Targeted (FBI Heat)

by Marissa Garner

  Deep in thought, Ameen savored the pleasant aroma of the coffee and swallowed a long, energizing gulp.

  His uncle would like Baheera, even if she wasn’t Muslim. Ameen could feel her good soul and heart; Abdullah would also feel her goodness. Another pang of guilt. He must tell his uncle of his feelings for her, because the imam would know the right words from the Koran to give him strength.

  Since Sunday night, Ameen had hardly spoken to Abdullah. He’d not yet confessed the killing of Samir and Omar, but he knew his uncle would understand the necessity to save Baheera. He didn’t care what she’d done. Nothing could justify such a barbaric act.

  He carried the coffee back to his office. What else did he know about Baheera? She and the others were definitely intelligence agents, probably FBI or Homeland Security. The terrorists planned a bombing, and Baheera was in the middle of it.

  His stomach churned, but it wasn’t from the coffee.

  When the cell phone rang in his pocket, the sound took a moment to register. He tensed when he saw the number. “Good morning, Khaleel. Praise Allah. You are up early. Going to prayers?”

  “Allahu Akbar. No, I’m on my way to work. I’ll pray there. How are you, Ameen?”

  “Fine. How is Safiya?”

  “Good, but she hates that we must live in Tijuana. She feels isolated.”

  “Your Spanish is very good. Have you taught her?”

  Khaleel snorted. “She is a woman and cannot learn such complicated lessons.”

  “She must not be happy when you have to work very late.” Ameen waited, his jaw set.

  “I haven’t—” Khaleel stopped. “I haven’t worked late very many nights. Why? Did you talk to her?”

  “No. I must get ready for prayers soon. Did you call for something?”

  Khaleel cleared his throat. “Yes. Safiya and I have been worried about the woman you brought to our house Sunday night. I apologize, but I have forgotten her name.”

  Ameen frowned and lied. “She didn’t tell me her name.”

  “Really? I thought it was Baheera or something like that.”

  “No. She didn’t give her name,” Ameen insisted.

  “Why did you leave so early and without a note? We have been worried.”

  “We needed to leave. I’m sorry I didn’t call and thank you for providing her shelter. She was very grateful.”

  “Have you seen her since?”

  Ameen hesitated. “Yes.”

  Khaleel gulped. “Safiya is very hurt you wouldn’t tell us why this woman sought shelter in our house in the middle of the night.”

  “Should I call your wife and apologize?”

  “No, no, that is not necessary. But if you would tell me, we would both feel better.”

  “Friends trust friends, don’t they, Khaleel?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then trust me that you don’t need to know this woman’s name or her problem. I must go now, Khaleel. Allahu Akbar.” He hung up and pounded the desk with his fist.

  “Nephew, is there a problem?” Abdullah Ali asked from the doorway.

  “Uncle,” Ameen said, startled.

  Abdullah’s dark, expressive eyes—so like Ameen’s father’s—drew him in. “You are tired…and troubled, Ameen. Shall we talk?”

  Guilt surfaced. Ameen averted his gaze. “Yes, I need to talk with you very much. May I, later?”

  “Always. Will you be helping with morning prayers?”

  “Yes. I need Allah’s guidance as well as yours.”

  He endured Abdullah’s solemn scrutiny for several moments before the old man walked away.

  * * *

  Kevin Rawlings never made it home. At 7:00 a.m. Wednesday morning, he called his wife and asked her to pack a clean shirt, underwear, and socks in a bag and to drop it off with the security guard at the entrance. With words of encouragement and the patience of Job, she agreed, even though she’d hardly seen her husband in the past several weeks. Rawlings knew he was lucky. Not many women lasted long as wives or girlfriends of men in his profession.

  He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and pondered the events of the last several hours. After Panuska had checked in late last night, he’d arranged for a conference call. At 1:30 a.m., every other man on the call had been home, had been asleep. But not one complained about being roused in the middle of the night.

  They came to a unanimous decision: Panuska’s plan was the best option. With no mistakes, they could bag all the terrorists and the entire bomb. Unfortunately, no op ever went off “with no mistakes.”

  Rawlings couldn’t help but worry. Panuska’s handler had reported that she seemed edgy, off, during the last update. And then he’d confided his personal concerns. Earlier in the op, she’d been more controlled and objective. Now emotions clouded her communications.

  All understandable human reactions after two weeks of living with the enemy. But all dangerous reactions for successfully completing a strategic op.

  Special Agent Ben Alfren had also called to remind Rawlings of his earlier warning that Panuska might not come in when she should. As if Rawlings would ever forget such a warning.

  Yes, he had a lot of reasons for being damn worried.

  Frowning, he studied the computer screen. The details were neatly organized: timing, manpower, equipment. Risk assessment. His fingers tapped a staccato rhythm on the desk. He calculated, recalculated. He would make no mistakes. Rawlings clicked on the manpower number and doubled it.

  * * *

  Before dawn on Wednesday, Marissa waited for the knock.

  “Baheera,” Tareef called softly.

  “I’ll be ready,” she answered. Tomorrow, I’m going to sleep until noon if I… She didn’t finish the thought. Promising herself a shower after morning prayers, she crawled out of bed, dressed in another new outfit, and put on the hated abaya and niqab.

  They piled into Yasir’s car and drove to the mosque in silence. The four men escorted her to the women’s prayer room and left. She waited a minute before slipping out the door without disturbing the handful of women.

  She prowled the walkways, searching for Ameen. She thought she caught a glimpse of him praying with the other men, but when she peeked inside again, it wasn’t Ameen. The secretary in the office peered at her curiously when she inquired about him, but the lady didn’t know where he was. Marissa kept looking.

  The utility room door was a magnet. On the third pass, she tugged at the doorknob. Locked. She willed it to pop open, revealing Ameen eager to drag her inside and kiss her. Maybe more. But nothing happened. When she walked past the sixth time, a male voice called her name quietly from behind her. She whirled around to find Saleem trotting toward her.

  “Baheera, we’ve been looking for you.”

  “I felt like…wandering.”

  Saleem stepped in front of her, blocking her path. He looked directly into the veil, which was unusual for him. Marissa tensed.

  “Baheera, I admire your soul and your courage. I am not strong enough to do what you are going to do. Allah will reward you greatly. I-I just wanted to tell you that.”

  Marissa glared from behind the veil. Hate burned in her chest, and her fists clenched at her sides. “Thank you, Saleem. When you remember me and what I am about to do, also remember that my soul and courage showed me the true way. We should go now. There is much to do.”

  * * *

  Ameen had spied on Baheera as she searched for him, but he hadn’t trusted himself to speak to her, to touch her. Coward. He clung to resistance by only a thin thread, fought temptation with every heartbeat. Damn.

  From his shirt pocket, he pulled the piece of paper with the phone number and room number. He wasted none of the information he’d overheard from Baheera’s phone calls at his condo. A quick call to the number identified the Mission Valley Rio Hotel. When she was going there and why were a mystery. And who was Dr. Jabbar and why did Baheera need a doctor?

  Ameen stuffed the paper back in his pocket and tur
ned off the light in his office. As he closed the door, he overheard the secretary’s irritated voice. She spoke Arabic, which she preferred not to do.

  “I am sorry, sir, but I cannot tell you anything about Samir. I understand your concern, but we have privacy rules.” Ameen strode to her desk and flashed her an inquisitive look. “Hold on a minute, sir. I will be right back.” She pushed hold and rolled her eyes. “This is Samir’s brother, Dawud. He’s looking for Samir, and he’s being very disrespectful.”

  “Let me handle it,” Ameen said over his shoulder, rushing back to his office. He shut the door before he picked up the phone. “Allahu Akbar. Maybe I can help you,” he said in Arabic.

  “Allahu Akbar. I hope so. I am looking for my brother, Samir.”

  “Samir, yes. I know him well, but he has not mentioned a brother to me.”

  The caller didn’t miss a beat. “I am not surprised. We lived together before he moved to San Diego, and we argued about his decision to leave. I know Allah would not be pleased with this break in our relationship. We are true brothers and—”

  “Where are you?”

  The man hesitated. “Los Angeles. I have been calling Samir for days, but he has not returned my calls. I am very worried. I want to drive down to check on him today, but I do not have his address.”

  “I have not seen Samir at prayers since last weekend. That is a reason to worry too.”

  “Yes, he would not miss prayers unless something was wrong.”

  “I agree. Dawud, I cannot give you the address from our records, but if you come to the mosque around noon, I will personally take you to his apartment so I can also check on Samir.”

  “May Allah bless you. How will I find you?”

  “Come to the mosque office and ask for Ameen.”

  After giving Dawud directions to the mosque, Ameen slowly laid the phone back on the charger. His brain assimilated the call. Then he opened the door and spoke to the secretary.

  “Dawud will be here about lunchtime. Find me and I will help him. Do you have Samir’s information card in your file?”

  “Of course. You want it?”

  “Please.”

  She appeared at his desk a few minutes later with the card in hand and an uneasy expression on her face. “I know the other men have been around, but I don’t think I’ve seen Samir lately. Or another one. Omar, I think. Have you?”

  Ameen drew his brows together in what he hoped was a concerned look. “No, so I can understand his brother’s concern.” The secretary grimaced. “Don’t worry. You handled the call correctly. In today’s climate, you are always wise to protect our people’s privacy. Thank you.”

  After waving her out the door, he studied the card. Samir had not given the real address of the San Diego apartment. An address in Dallas was noted as his previous residence. Probably also a lie. For nearest relative, Samir listed parents at a Boston address. No doubt, more lies. No indication of a brother in LA or anywhere else. The only truth.

  Ameen didn’t know who Dawud was, but he was damn sure the stranger was not who he claimed to be.

  He dropped the information card into the center drawer of the desk. His plans for the morning had just gotten more complicated. Whatever happened at the hotel, he had to be back at the mosque to deal with Dawud at noon.

  How serious a complication was the man? Ameen didn’t know, but he’d be ready.

  * * *

  Dressed and ready to leave, Ben stood next to the bed, gazing down at his peacefully sleeping girlfriend. It was only 5:30 a.m., and he hated to wake her. But he didn’t want to say good-bye in a note.

  Not today.

  He knelt beside the bed and kissed Amber’s cheek. “Babe, I’m going to work early.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. “What time—”

  “Way early. The alarm is set for six thirty, so you can go back to sleep. I’m sorry to wake you, but I just needed to—”

  “I understand.” She offered her lips for a kiss. “And you want to know my decision.”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed with surrender. “Okay. I’ll call in sick, drive up to LA, and skip the baseball game.”

  Relief flowed through him. “Thank you.”

  “Will you promise to call me later to let me know you’re all right?”

  “I can’t promise, but I’ll try.”

  “Can you promise to call me the minute it’s…it’s safe for me to come home?”

  “That I can promise. I have to go now. I love you, Amber.”

  “I love you too.”

  He kissed her again, stood, and started for the door.

  “Ben,” she called softly.

  He came back and sat down on the bed. “What, babe?”

  Her eyes held his. “The operation you’re working that makes it unsafe for me to be here is…is really dangerous, isn’t it?”

  He hesitated. “Yeah.”

  “And Marissa is involved in it too?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “That’s okay. I know she is. And you must protect her, keep her safe.” Her arms slipped around him, and she laid her head against his chest. “I know you love working for the Bureau, and I admire that. And, of course, I’ve always known it was dangerous. But this is the first time I’ve felt the danger hanging over our heads like a black cloud, and I’m frightened, Ben. So while you’re protecting Marissa, please remember to keep yourself safe too. Because, if something happened to you, a part of me would die.”

  Ben hugged her tighter. Words escaped him.

  Chapter 19

  Before she showered, Marissa reminded the four men that they would not be returning to the apartment. She ordered them to pack a minimum of their belongings and not to take anything they didn’t absolutely need because it would only slow them down when escaping. Of course, the more evidence they left behind, the better it would be for the Bureau’s investigation.

  Tension tightened their expressions as they listened. They spoke in whispers when they set to work.

  After she dressed, Marissa counted out stacks of bills of $5,000 each, all the while hoping the terrorists would never have a chance to spend a dime of the filthy money. She flattered and praised the men while presenting the cash to them. Bile rose in her throat as she subdued her hatred to lie convincingly. Soon. Soon, I can speak the truth again.

  They left in three vehicles—Marissa alone in the truck and the men split between the two cars. They caravanned west on I-8 to the Hotel Circle exit, crossed under the freeway, and drove into the hotel parking lot at 7:00 a.m. When they found the room on the fourth floor, Marissa knocked.

  “Who is it?” asked a male voice in Arabic from inside.

  “Baheera Abbas, bearing Allah’s gift.”

  Wearing his white doctor’s coat and glasses, “Dr. Jabbar” swung the door open immediately. “Allahu Akbar. Allah bless you, Baheera, and our brothers.”

  Everyone responded, “Allahu Akbar.”

  The bearded doctor ushered them into the sitting room of the suite. The men glanced around nervously, but before they could sit down, he waved them into the bedroom. They stopped at the doorway when they saw the medical instruments and the plastic sheeting on the bed.

  “Remember, Baheera is doing this without any painkillers. I want you to appreciate the agony our courageous sister will endure to deliver Allah’s gift,” Wahid said dramatically, holding up a large syringe and vial. “First, I will inject her with a strong drug to dilate the cervix.” He pointed to the forceps. “When she is adequately dilated, I’ll insert these to yank the tube from her womb.”

  Four pairs of wide eyes stared out of ashen faces.

  “There will be blood, lots of blood.”

  Rashad and Yasir gagged.

  Wahid gazed gravely into each terrorist’s face. His chest swelled. “It is time to begin. Leave us. Allahu Akbar.”

  The shaken terrorists shuffled out of the bedroom. The prudish culture of the Islamic extremists combined with the expectation
of the blood and gore from the medical procedure made the doctor’s description too much for them.

  Wahid locked the bedroom door. He switched on the radio and raised the volume before turning back to Marissa. He extended his hand. “It’s a real pleasure, Special Agent Panuska. I’ve been watching you from a distance for two weeks, and I’ve got to say you’re even more beautiful up close. If I didn’t love my girlfriend with all my heart, I could think of many better reasons to be alone with you in a hotel room,” he said with a mischievous grin that lit his dark, bold eyes.

  Before she could respond, the closet door behind Wahid burst open. Ben stood framed in the doorway.

  “You’re not alone, Dr. Jabbar. Did you forget about me?”

  “I was trying to,” Wahid said as he watched with obvious surprise as Marissa threw herself into Ben’s embrace.

  “Benja, you are not angry with me about last night at the church?” Marissa whispered against his neck.

  “No, Gypsy, but I haven’t changed my mind either.”

  Wahid cleared his throat. “I take it you two know each other. Would you like me to disappear into the closet for a while?”

  “Just old friends,” Ben said, his chin resting on top of her head.

  “Right.” Wahid rolled his eyes. “I hate to break up this touching reunion, but you better get changed. The show must go on.”

  In the bathroom, Marissa intentionally kept her gaze averted from the mirror as she undressed. She didn’t want to see the emotions reflected in her eyes. She feared how the hatred was changing her, poisoning her psychologically. Wearing the flimsy hospital gown, she hurried across the bedroom and crawled onto the bed.