitch to order Marissa to come in. Rawlings seemed worried enough, but that wouldn’t help Marissa if something went wrong. And there were so many things that could go wrong.
At least Rawlings had updated Ben on the latest information. The Tijuana police had relinquished the bodies of the two terrorists without asking any questions when the usually dicey diplomatic dilemma would’ve been a huge time-suck. The ballistics tests on the bullets extracted from Samir’s and Omar’s bodies had yielded no useful information on who killed them. Not that it really mattered. The men had not been killed with Marissa’s Glock or any of the terrorists’ weapons kept at the hideout. Since she’d never explained to anyone what had happened the night she was almost beheaded, everyone had assumed she’d shot her way out of the jam. Apparently, an erroneous assumption. Rawlings and Ben had already reached their own conclusion, but they sure as hell wouldn’t be putting it in any report. As Rawlings moved on to the next subject, Ben silently thanked Ameen Ali.
Rawlings had also advised Ben of the details of Marissa’s plan. They wanted to capture the terrorists and the Herat bomb tomorrow afternoon in Otay Mesa, long before and far from the targeted, Wednesday night Padres’ game at Petco Park—if everything went according to Marissa’s plan.
“If” was such a fucking frightening word.
Ben had gone still while Rawlings continued to talk. Amber worked in downtown San Diego, and she planned to attend the Wednesday baseball game with a girlfriend since he couldn’t go. The idea of Amber being in the targeted area had haunted Ben all the way home to his Coronado apartment.
Now his gaze rested on Amber’s golden head, and he swallowed hard. If something went wrong, terribly wrong, there was a possibility the bomb could make it to the ballpark. If one of the terrorists escaped with the bomb and eluded them, he could detonate it at another downtown location earlier in the day.
Ben rubbed his hand across his eyes, then gently shook Amber’s shoulder.
“Amber.” No response. “Amber,” he said louder and sat up.
“Oh, you’re home,” she said groggily.
“Wake up, babe. I need to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk.” She burrowed deeper into the pillow.
“I know it’s late, but this is important.” When Ben pulled on her shoulder, she pushed his hand away. “Amber—”
“You didn’t call.”
He leaned closer. “What?”
“You didn’t call to tell me you weren’t coming home. I made your favorite, beef stroganoff.”
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. It was such a hellish day, I never even thought about dinner. I don’t remember eating, so I’d love some stroganoff now. Would you sit and talk with me while I eat?”
“Can’t.”
“Why?”
“I threw it away.”
“You what?”
“Threw it away. I was really hurt…and angry.”
His own anger flashed, but he instantly realized the absurdity of it. “I’m sure you were, and I’m really sorry. You know, Amber, sometimes with my job, I can’t just—”
“I was afraid you were…with Marissa.”
Ben blinked. Shit. He had been with Marissa part of the night, but not in the way Amber was imagining. In the time they’d been together, she had never questioned his love or fidelity—until now.
Amber must’ve mistaken his silence as confirmation of her worst fear. She rolled toward him, her face puffy from crying earlier, and fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. “Were you?”
She wasn’t prone to drama so her fear was real. Wrong, but real. Well, damn.
“I can’t tell you anything, babe, but it’s strictly work. Nothing personal is going on with Marissa.” His fingertips brushed at her tears. A flicker of indignation burned as he remembered the one chaste, only-friends kiss in the church. Nothing like the passionate ones they used to share. “Don’t you trust me?”
Her watery eyes held his. “I thought I did.”
“Look, Amber, when this op is over, I can tell you some of what’s been happening. You’ll see there was nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” he said emphatically.
They gazed at each other silently for several moments before Ben got up the nerve to speak.
“I still need to talk to you about something important. Can you put up with me for a few more minutes?”
She wiped her cheeks with the sheet and sat up next to him. “Might as well. I’m wide awake now.”
He braced himself. “I don’t want you to go to the Padres’ game tomorrow. I want you to call in sick in the morning and drive up to LA.” The words flowed from his mouth in a torrent. “I’ll call when it’s safe for you to come home.”
Her eyes and mouth opened wide. “Screw you. Ian was right. You want to…to hook up with Marissa.”
“Shit! I do not want to hook up with her. Jesus, Amber, gimme a break.”
He reached for her arm, but she yanked it away. He grabbed her by both shoulders and pulled her against his chest. His arms encircled her in a bear hug. She struggled for a moment and then went still, but stiff.
“Safe?” she whispered against his neck.
“Yeah, safe.”
“What’s—”
“Damn it, I can’t tell you ‘what.’ Just trust me. I need you to be safe. I want you out of San Diego because I love you, not because I’m screwing around with Marissa.” He cringed. “Do you believe me?”
She smiled faintly. “A little.”
Ben blew out a relieved sigh. “So you’ll go?”
“It depends.”
He frowned. “On what?”
“On how passionately you make love to me tonight.”
“Really? Is this a test of my love?”
“Might be.”
“Have I ever told you that I’ve never once failed a test of any kind?”
“Hmmm. Hard to believe. Better show me.”
His lips came down hard on hers. His knee wedged between her thighs as he lowered her onto the sheets and followed her down.
Chapter 18
A faceless man burst through the doorway, the gun in his outstretched hands swerving from side to side. “Don’t move, Baheera, or whatever your real infidel name is,” he growled at the woman sitting on the floor of an empty room.
“I thought you were going to miss the party,” she replied calmly, moving to shield a briefcase with her body.
“You think you are so smart.” He cocked his head. “I’m trying to decide whether I should shoot you first or let you feel the blast of the bomb as it tears your body into little pieces.”
“As it will also tear yours.”
“Yes, but Allah will reward me,” he snapped.
The woman lunged for a nearby rifle.
A gunshot exploded. She screamed.
Pain. Blood. Gunshots. Clattering noises.
A heavy weight slammed her into the floor.
More gunfire. More blood. More pain.
Darkness, and then nothing.
&
nbsp; Marissa jolted upright in bed, her heart hammering and her breath coming in jagged gasps.
“Baheera, are you all right? We heard you scream,” Tareef called from the other side of the bedroom door.
She coughed to find her voice. “Yes, I’m all right. Just a nightmare. Go back to bed.”
After a few moments, his footsteps retreated.
Was it only a nightmare or one of her premonitions? A warning. She shuddered.
Have I just seen my own death?
* * *
Stars were still visible when Ameen unlocked the door to the mosque office Wednesday morning. On his way to work, he had driven by the cell’s apartment but resisted the urge to stop. The men who were supposed to protect Baheera sat in their car, drinking large cups of coffee. In his opinion, they did a poor job of hiding themselves.
His uncle and the secretary had not yet arrived, but Ameen knew they would be there before morning prayers. He set up the coffeemaker, realizing his sleep-deprived brain required caffeine but knowing his stomach would object. As the coffee started to drip, he unlocked the door to his office and switched on the light. He dropped into the chair behind the desk. The stack of papers waiting for his attention taunted him. Instead, he stared out the window into the darkness, his thoughts on Baheera.
What did he really know about this woman who was connecting with him in a way he’d never experienced? She wasn’t Muslim—that was obvious. He smiled at the memory of the incident in the dressing room. He could still feel the warm, soft skin of her breast under his fingers. And her lips were the most responsive he’d ever kissed. He closed his eyes and saw her holding his hand against her breast. He’d known what she was going to say before he kissed her. That’s what scared him the most: He shared the desire. Would he be strong enough to resist temptation? He opened his eyes and grimaced at his swelling dick.
The coffeemaker buzzed in the other room. He got up stiffly and wandered out to fix his coffee. While he poured, he glanced at his uncle’s office door. He and Abdullah were very close, and they rarely kept secrets from each other. Guilt pinched his conscience.
They had shared the same concerns, the same fears, when Samir and the others had shown up at the mosque. When Ameen had contacted the authorities, they’d blown him off. So he and Abdullah had monitored the cell as best they could and were relieved when they finally discovered they weren’t the only ones watching. The imam was content to let the authorities handle the problem, but Ameen had made it his personal responsibility to see the cell…terminated. Was he a lawless vigilante? No. He was an honorable man, willing to act to save innocent civilians and his religion.
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