Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

  Jace chuckled. “Whoa, there. Let’s get you dressed first, okay?”

  She shot him an amused glance. “I’m even going to shower.” She went into the bedroom and selected a change of clothes, then stepped into the bathroom.

  She washed, ignoring the parts of her body that still protested, mostly around her ribs. Once dressed in jeans and a loose top, she grabbed the garment bag that held her newly-­laundered dress green uniform. She’d lost her wallet along with her uniform—­she would not dwell on that now—­but the Public Affairs Office had provided her with a new military ID, which she slid into her front pocket.

  Jace took the uniform bag from her. “Not sure you’ll need this, but it’s safer to have it than not.”

  “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go,” she said, heading for the door.

  He chuckled as he followed her out. “I have a car waiting.”

  Sure enough, a silver BMW Z4 was illegally parked just outside the staircase exit. She slid onto butter-­soft leather seats. “Nice wheels. Typically male.”

  Jace laughed, a deep-­chested burst of amusement that kicked shivers down her spine. “My other car’s a minivan.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Okay, maybe not.” He threw the car into reverse and executed a smooth backward-­facing U-­turn. Impressive.

  “So where are we going?” Heather asked, not really caring about the answer. She was out of her quarters and spending time with Jace. A double win.

  Jace left the bachelors’ parking lot and turned onto Black Saber Road, wending his way north to avoid the senior enlisted housing area. Al-­Zadr sat on more than twenty square miles of land, boasted two runways over seventy-­five hundred feet, and hosted more than sixty-­two hundred soldiers and airmen, plus a small Marine detachment. The Department of Defense provided primary and secondary education for dependent children. An indoor strip mall attached to the Base Exchange boasted a Starbucks, McDonald’s, and Quiznos, as well as the flower shop and car-­rental counter. Al-­Zadr was a self-­contained town.

  Jace slowed at a light, then turned left onto Constitution Boulevard, which would take them out to the airfields. “We’re taking a hop to Ma’ar ye zhad, the capital city. You been?”

  ­“Couple of times,” she said. “Mostly for training. Um . . . why?”

  “Why are we going? Your language skills are needed. There was an accident. One of the embassy’s classified-­document couriers is in the hospital there. So you’re kind of going to another hospital.” Jace’s smile had disappeared, replaced by a look of serious concentration. “It’s a twenty-­minute hop. They’re holding transport for us.”

  “Surely the embassy has interpreters?”

  “For Arabic and Kurdish, even Pashtu. You speak Turkish. And you have the Top Secret security clearance they need. Someone up there remembered you from the news and suggested you be brought in.”

  “Don’t the foreign national couriers have to speak English?”

  Jace frowned. “I don’t have any more details. Here we are.” He pulled into the airport’s parking lot and killed the engine. Twisting in his seat, he faced her, face solemn. “If you’re not up for this, you tell me, and I scrub this mission. No questions asked.”

  “No, I’m good.” No way was she being shut out of the action. She stiffened her spine and squared her shoulders.

  He continued to scrutinize her. “You sure?”

  Heather put an end to the conversation by opening the car door and carefully climbing out. “I’m sure.”

  Jace hesitated for a long moment, as though he were having second thoughts. Finally, though, he emerged onto the pavement and clicked the car locks. “We’re this way.” Instead of entering the airport proper, he led her across the street, to a small fleet of cargo planes. He bypassed the two FedEx planes and the C-­130 cargo transport, and stopped beside a Blackhawk helicopter. The pilot was under the rotor, making a notation on a clipboard. He raised a hand in greeting. “Go on in,” he called. “Wheels up in two.”

  Her brow furrowed. “They’re going to a lot of trouble. What’s the rush?”

  He lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “This was all arranged by Shelby Gibson at the State Department, which is inside the US Embassy in Ma’ar ye zhad. It’s one of her couriers.”

  The side doors were locked back, leaving the interior open. Jace hopped on board, then turned to offer a hand. She considered ignoring it and climbing in herself, but it seemed petty, so she placed her palm in his and took the large step up into the helicopter. They sat in two jump seats at the rear and fastened the over-­the-­shoulder safety belts. In short order, the pilot climbed on board, started the rotors, and lifted into the air. Heather felt a familiar thrill. She’d ridden in helicopters many times, particularly during Air Assault School. She leaned over so that she could see the ground dropping away beneath her feet, absently rubbing her bruised ribs.

  The chopping roar of rotor wash and air rushing past made talking nearly impossible, so Heather settled back and watched the world fly past. In about fifteen minutes, they dropped down onto a landing pad at the Kenneth L. Peek Army Air Field. An embassy car and driver waited for them.

  A lump of dread settled in Heather’s gut. What the hell merited this kind of VIP treatment?

  Traffic snarled the streets as workers tried to beat the day’s heat. As comparatively small as the capital city was at a mere half a million ­people, it packed too many into too small an area, causing overcrowding. Similar problems existed in the larger cities of Momardhi and Tiqt. Even Eshma, as remote as it was, filled daily as the poor flocked to the cities in search of a better life.

  Pedestrians and vehicles alike ignored the embassy logo on the car. Their driver stood on his brakes several times to avoid an accident. The third time he swerved, laying on the horn, the force threw Heather against Jace. Her head landed in the middle of his chest, an arm wedged between them the only thing preventing her from being plastered against him chest to chest.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled into his chest. Bracing a hand high on his thigh, she pushed herself upright. The muscles under her hand corded, causing her to peek up at him.

  “Don’t move on my account,” he murmured. A hard male gleam in his eyes told her where he really wanted her hand. She rolled her eyes. Men. She snatched it back, pushing deeper into her own seat.

  “Aww.” He gave her a lopsided grin that made her melt. “Put it back.”

  An answering smile tugged on Heather’s lips. To quash it, she cleared her throat and rubbed her hands briskly over her knees. To distract him—­and herself—­she focused on their mission.

  “Do you work with the State Department often?” she asked. “The helicopter, the car. Is this normal for you?” Or was this a personal favor from the State Department employee, Shelby Gibson? Surely that burning in her chest was from her breakfast of eggs and toast, not from any kind of jealousy.

  “We work together from time to time. We’re technically not part of any branch of ser­vice, so we get loaned out to do specialized jobs.” Jace’s eyes lit. “This time around, we’re supporting the Secret Ser­vice for the president’s visit.”

  “Nice,” she said. “It’s good morale for the troops that he’s coming for Patriot Day.” It always struck her as strange that the commemoration of the 9/11 horror seemed to center around the military, when none had been involved in the Twin Towers collapse.

  “Yeah.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Hey, I was thinking . . .”

  Uh-­oh. Something about his expression, the tension in his body, his voice . . . Heather did not want to know what he’d been thinking. It was probably close to what she was thinking, and she could not go there with him. “So what brought you into the Army?” she cut in.

  He hesitated for a long moment, during which Heather held her breath. The trouble was, she wasn’t entirely certain if she w
as hoping he would take her hint or if he would ignore it. Finally, though, he dipped his chin and settled back onto the seat. “Never wanted to do anything else,” he said. “My grandfather was an Airborne Ranger during the Korean War. I grew up on his stories. I wanted to honor him and have stories of my own to tell. He would have disowned me if I’d joined the Navy, so the SEALs were out.”

  Heather made a sound of agreement. The rivalry between Army and Navy stretched back two hundred years.

  “Anyway, SEALs are good, but Delta’s the best. I made Selection, and I’ve never looked back.”

  “Your family must be proud.”

  He looked away, shoulders suddenly tight. “Granddad, you bet. My old man had his hands full with . . . other stuff. My little brother. He, uh, didn’t make it. He had substance abuse problems.”

  Heather felt herself soften with compassion. He would not welcome her sympathy, though. She didn’t know how she knew that; she just did. She kept her tone brisk. “What about your mom?”

  “She’s the only reason the rest of us survived into adulthood.” Genuine affection laced his tone. “I have two other brothers.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “Five men and one woman in your house?”

  Jace grinned. “My mother kept us in line.”

  The car slid to a stop in front of the Prince Nasser Hospital, which turned out to be a modern building of glass and concrete. Heather pushed open her door, more than ready to put an end to the mystery and find out why she was here. Jace leaned forward to speak with the driver, then followed her through automatic doors and to the information desk.

  “Morning,” Jace said. “A man was brought in last night. Car accident. What floor’s he on? Na’il Fakhoury.”

  The man tapped a few keys on his computer. “He is on the critical care ward, sir. Floor seven. The lift is on your right.”

  The elevator whispered open as though it, like the helicopter and car, had been waiting for them. It whisked them up.

  As soon as she stepped out onto the ward, she saw the Marine guard, positioned with his hands clasped behind his back, stiff as a board. He stood alert, his gaze landing on them as they trekked down the corridor.

  He nodded a greeting. “Ma’am. Sir.”

  Heather pulled her military ID from her pocket and handed it to the Marine.

  “I’m Lieutenant Langstrom. Someone called me up here to talk to an embassy courier?”

  He examined her ID and consulted what was clearly a faxed form, probably a list of allowed personnel. Finally, he looked back at her and returned her ID. “Yes, ma’am. Follow me to the prisoner.” He moved far enough to look into the room and give a nod.

  Heather’s brows pulled down in confusion. “Prisoner?”

  The man’s grim expression didn’t change. “The classified documents pouch was open when the kid was brought in, Lieutenant. With that and his refusal to answer any of our questions, we have reason to believe Na’il Fakhoury is a terrorist.”

  Chapter Twenty

  September 5. 7:20 A.M.

  Prince Nasser Hospital, Ma’ar ye zhad

  “UNTIL THERE IS an investigation, he will remain in custody.”

  Jace stepped forward. “Can you run us through the timeline? We’re a little behind the power curve here.”

  The Marine’s eyes slid to Jace. “And your name, sir?”

  Jace pulled his ID out and handed it over. “Captain Reed.”

  The guard—­Gunnery Sergeant Bisantz, according to his rank insignia and name tag—­checked his security clearances list. “Yes, sir. Your command faxed over your clearance an hour ago.”

  Heather was not surprised. Delta always got the best. Their clerical support must also be top-­notch.

  “What I can tell you is that the courier from Tehran was on his way to the embassy at around four in the morning when another vehicle ran a red and T-­boned him,” Bisantz said. “They found the kid’s courier ID, their call got routed to the embassy agent on duty. He authorized the Marine Security Guard to dispatch me to the hospital because of the classified pouch.”

  “You said the pouch was open,” Heather said. “Anything missing? Any documents recovered from the car?”

  “No, ma’am.” The Marine’s voice was completely neutral. “The contents appeared to be intact on cursory examination.”

  She peeked into the room, where another Marine stood near the door, watching a nurse adjust some tubes running into Na’il Fakhoury’s arm. The young man looked so small, so pale, lying in the hospital bed. His head had been bandaged. He had bruises and cuts on his face. Tubes and wires hooked him to various machines. Gauze covered what little she could see of his chest and arms. One thin wrist was handcuffed to the side rail of the bed.

  What was going on?

  A slim brunette sitting off to the side stood as Heather came in. “Heather? Are you Heather Langstrom?”

  Heather crossed to her and shook her hand. “Yes. And this is Jace Reed.”

  “I’m Shelby Gibson. I’m sorry I dragged you out of bed so early. Thank you so much for coming.”

  “I’m happy to help. How is he?” She gestured to the injured man. When Shelby just shook her head, Heather went to the bed. The nurse looked up as Heather repeated the question in Arabic.

  “I will fetch the doctor for you, miss. He will be able to tell you.”

  Heather went to Na’il’s bedside. The sharp scent of antiseptic and detergent invaded her nostrils. His eyes remained closed, and his breathing seemed labored.

  “Hello,” came a lightly accented voice from behind her. She turned to see a man in a white lab coat, stethoscope slung around his neck. “I am Dr. Ramzi Alam.” He came forward to shake her hand.

  “Thank you for coming to talk to me. How is he?”

  Dr. Alam shook his head. “Not well. His injuries are quite serious. His spleen ruptured, and his liver was bleeding rather extensively. There is swelling in his head. The surgeon has stabilized him, but he is still in critical condition.”

  Heather swallowed, feeling sick. “Consciousness?”

  “He is in and out of it.” The doctor checked the chart at the foot of the bed, made a notation, and went out.

  Almost immediately, another man entered. This one was fiftyish, with a rapidly receding hairline. He crammed half a powdered donut into his mouth, barely bothering to close his mouth as he chewed.

  “Jed. Finally. What took you so long?” Shelby Gibson’s voice was sharp.

  Jed brushed powdered sugar from his blue shirt and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Traffic.”

  “But I called you hours ago!”

  “Where’s the courier pouch?” Jed ignored Shelby’s protest. Seeing it on the table by the window, he brushed past the brunette and went over to it, glancing at Jace without interest. Heather joined Shelby.

  “Okay, so why does the Marine Security Guard think this guy is a terrorist?” she asked.

  “Holy shit!”

  Heather whirled around, immediately regretting the action as her still-­sore body protested. Jace straightened, coming forward. Jed stared at a small, open case next to the misnamed security pouch, a boxy contraption with metal buckles and straps and a cypher lock. His mouth hung open and his face paled. The other Marine, Corporal Landry by his sleeve stripes and name tag, actually took a step back.

  “That’s why.” Shelby pulled a worried face.

  Heather moved so she could see, shaking off Jace’s restraining hand. Nestled in the metal case, in individually padded pockets, were five sealed, opaque vials and some sort of large metal syringe. She tipped her head toward the case. “Drugs?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Corporal Landry. “Please be careful.”

  “Then what . . . ?” And the significance of the tubes clicked. She flashed hot, then cold. “Oh, my God! You think these are some sort
of biological weapon. Like anthrax?”

  The Marine nodded. “It’s possible, ma’am. We need to get them tested to be sure. They are intact; the accident didn’t rupture them. But, ma’am,” he said, “we found them inside the pouch.”

  Heather blinked. “But why assume the courier was smuggling them? Come on. For all we know, it’s a compound for the chemical guys at al-­Zadr. Some controlled substance. What does the paperwork say?”

  Jed shuffled through the list of contents. “Nothing,” he reported. “It’s not on the manifest.”

  And that was the reason for the two Marine guards and the handcuffs. Not to protect the classified data inside the pouch, but to guard a suspected terrorist carrying a possible biological weapon. Sweet Lord in heaven.

  Shelby scraped her hair behind her ear. It immediately fell forward again. She looked to Jed. “What do we do?” she whispered.

  He brushed a hand over his thinning hair. “We call DTRA—­the Defense Threat Reduction Agency. Turn these over to them. And notify the Regional Security Officer, unless you guys called him?” He directed his question to Corporal Landry.

  The young Marine nodded. “Our orders are to take Na’il Fakhoury into custody and safeguard the classified pouch until an authorized representative picked it up.” Someone with the proper security clearance, he meant.

  Heather put a hand to her head, which spun a little. “What’s a Regional Security Officer?”

  “Our boss,” Corporal Landry said. “The Marine Corps Security Detachment reports directly to the Regional Security Officer. He’s the senior security advisor to the ambassador. By now, he’s probably briefed Ambassador Stanton. He’ll be looking for answers, and fast.”

  Jed clicked through his Blackberry. “Need the number for DTRA,” he muttered. “It’s not here.”

  Heather rubbed her arms, feeling cold. What if those vials were anthrax, and they leaked? All of them could get sick. Or even die. Without being able to see what was inside, they couldn’t even be sure if the vials contained a liquid or a powder.