Zara

by Jade Kerrion

  13

  Zara stood by the window and glanced out through a small rip in the piece of paper pasted over the glass. The frenetic buzz of activity on the crowded streets of Shatila had settled into a low hum by the early hours of the morning. The people passing beneath Zara’s vantage point either loitered for lack of anything to do, or hurried through, too busy to linger in one of Shatila’s rougher neighborhoods.

  The purposeful stride of a Navy SEAL stood out in sharp contrast. From where she stood, Zara could not identify the person beneath the traditional Lebanese hood and headdress, but the erect carriage and alert gaze could not have belonged to anyone other than a SEAL. Had the SEALs found the little street urchin on whom she had palmed off her GPS-enabled microphone when she dropped a coin into his other pocket?

  More than likely.

  They had probably scared the crap out of him too.

  Her soft, amused chuckle blended with her quiet sigh of relief. The heavy weight against her chest eased. The SEALs had survived the blast. That, at least, was a mercy.

  Regrouping with them, however, was out of the question. To Zara, the exchange of fire between embassy marines and the SEALs screamed conspiracy. What little trust she had for the U.S. government had been incinerated in that missile blast.

  Weighing her options, Zara glanced over her shoulder at Lila, who was fast asleep on the bed. She scowled. She had been sent to take out Nakob, and she had done precisely that. Returning the girls safely to their parents was out of her scope.

  But then again, exceeding the scope of her mission was exactly how she had landed Danyael in a maximum-security prison for life. If she had not freed Galahad, Danyael would still be living a quiet life in Brooklyn, working at the free clinic, minding his own business.

  They would never have met.

  Zara closed her eyes against the memory of Danyael, and of the half-smile she had once glimpsed on his face—so unexpected, so stunningly perfect, it had made her breath catch. At that moment, he had not been looking at her; in fact, he probably hadn’t been thinking of her.

  When he had looked at her, he wore an expression she could not decipher—thoughtful and guarded, but not afraid—as if he saw more than others did, as if he could not take his eyes off her. What did he think of her? Did he hate and despise her for freeing Galahad and shredding the normality and happiness he had salvaged from his traumatic childhood? Or was his body so consumed by pain, his consciousness so subdued by drugs, that he could no longer think at all?

  Heartache stabbed through her chest. It didn’t matter, not anymore. It was out of scope. Danyael was, and had always been, out of scope.

  On the other hand, her job wasn’t done until the girls were safe. It didn’t matter if she had disabled the terrorist splinter cell. Nakob was the default winner until the girls were returned to the school or their homes, starting with the one she currently had on her hands—the ambassador’s daughter.

  Her fingernails drummed an impatient rhythm against the wall. Taking Lila to the American embassy was not an option, not with so many questions unanswered, but she could escort Lila back to her family’s home in the American compound of Beirut. They would have to travel, unobserved, back to Beirut, and then ensure that Lila was publicly seen entering the compound. The visibility would keep Lila safe. No one could blame Nakob, or worse, a SEAL, if Lila was back with her family. Traffic and visibility would be highest at around 8 a.m. as the compound’s residents departed for school and work. It gave her two hours to get Lila out of Shatila and across Beirut.

  She shook Lila gently.

  The girl drifted awake and her eyelids fluttered open. Her gaze fixed on Zara, and she blinked for several moments. Suddenly, her eyes flashed wide. With a yelp, she jerked upright in bed and scooted away from Zara until her back hit the wall.

  Zara tried not to roll her eyes. “Get up. I’m taking you home.”

  “Home? So you’re not going to…” Lila bit down on her lower lip.

  “Kill you and eat you for breakfast? No, not today. I’m on a diet.”

  “So you really are working with the SEALs?”

  “I haven’t decided, but it has nothing to do with sending you home. Put that scarf on; let’s go.”

  They left the room together. The old woman was still at the table, and she gave Zara a steady stare, which faded the moment Zara slid American dollars across the table to her. The woman’s gnarled hands moved quickly across the surface and the money vanished.

  “I will pay you three times more if you will accompany me to Beirut,” Zara said.

  The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “The men. The American soldiers,” she said in Lebanese. “They hunt you.”

  “They seek two young women traveling together.”

  The lines on the woman’s face deepened into creases. Her tongue darted out to lick her lower lip. “Five times.”

  “Four and bus fare.” Zara slid more money across the table. “A down payment.”

  The woman pushed slowly to her feet, her gaze flicking to the blond-haired, blue-eyed Lila. “She is American. Who do you serve? Who do they serve?”

  Zara shrugged. I wish I knew.

  The old woman’s pace was little faster than a purposeful shuffle, but she kept her head high and her hood loosely arrayed about her face. Women like her were common in Beirut—an ancient matriarch going about her business, accompanied by younger members of her household, who dutifully kept their heads down and their scarves tugged low over their foreheads, concealing their faces in shadow.

  Without being told to do so, the old woman leaned heavily on Lila for support. Her hand gripped Lila’s wrist—less for support, Zara suspected, and more for control—leaving Zara free to follow a step behind, her hands tucked in her robes, her grip tight on her handguns.

  Zara drew in a deep breath. The early morning air chilled her lungs, and mercifully took the edge off the stench rising from Shatila’s gutters. People swilled around them, but the ordinary press of humanity did not worry Zara. The skulking loners did. Singly or in twos, men loitered at key junctions that conveniently offered sweeping views of Shatila’s main thoroughfares. Their features and skin tone were indistinguishable from the primarily Palestinian population of Shatila, but their shoulders were broad, and their frames beneath their loose-fitting robes were muscular. Their physiques testified to better nutrition than was usually found in the dregs of Shatila and their uncanny stillness to extensive military training.

  Zara would have put her money on American Special Forces, except the men were not from SEAL Team Three. Did the SEALs know another military unit was playing in their turf? It was considered bad manners, not to mention stupid, to bring two Special Forces into close contact without either knowing of the other’s presence. Those kinds of situations tended to erupt into firefights. Had Grass lied to her, or had someone—her uncle, perhaps—lied to Grass?

  Lila glanced at Zara, her gaze questioning. Zara shook her head, her hood swaying subtly with the motion. Lila shrank deeper into the safety of the scarf about her face. Only in the Middle East, Zara reflected wryly. She would never have been able to move around in the open, hunted as she was, in a part of the world where women were not expected to conceal their faces. In fact, the Middle East was often where she did her best work. It was easier for her to remain in concealment and strike the unexpected blow.

  Zara’s sense that she was watched faded as the old woman, Lila, and she left Shatila behind. The views gave way to countryside before bourgeoning into the suburbs of Beirut. Dust arose with the swell of the noise into the bustle of morning rush hour.

  The old woman bid them goodbye at the outskirts of downtown Beirut, and Zara and Lila boarded a bus to cross the city. Zara cast a glance over her shoulder as she climbed on board the bus after Lila. No one followed them. Lila claimed a seat at the back of the bus, and Zara sat beside her. The younger woman straightened visibly, a smile on her face, as she started to recognize landmarks. “Almost there,” she murmured.
She turned to Zara. “I can’t wait. I haven’t seen my family in so long. I spoke to them almost every day, but it’s not the same thing. I’m sure Janine missed me.”

  “Your pet?”

  “My little sister. My only sister.” Lila’s smile deepened. “She’s just seven. I don’t think my parents planned her, but we’re close, even though we’re ten years apart.” She peeked at Zara through her eyelashes. “Do you have—?”

  “No.”

  “And your parents?”

  “My father lives in the United States.” Zara kept her attention on the street as the bus moved off. No unusual activity; she relaxed a little.

  “And your mother?”

  Zara drew a deep breath. “My mother died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  Lila swallowed visibly, and her eyes searched Zara’s face. “Are you…from here?”

  “Originally.”

  “Why do you still live here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why would women live in a place where they’re not seen as equals; where they’re forced to conceal their personalities behind scarves and masks?” Lila shook the headdress with visible disgust.

  Zara shrugged. “It depends, I suppose, on what you’re trying to do behind the mask.”

  The bus pulled over, and a man, his shoulders stooped and his features obscured beneath a hood, hobbled on board. His head shifted as he glanced around the bus.

  Zara’s instincts prickled. She could not see his face but something about the angle of the head, the casual yet purposeful way of looking around reminded her of—

  Klah.

  She turned her face away. “Head down, stop talking,” she murmured in Arabic to Lila.

  Lila obeyed, lowering her head so that her hood shaded her face in shadows.

  Had Klah seen them? Zara couldn’t tell. His gaze did not linger on their corner of the bus, but she knew firsthand how much he could take in without being obvious about it. He lowered himself, with the slow, aching movements of an old man, into a seat and kept his head lowered, his gaze glued to the base of the bus.

  The bus meandered through downtown Beirut, eventually pulling into a stop several hundred meters away from the entrance to the American compound. Lila straightened and her gaze jerked to the scene outside the window. Zara gripped Lila’s wrist, and the girl curled into a hunch.

  Too late. Drawn by Lila’s jerky motions, Klah’s head had moved subtly in her direction,

  Klah rose and shuffled off the bus.

  Zara gritted her teeth. Should she follow?

  Pressure knotted in the middle of her chest. Within her, the baby fluttered and squirmed. No. She had to delay the drop. Their position had been compromised.

  Next to her, Lila squirmed like a hyperactive puppy.

  Zara’s chest tightened further. She had forty-nine other girls to safely escort home, and Lila was the sole roadblock. She had to get home, or the others could not.

  Choices. Decisions.

  Her teeth gritted, Zara stood and disembarked from the bus, Lila behind her. Her gaze flashed across the small square in front of the American compound. Children played tag in the middle of the square while the elderly hunched over chess games in the cool shade of the trees. Women clustered around benches, their arms laden with bags of groceries.

  Klah had seated himself on a bench in full view of the manned security gate in front of the compound. His hands were held close to his robes; he was probably armed.

  Damn it.

  “Stay close,” Zara told Lila. She did not move from the huddle of the crowd at the bus stop as she continued her survey of the area. The wall surrounding the compound was more decorative than functional, but several security cameras were mounted at strategic locations. With the exception of Klah, nothing seemed out of place. Everyone was either moving, or had a reason to be stationary. The bar across the gate rose frequently to let cars through.

  Lila straightened suddenly. “That’s Mom’s car.” She dashed away from the bus stop and ran to the car, which braked immediately.

  “Lila!” Zara pulled her gun out and swung in the direction of the threat—Klah.

  He too had his handgun out, aimed at her.

  They stared at each other—death a trigger’s pull away.

  A single shot rang out.

  Zara’s head snapped toward the sound. Lila’s body arched backward. A thin mist of blood sprayed out of the back of the young woman’s head, and she crumpled to the ground.

  On the far side of the square, a robe-clad man shoved to his feet, an automatic rifle braced against his shoulder. Four other men rose up behind him, brandishing their rifles and shouting in Arabic

  Nakob!

  Zara’s finger tightened on the trigger. Her bullet pierced the assassin’s skull a split second before the first panicked screams filled the air. The relaxed milieu in the square collapsed into a crazed stampede. Damn it! She needed a clear shot. She leaped to catch the rail beneath the canopy of the bus stop and swung herself up onto the curved awning. Balancing on the arch, she saw Klah drop two of the men with well-placed shots even as she took out the remaining two.

  The guards at the gate raced around the car. They fumbled at their belts for their guns and swung their weapons as they pivoted. “Over there!” one of the guards shouted. The others spun around. Their heads swiveled between Zara and Klah. They hesitated, their guns wavering.

  Zara bit off a silent curse. She shoved her weapon back into her robes, leaped off the top of the bus stop, and raced away. Klah had scrambled in the opposite direction, his previously slow and lethargic gait obviously a sham. Footsteps and shouts chased her, but she ducked around a corner and into an alley. With practiced movements, she divested her robes. She tugged off her headscarf, flipped it onto its light-colored side, and draped it loosely around her face. Several quick folds and clever knots transformed her discarded robes into a classy tote bag to conceal her weapon.

  The trendy woman who wore a white headscarf over a long-sleeved black shirt and pants looked nothing like the robe-clad figure who had fled from the crime scene. Her pace casual, Zara retraced her steps and concealed herself among the gawkers in front of the police barricade.

  She fisted her hands to warm her cold fingertips. Discipline and training kept her breathing even when Lila’s body was loaded into an ambulance, but a heavy weight pressed against her chest. Her gaze locked on the crimson spill of blood on the ground. Why had Lila run out? If she hadn’t…

  Not Klah…Zara inhaled deeply. She had eyes on Klah when Lila had been shot, and Klah—damn him—had been looking back at her with guns pointed at each other. They hadn’t trusted each other, and Lila had paid the price.

  But why would Nakob assassinate the ambassador’s daughter in front of her family?

  Questions without answers grated against her spine. Lila was dead. Zara closed her eyes to block out the bloodstain on asphalt, but nothing dispelled the leaden weight of guilt on her chest. She had to bring the other girls back to Beirut and return them, safely, to their families. Her Baalbek house, protected by villagers and the goodwill of a handful of Hezbollah warriors, would not suffice, not against people who used missiles and assassins.

  She needed fresh supplies, though—weapons, ammunition, and a solid meal. Zara made her way across the city to Tabaris, which hummed with its usual mid-morning bustle as the wealthy shopped their way through the quaint corner stores and luxury brands that equally dominated the quaint neighborhood. The familiar buzz of activity steadied her against the recurring image of Lila’s body, her head thrown back from the impact of the bullet entering her skull. The girl had died instantly, but that fact provided little consolation.

  Lila had been Zara’s responsibility and she had—

  The flowers.

  Red, pink, and purple hollyhock flowers scattered on Fatima’s garden patch. Several petals had been crushed into the concrete.

  Z
ara drew a deep breath past the grip of fear around her throat. Everyone in Tabaris—and it was not an exaggeration—knew not to touch Fatima’s flowers. What few knew was that the flowers were a code between Fatima and Zara—a signal whether it was safe to enter the house.

  The flowers screamed to keep away.

  Worse, the flowers crushed into the concrete implied that something was terribly wrong.

  Zara’s eyes narrowed. No one—no one—touched those she protected. Whoever had set the trap had wanted the wind; they’d reap the whirlwind.

  14

  Zara did not wait for nightfall. Darkness was often her ally, but she needed light—and an abundance of it—to take out hostiles without hurting her friends. She walked under the courtyard arch and stopped at the front door. The lock was splintered.

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. As traps went, it couldn’t have been more obvious. She checked her handgun. Ten bullets. She would have to be careful. Bullets tended to do nasty things to walls—and these were her walls. She pressed lightly against the door and it swung open. Silence, like a shroud, wrapped around her.

  She stepped over the tricycle in the hallway and entered the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of place, and the living room was likewise undisturbed. The bedrooms on the second floor were empty. Blankets had been cast aside, as if no one had taken time to make the beds—which would never have happened if Fatima had anything to say about it.

  Faint scuff marks stained the polished white tiles. They bore the distinctive thread of combat boots. Zara ground her teeth. The clues told her nothing. Combat boots in Beirut were more common than flip-flops on the beach.

  She went to the window and looked up at the fourth floor. The window of her workout room was ajar. Perfect. She glanced down and around. The back street, little more than an alley cluttered with trash cans, was empty, as it usually was. She tucked her weapon back into her thigh holster. Leaning out of the window, she reached for the first handhold—a two-inch long wooden peg installed into the concrete.