Hunt for Evil (ICE Book 1)

by Amy Jarecki

  “Suspected?” asked Logan. “Don’t we know?”

  “It’s a tough group to crack. They keep to themselves. We also can’t forget that no one’s seen Kahn since that picture was taken with Mathilde Petit.”

  “Hmm. A lot to delve in to.” Olivia tapped her lips through the suffocating cloth. “Maybe this isn’t a lost cause.”

  “I hope not,” said Muhammed. “After all the strings NATO pulled to take ownership of the shop.”

  Logan reached across the console and rapped the man’s arm. “That’s setting your priorities, dude.”

  Turning the corner, Muhammed tilted his head to the right. “We’re coming up to the alleyway now.”

  “Don’t drive down,” Olivia cautioned and pointed to a café. “It’s time for supper—we can eat a meal, digest the lay of the land and slip out the back after.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Logan agreed.

  They reverted to speaking French in the café. Logan was more fluent than Olivia had imagined. Who knew a Yank SEAL could inflect such a romantic tongue? Especially with a voice so deep. If he kept it up, the man would have all the French birds in the café swooning.

  As with all meals in France, fast food wasn’t in the vocabulary. The good thing? By the time they exited into the alleyway, it was dark.

  Olivia walked behind Muhammed, sandwiched with Logan pulling up the rear. She kept her head lowered, but took in everything out of the corners of her eyes. Half a block up, Muhammed used his NATO issued bump key to open the door. “This way.” He led them up one flight of stairs and to the rear apartment.

  Logan watched for action while Muhammed worked his magic. The hallway was oddly silent as if the tenants knew the police had been there and they were all laying low.

  The place was stripped bare, but littered with grime. Olivia ran her foot forward, making a track through the filth on the carpet. “It looks like they won’t be receiving their cleaning deposit back.”

  Moving into the kitchen, Logan checked under the sink. “Too bad they didn’t leave their trash.”

  “The police could have taken it.” Olivia proceeded down the hallway, peering into empty bedrooms along the way, though she was heading for the WC. It was just as grimy as everything else. “Do you have any plastic bags?”

  “No,” said Muhammed, following.

  She pulled back the moldy shower curtain. Black hairs caught her eye first but once she focused, something lighter drew her attention to the tiled floor in front of the toilet. She dug in her bag.

  “What are you looking for?” asked the NATO operative.

  Pulling out the clear plastic bag with her toiletries, she held it up. “This.” She dumped the contents into her purse. Then using a pen, she scraped up the hairs from the floor, and a few more from the shower and deposited them in the bag.

  Logan leaned on the door jamb. “Good thing they haven’t sterilized the joint, huh?”

  She ran her fingers across the zip. “I don’t know if it will lead to anything, but we’ll send these in for analysis.”

  “I can take care of that,” said Muhammed.

  Olivia slipped the bag into her purse. “I’ll handle it, thanks.” She didn’t want this evidence going anywhere but to Asa.

  ***

  Their apartment was only a few blocks away from Khan’s abandoned flat and the convenience store that posed as their front was another block down. It was late and Logan had felt more than a little out of his element, though he wouldn’t be admitting anything to Olivia. This spy thing posed a whole new world for him. As a SEAL, he’d been trained to go into hostile situations with guns blazing after the fieldwork had been done. Since Kahn’s apartment had been cleared out, he didn’t think to look for hairs in the perp’s bathroom and send them in for DNA analysis. The down side? DNA analysis wasn’t fast. Even with the equipment at ICE, Asa had told him it still took a couple of weeks, and that was pushing it.

  Safely behind locked doors, Olivia took off her niqab and scrubbed her fingers through her hair. “Christ, that thing’s suffocating.”

  Muhammed stared. “Blonde? Why didn’t you wear a wig?”

  “Didn’t need one, did I?” She held up her finger. “What I need is a sleeping baby and a pram. Can you have one here first thing in the morning?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He looked to Logan while Olivia wandered to the back room. “There are two Glock 38s in the top drawer in the kitchen. Is there anything else you need?”

  Logan pulled open the drawer and took inventory. “Plenty of ammo. I guess that’ll do us.”

  “See you in the morning then?” Muhammed dropped a ring with four keys into Logan’s palm. “Two are for the apartment and two for the front door of the shop.”

  “Thanks.”

  Once Muhammed showed himself out, Olivia wandered out of the back room and leaned against the door jamb. “There’s only one bedroom.” She pointed to her right with her thumb. “And one wash closet. It looks like NATO took the husband-wife thing literally.”

  “What? You mean no one got the memo that we’re not actually married?” Logan turned full circle. The place was a box made to look trendy. An open kitchen had a marble-top breakfast bar separating it from the living room that had a television, a cozy chair and a couch. On the far side of the kitchen a desk and chair was squeezed into the corner by the bathroom door.

  He tossed his duffle on the floor. “I’ll take the couch.” After moving to the kitchen, he opened the fridge. “A bottle of chardonnay and a loaf of bread. Compliments of NATO.”

  Olivia reached around him and grabbed the wine. “What did you expect? We’re in France. Besides, we own a convenience store.” She opened four cupboards before she found the glasses. “Want some?”

  “Sure.”

  She pulled a bottle opener out of the first drawer she opened and set it on the counter. “You do the honors. I have to change out of this abaya before I melt.”

  “I’m sorry you have to wear that thing.” He twisted in the corkscrew.

  “Goes with the territory. I’m just glad to be away from the mountains of Iceland. Reykjavik reported a high of fifty degrees…and it’s June. Brrr.” Wheeling her suitcase into the bedroom, she shut the door.

  “Make sure the shutters are closed back there.”

  “Duh,” her sassy reply rumbled through to the kitchen.

  By the time she came out, Logan had poured both glasses and had set up his laptop on the desk.

  “Have you contacted ICE?” she asked.

  He regarded her over his shoulder then snapped his face back to the screen, swiping a hand across his eyes. Since it was fairly warm, he’d expect any normal partner to slip into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, but not Olivia. Miss Universe came out wearing a silky negligee, reminiscent of the Gulf of Oman. He shook his head and focused. “Setting up encryption now.” Once Logan was sure their internet connection was locked down, he fired off a message to Garth: Ready for business.

  Almost immediately, a response came back. What took you so long?

  Strolled around the neighborhood. Called on an old friend, but he’d moved.

  Where did he go?

  Olivia shouldered in, taking over keyboard. No clue. Sending gifts in the morning via pigeon. The drop off location for evidence was an iron milk box at the back of the shop.

  You are too kind. I wish you well with your new venture.

  After signing off, she pulled up the area map.

  Logan gave her a nudge. “You’re awfully familiar with my laptop.”

  “Yeah, it’s just like mine.” All business aside from smelling like a bouquet of exotic flowers, she pointed. “This is where we are. Rue Tronchete.”

  “I know.” Logan had studied the map before they’d left Iceland. “What’s the deal with the stroller and the sleeping baby?”

  “First of all, most people won’t get too close if the baby’s asleep, so they won’t know it’s a fake. Secondly, they won’t be suspicious of a mother hanging
around a school.” She pointed. “Here’s Fénlelon-La Trinité where Mathilde was last seen, at least before the picture of her with Kahn. See? It’s right across from Parc aux Daims. I can push the pram around the park and talk to just about anyone without bringing suspicion.”

  “Hmm. I think I like the idea of walking around a park better than my role.” Logan’s MO was to play the part of lazy shopkeeper, smoking an e-cigarette that doubled as a camera and recording device while he got to know the clientele and learned the local gossip. “I don’t even smoke.” The first obstacle was finding the sept with links to Taaha Khan. Forget the chitchat, Logan preferred to go straight for the guttural.

  “Yeah, but if you do, you’ll look more authentic. The best way to infiltrate the locals is to sit in front of the shop and watch people stroll past. That’s an awesome cover—just don’t inhale.”

  “I’d rather be setting explosives.”

  “Something tells me you’ll get your chance.”

  “On a trail this cold?”

  She threw back her sassy shoulders. “It’s our job to turn up the heat.”

  He stood, but before he fetched her glass of wine, he leaned toward her and took one more inhale—what was she wearing? Jasmine? Probably. Logan never could resist jasmine. Then he plucked the goblet from the counter and held it out. “Are you going to drink this?”

  “Thanks.” She took a sip then closed her eyes, a pink tongue slipping across her lips. “Mm.” Mercy, did she have to make everything look erotic? It was a sip of French wine, not ambrosia from heaven.

  Logan busied himself by pouring another glass for himself and taking a good long drink. There he was, stuck in a match-box sized apartment with a gorgeous woman who was a PTSD disaster. Though he’d been growing stir crazy at ICE, he should have rethought things before jumping into this mission with both feet. Christ, he knew a handful of Arabic phrases, his French was marginally better—good enough not to be pegged as a Yank. Worse, according to Olivia, his British accent made him sound like a wanker and he’d better stick to French.

  “You want a top up?” she asked.

  He turned. Olivia grinned like a Stepford wife holding a bottle. His gaze slid downward. Without a bra, her nipples strained against the pink silk giving him a wrapped invitation. His tongue went dry as he held out his half-full glass. “Why not?”

  She stepped nearer. His skin tingled. In fact, her scent awakened more than his skin.

  “What are you wearing?” he asked.

  “My nightie, silly.”

  “I mean your perfume. It’s distracting.”

  She waggled her eyebrows. “I thought a spritz of Dior would suit. After all, we’re in France.” She set the bottle on the counter. “Cheers?”

  Logan tapped his glass to hers. “Cheers.”

  Their gazes locked as they drank. God, she was too pretty, even with brown contact lenses. Logan went to move past to the sink, but in the tight quarters, their bodies brushed ever so lightly. He stopped, his breath catching. Moist with chardonnay, her lips were so damned close, all he needed to do was dip his head and he’d taste her. He’d wrap his arms around that tight body and crush those nipples against his pounding chest.

  Her gaze dipped to his lips as she swirled her pointer finger directly over his heart. “We can’t.”

  His knees wobbled. “Absolutely not,” he croaked, slipping past and placing his glass in the sink.

  She followed with her own glass but, when she stopped, her arm pressed against his. “I’ve done too many bad things. The job sucked the guts out of me until there was nothing left.”

  He could only imagine what she’d been through. “It must have been hell infiltrating Khalil’s world.”

  “It was.” She leaned into him more as if she needed the human contact, yet not the affection. “If only I could block it from my mind.”

  Logan hesitated before he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll tell you one thing; that was a bad dream. We’re on a new mission and I’m here. Never forget I have your back.” He kissed her temple like he would a sister. “You got that?”

  She nodded, tensing at first, but with her next exhale, her muscles eased. Regardless, from the expression on her long face, Logan wasn’t sure she was convinced.

  Chapter Nine

  Olivia’s eyes flew open when a blast of white light burst around her. Sweat streamed from her brow and seeped into her pillow as she panted. Fear cradled her in its hideous grip. Christ, the entire bed was wet.

  Gaping at the ceiling, she willed the horrid nightmare away. Bad men. Bombs. Fighting for her life. It was always the same. Taking in consecutive calming breaths, she swiped her damp hair away from her face. As she relaxed and came fully awake, her deep breathing brought a new smell. A pleasant one for a change.

  Coffee.

  Feeling like she’d just run a marathon, she wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. But that wasn’t happening. She had to pee. Crossing her legs, she reached for her phone.

  0730?

  She tossed it down and closed her eyes.

  Five more minutes.

  But her bladder put on the pressure.

  Shoving away the bedclothes, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and sunk her toes into the plush carpet. The flat might be small, but it was modern with posh furnishings.

  Still, her head was in a fog. Olivia hated mornings—especially mornings after a nightmare. She needed two cups of coffee before the cobwebs cleared enough to think.

  Only one thing trumped coffee. She stumbled for the loo and opened the door.

  Holy shit.

  She should have known better.

  A high-pitched squeak pealed from her throat. Closing the door might have been the right thing to do, but how could she turn away from perfection? Completely naked, Logan bent over the basin. Olivia cocked her head. Never before had she seen a bum sculpted with such tempting exactitude. And she’d seen a lot of bums. She adored masculine tushes. Logan’s, however, was nothing short of magnificent. It totally took the biscuit with deep dimples dipping into rounded glutes, a slim waist, powerful shoulders like Thor’s. Her fingers itched to give his ass a squeeze, though with her next blink, he whipped around.

  “Olivia?” He snatched a towel from the rack, but not before she’d seen everything.

  Dear God, her knees grew weak. The man had just rendered her speechless—a very difficult thing to do. Heaven help her, it had been a whole lot easier resisting Logan Rodgers when he’d kept his clothes on. But starkers? Mm, mm, how she loved black pubic hair with tight curls. Even better, the man’s equipment didn’t disappoint, and he wasn’t even hard.

  With her next blink, a white towel blocked her view.

  “I’m nearly done,” he mumbled with a toothbrush in his mouth.

  She snapped her gaze to his face. Those same teal eyes brooded over dark stubble, looking as delicious as morning crepes with strawberries and cream. “Sorry.” She wasn’t. The word sorry may have been uttered by her lips, but that was the extent of her remorse.

  He stood there for a moment then gestured with his palm. “I need to shave, then the bathroom’s all yours.”

  Her bladder reminded her why she was standing there staring at a hot guy who was supposed to be her work-spouse. “Can I borrow the loo for a sec?” She glanced toward the commode. “It seems last night’s wine is rather anxious to make an exit.”

  “Right.” The man blushed—no, he hadn’t flinched when she’d caught him naked, but as soon as she mentioned peeing, he turned as red as a schoolboy. He spat and rinsed. “Ah…maybe you could knock next time?”

  “Why didn’t you lock the door?”

  He skirted past her, holding that damned towel around his hips tight in his fist. “It’s broken.”

  “Fancy that. A posh new flat with a broken lock.”

  “It’s not posh.” He stepped out and closed the door, his voice carrying through. “It’s not like there is any place I could have been hiding in
this shoebox.”

  “Roger that,” she said loud enough for him to hear. “Next time I’ll drum out the secret password.”

  “Thanks. You want coffee?” he asked.

  “That’s next—where did you find it?”

  “Picked some up on my run this morning.”

  “Already?” She washed her hands. “How long have you been up?”

  “A couple hours.”

  After drying her fingers, Olivia regarded herself in the mirror. Mussed hair, no makeup, bags under her eyes. She looked about as sexy as a turnip. Stepping back, she regarded her figure. She was in great shape, but wouldn’t be if she didn’t start an exercise routine soon. She pushed her breasts together and gave herself a bit of cleavage. “Maybe I should buy a negligee with a built in underwire,” she mumbled to herself.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.” She raised her voice while regarding her profile and wondering why Garth hadn’t sent her to Lyon to work this case alone. She worked better alone. And how was she supposed to wipe the image of Logan’s bum from her mind?

  They had to put me on assignment with a guy who looks like a cover model for Men’s Health Magazine.

  “Olivia?”

  She opened the door, shifting her gaze to the kitchen. “Where’s that coffee?”

  ***

  During the first weeks on assignment they’d taken a gazillion pictures and the intel was flowing. This evening, Logan and Olivia sat together on the couch reviewing the photos on screen with Garth and Asa dialed in.

  “Just about everyone who’s come into the shop has been friendly,” Logan said.

  “Expected that.” Olivia gave him an elbow nudge.

  “Just a minute.” Asa leaned away from the camera for a moment. “The results from my facial recognition traces have come in.”

  “Anything hot?” asked Logan.

  A picture of a man flashed on screen. Logan didn’t recognize him, but he’d taken so many pictures, it could have been any number of patrons. Eyes too close, with thick black hair and a sparse black beard, the man looked like he could pass for a terrorist.

  “The report says this is Kadir Hakim. He’s suspected of being involved with the militants who organized the Paris attack.”