by Amy Jarecki
“I’ll be there.” Logan punched the end-call button and shifted his gaze to Olivia. He didn’t smile, those teal-blue eyes drilling into her like judge and jury. “Ready for phase two?”
Chapter Eighteen
Kadir Hakim hung up the phone and lit a cigarette.
Across the table, his grandmother waved her hand in front of her face. “You shouldn’t smoke around an old woman.”
“You’ve lived this long and it hasn’t bothered you yet.”
She laughed while she reached across and patted his hand. “You’re just like your father.”
Hakim took another drag. He didn’t have many memories of his father who’d died a hero in Iraq fighting for Saddam.
“What are you planning to do now that Maulama has gone missing?” the sly old woman asked.
Smoke billowed from his nostrils while tension made his jaw twitch. “For all I know, the idiot disappeared with his Facebook girlfriend—wanted her for himself.”
“Do you think the DGSE is closing in?” Grandmother sat back and folded her hands. “I met a young mother in the park who was very worried about her daughter’s safety. Perhaps al-Umari should look elsewhere to fill his harem.”
“That isn’t up to us.” Kadir leaned forward and pushed the heels of his hands into his temples. “I’ve promised them another girl and if I don’t deliver, I’ll be punished.”
“I don’t think they’ll do more than threaten, especially if you give them a timeline for the next delivery. Are you running out of pigeons?”
“I’ve met one who will do. He’s not even from the old country.”
“Oh?”
“He’s dirty, though. Just sold a load of submachine guns to our brothers in Syria.” And Kadir had laughed for hours about his little deception. Everyone thought the guns had come straight from him. He’d given his handler a story about how he could find anything al-Umari wanted. He’d totally left Mason’s name out of it.
Grandmother grinned. “You do know how to find them, puppet.”
Kadir took another long draw on his cigarette. He’d already laid the groundwork for David Mason to eat out of the palm of his hand. The man had a dossier of illegal dealings that could bury him for life. Kadir doubted Mason was the dupe’s real name, but he didn’t care. He didn’t trust the Anglo and never would. But he could use him and his sources.
The man wanted to be recruited?
No problem.
He’d let Mason take the fall for the next kidnapping. And when that happened, Kadir would move in and take over his business. For years, he’d been looking for a way to earn recognition from al-Umari and the old country. And now he’d finally found his chance.
***
At nine a.m. sharp, Logan sat across the picnic table from Kadir Hakim. He didn’t care much for meeting in broad daylight and swept his gaze in a wide angle. Above, a man wearing a pair of sunglasses stood looking out over the Rhône. The guy looked like he was out for a casual morning stroll. But something seemed off, giving Logan a good ole twist to the gut.
Hakim didn’t seem perturbed at all—kinda odd behavior for the schmuck. In fact, the jihadi was rubbing his hands together. “Before we can take the next shipment, I need you to prove your loyalty.”
The corners of Logan’s mouth twitched. “If it will lead to bigger sales, I’m in. As long as I can keep a low profile. What do you need?”
“Make friends with a local blonde girl.”
“Huh?” Logan’s ’ol gut was doing handstands, but he pinched his brows, making an angry face. “I sell guns, mate.”
“Friend a girl on Facebook and set up a date. I’ll handle it from there.”
“That sounds kinky.”
“Find a teenager—someone who’s inexperienced, who’ll trust you.”
“On Facebook? Hell, that’s as public as it gets.”
“You know how to set up an account that can’t be traced?”
Logan smirked and batted a hand through the air. “I fly under the radar, mate. But I’m not putting my mug up there. No freaking way.”
“Do what you want—I just need a pretty blonde. I sense you’ve made contacts through social media before.”
“A time or two.” Logan narrowed his eyes. He wouldn’t be believable if he didn’t question. “What are we going to do with her once we’ve made friends? If you need a girlfriend so badly, I suggest—”
“Just find me a fucking teenager!” Hakim hissed. “I’ll give you two weeks. I need a blonde teenager in two weeks. And make sure she’s pretty.”
“So, what’s this about?” Logan pressed.
“It’s better if you didn’t know.”
“Wait a minute. I’m not a kidnapper. Why are you messing around with girls? That’s only going to bring on the heat.”
“That’s not your concern.”
He pushed back a little harder for added effect. “I don’t like it.”
Hakim’s eyes bugged. “What? Do you have a limp dick? I thought you wanted to sell guns to al-Umari.”
“I do.”
“Well, if you want to have any chance of selling one more of your stolen guns, you’ll find me a blonde. And make sure she has blue eyes.”
Logan drummed his fingers to buy time. Every fiber in his body told him to blow the mission. “You sure you don’t want that second delivery?” he hedged. “The goods are ready.”
“We’ll talk about that after you deliver the girl.”
He threw up his hands. “Have it your way, but I’ll build a smokescreen so rock solid, there’ll be no chance the trail will lead to me.”
“Just don’t implicate me, otherwise you’ll find yourself with your feet planted in a pot of cement at the bottom of the Rhône.”
Logan’s Adam’s apple bobbed with his pronounced gulp. “Once I’ve made a date, what next?”
“Instructions will be delivered to your shop.”
Sitting for a moment, Logan considered his options. He wouldn’t be convincing if he didn’t try another tact. “I have an opportunity to get my hands on stinger missiles.”
“Yeah?” Hakim’s gaze shifted. “Who’s your supplier? The guy in Cuba?”
Logan squinted—there was something sinister brewing and he didn’t like it. In fact, if he was a real arms dealer, he would have walked the first time Hakim had mentioned a teenager. “That, my friend, is not something I’m willing to disclose.”
“Then get me a girl.”
He left Hakim sitting on the picnic bench and headed back to the apartment. But he’d only walked a few blocks when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Logan changed directions. Crossing the street enabled him to look back toward the bridge without appearing paranoid. Then his gut twisted.
The guy with the shades was following. He could be anyone. But by the way he carried his shoulders, Logan guessed he’d had military training. And he could think of a hundred reasons why guys wearing shades might be suspicious, especially with the dirt about David Mason circulating on the internet.
Instead of stopping at the apartment, Logan went to the shop.
“Hey, dude. Where have you been?” Muhammed asked from his station at the cash register.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Logan chuckled as he strode down the aisle. He stepped behind the counter. “I’m being followed. The problem is I don’t know by who. Could be a good guy or bad.”
The bell jingled when the door opened and the man stepped inside, taking off his shades.
Muhammed looked up. “I see what you mean,” he whispered.
The perp sauntered forward. Brown hair, caucasian, average height—looked to be in shape. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and flashed a badge. “Is there a place we can talk?”
Logan looked closer. DGSE Agent Roux. He threw his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a table in the back room.”
“You’re keeping some pretty curious company.”
Logan shrugged. “My wife’s Islam.”
&n
bsp; “That so?”
“Yes,” Logan said. “It hasn’t been easy for me to assimilate into the community.”
“For some reason, I think you’re having no problems whatsoever.” Roux took out his smartphone and brought up a photograph of their target practice outside of town. “One of my men took this picture. Do you have a Category One license to possess a semiautomatic?”
“I do.”
“May I see it?”
Logan pulled his gun permit out of his wallet and tossed it on the table. “What’s this about?”
“I think you know.” The man examined the license.
“Enlighten me.”
“Intel suggests you might not be a shop owner.”
Logan spread his palms. “Clearly the intel is mistaken.”
“You recently moved from London.”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“Why France?”
“My wife has family in Lyon.”
“Hm.” The agent drummed his fingers on the table. “I wouldn’t continue to keep company with Kadir Hakim unless you want to be watched. It’s possible he has ties to ISIS.”
Logan drew a hand over his heart. “You must be mistaken. Kadir is a devout follower of Islam.”
“Right. And I’m Jesus.” Roux pushed back his chair and stood. “If you want to stay in France, I suggest you stick to your shop and keep your nose clean.”
“I always do.”
Now Logan had two tidbits of information to share with the team. He was being watched by French intelligence and terrorists expected him to deliver a blonde-haired, blue-eyed virgin in two weeks.
Chapter Nineteen
Over the following fortnight, Olivia got a sense of what it must be like to be in a bad marriage. When Logan wasn’t grilling her on hand-to-hand combat, he was either at the shop or asleep on his hide-a-bed. And if they weren’t talking about how to take down an attacker, he didn’t speak. He didn’t drink wine or beer—at least as far as she knew. He’d come home to sleep and that was about it.
Home. Olivia glanced around the closed-in walls. She could think of nothing worse than deciding to go in deep and then be kept waiting. This place is no home to me.
Last night, he’d shown her a typewritten note with no signature. As Hakim had promised, it had been delivered to the shop:
On July 8, drive to Nice. Make the trip a surprise for the girl. Book a reservation at Le Safari for 20:00. After the main course, excuse yourself and go to the men’s room.
There you will receive further instructions.
Olivia doubted that Taaha Khan was given such a runaround when he’d kidnapped Mathilde Petit. Hakim was being slippery with this one. Perhaps it was because Maulama Uddin had gone missing with the last attempt. Perhaps the jihadi thug didn’t trust Logan. It was probably a bit of both. Most likely, Hakim’s other men were friends and family he’d known most of his life…and David Mason had merely delivered on one arms shipment…and he was a British national. Two strikes against him.
Olivia only hoped there wasn’t anything more sinister in the mix.
It gave her a start when Logan walked in the door at six p.m.; early for his recent routine. He held up a paper bag with a handle. “Thought you might appreciate a good meal before tomorrow.”
“Like my last supper?”
“If that’s what you want to call it.” He grimaced, his eyes sad.
But whatever was in the bag smelled good. She peeked inside while smells of garlic and rich seasonings wafted around her. “What did you bring me?”
“Your favorite.”
Her mouth instantly watered. After spending so much time together, he would remember her favorite—almost like they were a real couple.
Logan pulled out two takeaway boxes. “Filet mignon with herbed garlic potatoes and asparagus.”
“Mm.”
Then he held up a white cardboard box that looked like it was from a bakery. “And if you can finish that, there’s marionberry pie.”
“Pie?” She arched her eyebrows. “Delicious, but I don’t recall saying tarts were my favorite.”
“That’s because it’s mine. Though you wouldn’t know that, would you?” His last remark was uttered with an edge to his voice. Worse, he was right. She didn’t know his favorite anything.
But this wasn’t a real relationship.
Ignoring him, she busied herself with putting two place settings on the breakfast bar. Why did she feel like a lout? They were about to move to the next phase of their mission. She should be electrified. “Would you like a glass of cabernet?”
“Why not?”
She put the bottle and the opener on the counter for him and smiled. Maybe she should try harder to show her appreciation. “I feel like I should light a candle.”
“Definite bad idea.” Logan popped the cork. “Our work-spouse relationship is about to end. We don’t want to risk turning the romance on again.”
Something in Olivia’s heart squeezed. Since returning to Lyon, she hadn’t thought about anything beyond the job. She’d trained herself not to look forward to anything, to focus on the here and now. But faced with the reality of heading into the lion’s den, the idea that she and Logan mightn’t be teamed up again made a lump swell in her throat.
What could she say? It was nice knowing you? I’ll see you on the other side…if I survive?
“Are you nervous?” he asked as they took their seats. He poured for her first.
“I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but I am a little.” Olivia transferred the food onto proper plates.
Together, they sat down to their last supper in private before they headed for Nice. She held up her glass. “Thank you for thinking of this.”
He tapped his glass to hers. “I needed to eat, too.”
The food was delicious, and they both ate in silence while silverware tapped stoneware. Once she’d finished her steak, she sipped her wine and studied the man sitting beside her. Olivia couldn’t just let herself be kidnapped tomorrow without making amends. Suddenly there was so much she wanted to say. “I wish we could…”
He held up his palm. “Don’t say it.”
She lowered her glass. “I really like you.”
He regarded her, his eyes intense and he wasn’t smiling. “Oh, yeah? But the job comes before everything though, doesn’t it?”
Her blasted heart squeezed even tighter. “I’ve told you why it must.”
“Don’t you think your parents would want you to be happy? When are you going to start living your life? Christ, one day you’ll wake up with bum knees and gray hair. You’ll be seventy years old and there’ll be no job.”
“Shut up.” Her hand shook as she plucked her wine glass from the counter. “I didn’t ask for us to be thrown together.”
“No, you didn’t.” He pursed his lips like he was holding something back.
She leaned forward with a challenge. “Might as well have out with it. I can tell you have something more to say.”
“You know I can’t bear the thought of anyone else touching you.”
She pounded her fist, making the plates jostle. “Damn your jealousy. Can’t you see what needs to be done?”
Glaring, he thrust his angry face into hers. “Is that what turns you on, Olivia? Screwing the enemy? You practically begged to be shipped into the Islamic State to act as their whore.”
Her eyes bugged wide with the rage steaming out the top of her head. Before she thought, she lashed out with a slap.
Logan caught her wrist midair.
Their gazes locked in battle of heated glares.
“You’re a bastard,” she sniped.
He shoved back his chair and stood. “I’ll cut the damned pie.”
She pushed past him, heading for the bedroom. “I don’t want any.”
After slamming the door, she threw herself onto the mattress.
The damned bastard! How dare he judge me?
Her heart raced, her skin burned as
the world felt like it was crashing down around her. She didn’t have time in her life for emotions.
Damn, damn, damn!
This was exactly why Olivia preferred to work alone. How could she have been so irresponsible back at ICE? She’d resisted Logan Rodgers for months. And then in a moment of weakness, she allowed herself feelings. Her path did not provide for feelings. And damn him for questioning her. Her life did not concern him. There were at least four European girls who had been kidnapped and forced into human bondage by the evilest man on the planet. By God, if Olivia could save one of them she would risk everything.
She slammed her fist into the pillow with sharp, repeating jabs. What did Logan think he would accomplish with his peace offering? Did he think she’d change her mind? Did he think he could win her so he could control her?
All men are a-bloody-like.
***
Fire raged in his chest while Logan stood in the kitchen, knife in hand and ready to cut the pie. Muffled punches came from the bedroom. If there was one thing he’d learned about Olivia in the past two months in Lyon, it was that she was impossibly self-centered.
All beautiful women can’t help but be.
For the love of God, he’d told himself not to get involved with her from the moment he set eyes on her in the Gulf. And now his gut was twisted into a hundred knots and his heart felt like lead.
If only he could swap places with her. He’d relish the chance to go undercover in al-Umari’s camp and rain down havoc. But he wasn’t even a blonde, let alone a prima donna.
He’d planned on having a nice evening with Olivia. Sure, they were going to eat dinner in some fancy restaurant in Nice, but they’d be on the job. They’d be being watched. And after that, who knew when she’d see another steak, or even walk free.
She was willing to put her life on the line to take down an operation run by radicalized freaks. They couldn’t bomb the hell out the place because there most likely were hostages inside. They knew of five, but there could be more, if they were still alive. Moreover, no one knew where in the Middle East the harem was located. Sending Olivia in as a victim was the best chance they had to quickly take the operation down.