Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

  Aa’idah felt her head spinning. “My father has been funneling money so you can buy guns,” she blurted out, then clapped a hand over her mouth. What was she doing? “Is this what you do?” She glared at Zaahir. “Kill?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I support jihad as my sacred duty, praise be to God.”

  “But jihad is for defending against an attack, not to slaughter the innocent,” she said. “No one attacks us.”

  Zaahir scowled. “Every day these nonbelievers befoul our lands, Muslims forget our sacred traditions and responsibilities. It is an attack on our way of life, and I will not rest until every one of them is dead.”

  Aa’idah pressed a hand to her chest, seeking courage. “Zaahir, you spoke to Shukri about a bomb. What do you mean to do?” She held her breath.

  Shukri blew a sound of annoyance, but Zaahir, astonishingly enough, answered her.

  “I have a very dangerous gas,” he told her. “I intend to mix it with another chemical. The explosion will send a poisonous cloud that will blanket my enemies in death.”

  “American soldiers?” Even her lungs ceased functioning as she waited for the answer.

  “No. I will strike them where it hurts the most. Once their families are gone, they will also leave my country.”

  She gasped. It took many moments for her to work up the courage to ask, “When will you do this?”

  “On the day of the American president’s visit, by God’s grace.”

  Her hands pressed together entreatingly. “No, you can’t. Please. There will be babies . . .”

  “Nonbelievers.” Zaahir dismissed them as unimportant. “Your father has been lax. Once we are married, I will teach you our sacred ways. Our alliance is important.”

  “But why?” she wailed.

  “When we marry, your family becomes my family. Your father will obey me and continue to fund the training of our courageous Muslim youths. I will provide the money, and he will force his government contact to buy necessary supplies.”

  Since she didn’t understand what he was talking about, she turned to what she could comprehend. “So I am a pawn so you can control my father and brother.”

  “No one controls me!” Shukri said. “I fight alongside my brother.”

  Zaahir’s irritation flickered through his eyes, but Shukri did not notice. “Where can Aa’idah and I be alone?” he asked. Shukri flushed, but pointed to their father’s office. “Thank you. Would you be kind enough to bring back some donuts for your sister? The soft white powdered ones.”

  How had he known those were her favorite?

  Shukri’s mouth turned down, but he went without comment. Aa’idah nearly called him back; but really, what could he do? His loyalty was clearly to Zaahir.

  Who came around the reception desk and hooked a hand around her bicep. “Come, fiancée. I wish to have a few private moments with you.”

  She tried to free her arm without success, heart pounding loud enough she wondered if he could hear it. “No. I need to stay here. I am the receptionist. I cannot . . .”

  He did not speak further, simply pulling her along until they reached her father’s office, ignoring her protests. He closed and locked the door, and she backed away from him, putting nearly the width of the room between them. Something primitive and hungry flared in his eyes, and Aa’idah realized her mistake. Her running excited him.

  “Zaahir, please do not do this.” For she was not a naive young girl. She knew what private moments with him would entail. She would not give in to him.

  “We are betrothed. It is the same as being married. I would like to make love to my wife before I begin the jihad against the foul Westerners. Is that so wrong?”

  “You cannot force yourself upon me!” she cried. “It is sinful and forbidden by Allah.”

  “We will wed. You will obey your father.” Warmth fled from his tone, leaving it brittle and harsh.

  She blurted out the only thing she could think to say. “A virgin cannot be married without her consent.”

  Something ugly moved behind Zaahir’s eyes. “I will have your consent.” He stalked toward her, nostrils flared and eyes blazing. She tried to dart around him, knowing he would move faster but determined to fight him until the bitter end.

  He caught her around the waist, jerking her back against him. His hands came up to cup her breasts, squeezing them though the fabric of her blouse, pinching her hard enough to hurt. One hand slid down her torso and shoved between her legs. Aa’idah opened her mouth to scream. Sensing her intention, his other hand clamped over her mouth, gripping her jaw. He slammed her forward into the wall, pinning her in place with his body. Her head smacked the plaster, and she cried out under his hand. He began to yank and tug her blouse from the waistband of her skirt.

  This can’t be happening.

  If she did not do something drastic now, he would succeed in forcing himself on her. Nausea roiled in her gut. When his hand loosened on her mouth, she opened her jaws wide and clamped down as hard as she could.

  His scream carried through the office. She refused to let go, even when he punched her in the side of the head and she saw stars. He hit her again, but somehow she found both the strength and will to turn in his arms, and brought her knee sharply into his groin. He shouted again, but his hold on her loosened as he collapsed in on himself. Tearing herself him his grasp, she wasted several precious seconds fumbling with the door lock and several more snatching her purse and Shukri’s photograph from the desk drawer, Zaahir’s bellows of rage following her, before running out into the sunny morning.

  She did not stop running until she reached the gates of the American Embassy.

  Chapter Thirty-­Six

  September 11. 1:33 P.M.

  TOC, FOB Hollow Straw, al-­Zadr Air Force Base

  JACE WATCHED HEATHER’S car spin on the gravel and fishtail out of the lot. What the hell was going on? One person would have the answer.

  Jace pushed through the door of the Tactical Operations Center harder than he’d intended, much like Heather had done just a few minutes earlier. He found Colonel Granville at his desk at the far end of the TOC, chomping on an unlit cigar and muttering to himself as he sorted through files and folders. His commander looked up as Jace approached and jabbed a finger at one of the two chairs in front of his desk.

  “Damn and blast this idiotic paperwork. It’s no fit occupation for a SpecOps warrior. Feeling old, Jace. Feeling old. What can I do for you?”

  Jace sat, slouching a little. “You can answer a question for me. Did you authorize the reassignment of Heather Langstrom?”

  Bo Granville gave a smug smile. “You bet your ass. I snapped her up in a hot minute. We’re damned lucky to have her.” He shuffled through some folders and finally plucked one from the pile. Handing it to Jace, he said, “Take a gander at her personnel records.”

  Jace opened the olive green folder.

  “Five years in Military Intelligence. Speaks three languages. Airborne, Air Assault, and Jungle Warfare Schools. Hell, if she could, I wouldn’t doubt she’d have tried for Ranger School.” The commander grinned and shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Top ten percent of her class at West Point, too. None of that ROTC bullcrap.”

  Jace looked up. West Point? That was the public school she’d attended in upstate New York?

  “She’s exactly who I need as my operational support platoon leader. An experienced officer who took capture and interrogation like a man and spat on those assholes. From your reports, she all but rescued herself.”

  “Sir . . .” Jace sighed as he tossed the folder back onto Granville’s desk. “I don’t think she’s ready for another assignment just yet. Her doctors haven’t even cleared her for active duty. She’s barely out of the hospital, and that’s not even bringing up any psychological scars from her ordeal. Wouldn’t it be safer to wait? See if she
comes through this okay? Send her back to the States for a while?”

  Granville took his cigar out of his mouth and jabbed it at Jace. “I got the shrink’s report right here. She’ll have to go to counseling twice a week for a ­couple months, but he had no problem clearing her for a desk assignment. I won’t send her forward until I’m sure she’s ready.”

  Jace’s heart stuttered in his chest. Send her forward? Oh, holy hell. Her orders assigned her to the Operation Support Troop. The intelligence assets Delta employed were not just analysts. They also regularly deployed to hostile foreign countries to gather intelligence, in preparation for Delta missions. Once the psychiatrist authorized her to return to full duty, she would do what every other member of the Operational Support Troop did.

  Heather would be in the line of fire.

  “No.”

  The word ripped from him. Granville narrowed his eyes, sitting forward and slapping his forearms atop his desk. He pinned Jace with a laser stare.

  “You got special insight, Captain? Spit it out.”

  Jace hesitated. One word from him, and Heather’s orders would be revoked. Granville trusted him, trusted his judgment. If he said Heather couldn’t cut it with Delta . . .

  Trouble was, Heather trusted him, too. This assignment would make her career and guarantee her promotion. She was ambitious; he knew that. He had no right to derail her because he was afraid for her.

  And anything negative he said would be a lie.

  He tried to choose his words with care. “Sir. Heather—­Lieutenant Langstrom—­no doubt performed well for 10th Special Forces Group. But . . . have you talked to her commanding officer? And being an analyst is not the same as being sent into hostile areas. She has no training . . .”

  Granville grunted. He was no fool; Jace could see understanding glimmering in the depths of the man’s eyes.

  “Jace. Is there an operational reason why you think Langstrom is unsuitable?”

  No. There wasn’t. And, “Sir, I think I may be in love with this woman,” just wasn’t going to cut it with his boss, a dedicated and hard-­core career soldier. Jace scrubbed a hand down his face.

  “No, sir,” he ground out.

  “Then I expect you to work with her as you would any other professional asset. And to set your mind at ease, her commander at 10th Group sang her praises. She’s cool under pressure, has a sharp mind, and knows how to interact with the locals. Disguise herself to blend in. She’ll be fine.” Granville waved an arm back toward the central table. “Now get back out there and find me a terrorist.”

  Jace pushed himself to his feet. Could he do it? Work beside Heather, day after day, knowing he couldn’t touch her, kiss her, taste her?

  No.

  The only alternative would be for him to leave Delta. And that was unacceptable.

  If she were here, he could at least monitor her whereabouts. Keep her safe.

  Shit.

  He had to talk to her. Try to . . . what? She planned to accept the assignment. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  But he had to accept it.

  If he respected her even a little, if he cared for her at all, he needed to step back, to give her the opportunity to shine. Because she would, without a doubt.

  Double shit.

  “Jace.”

  Jace looked over at Tag, at his team, waiting for him. He tried to pry his jaw apart so the muscle in his cheek would stop jumping, but knew he’d failed when Tag cocked his head in a silent, “Are you all right?” He gave a slight nod. Yeah. Sure. He was great, as long as having his beating heart ripped out of his chest qualified.

  The door to the TOC opened, and Trevor and Christina came in. Their escort nodded to Jace and left. Jace motioned them over to the table.

  “Let’s make sure we all know one another,” Jace said. Damn it. Heather should, by all rights, be here as well. “Brian Seifert and Mike Boston, Secret Ser­vice. Christina Madison, CIA. Trevor Carswell, SAS.” He glanced around. “Private Stephanie Tams, Operational Research. Need anything found or confirmed, she’s the go-­to gal.” He pointed to each man in turn. “Gabe ‘Archangel’ Morgan. John ‘Tag’ McTaggert. Scott ‘Sandman’ Griffin. Thomas ‘Mace’ Beckett. Alex Wood, Ken Acolatse. We’re working on finding them suitable nicknames.” A brief smile lit his face and faded. He looked at the two Secret Ser­vice agents. “I know you’ve got your own men, but you need us, you use us. Okay?”

  Mike Boston fingered the walkie-­talkie at his hip. “We will. Thanks. The exterior perimeter is still . . .”

  A phone chirred. Christina yanked it from her pocket and checked the number. Her eyes brightened. “It’s my contact. Aa’idah Karim.”

  Jace gestured for her to answer it. “Put her on speakerphone.”

  Christina glanced toward Gabe with a finger to her lips. “She’ll spook if she hears you,” she said. “Any of you.”

  Suddenly, the TOC was dead quiet. Jace nodded his thanks to Bo Granville, who motioned for one of the soldiers to go guard the door. No interruptions.

  Christina took in a lot of air, let it out in a rush, and pressed the green button.

  “This is Christina,” she said, dropping into a British accent. Her voice sounded remarkably calm, even soothing. Jace strained for any sound coming from the other end. After what seemed like a very long pause, a voice came tentatively onto the line.

  “It is Aa’idah Karim.”

  Christina grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. Several of the others did, as well.

  “Hello, Aa’idah. It’s very good to hear from you. How are you? Is your family well?”

  There was an even longer pause.

  Finally, the woman said, “It is about my family that I contact you. You . . . asked me to be alert for . . . certain activities in the office in which I work. Do you recall this?” Her British-­accented English was flawless, testament to her higher education.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Jace worked his shoulders, trying to loosen them.

  When the woman spoke again, her voice was stronger, as though she had come to a decision. “I did this. I also overheard a conversation in my own home, between my brother and a man named Zaahir al-­Farouk. I confronted Zaahir myself. He is part of a group of men who wish to commit harm against you.”

  She sighed deeply. “It is with a heavy heart that I pass this information to you. Today, while the American president visits our country, Zaahir al-­Farouk, my brother, and two other men intend to gain access to the United States Air Force Base, where they will detonate an explosive.”

  “Did they mention how they planned to get close to the president?” Christina asked.

  “They did not.” There was another pause. “Forgive me. They did not intend their target to be the US president. They intend, rather, to harm many ­people. Women, children. Mothers and fathers. Families. Innocent victims.” Aa’idah’s voice shook. “I cannot allow this to happen if my report to you can prevent this tragedy.”

  Christina’s voice dropped, became even more soothing. “You absolutely did the right thing, Aa’idah, by calling me. I have a team of ­people, good ­people, who want to prevent this from happening just as much as you do. What else did they say?”

  “Zaahir al-­Farouk spoke of the great shame this would bring to the United States.”

  Jace glanced around the table, encountering bewildered looks in return. Mike Boston scribbled something on a notepad, and shoved it under Christina’s nose. The young CIA agent nodded.

  “Aa’idah, did al-­Farouk say more about President Cooper?”

  “Yes. The explosion is not to look like an attack at all, but like an accident. And . . .” The woman paused. Her distress was palpable, even through the telephone line.

  “What else, Aa’idah?” It was funny, really, how a woman as tense and stiff as Christina could sound so reassuri
ng.

  Aa’idah sniffed, then sniffed again. Jace realized she was crying. “It is not the explosion itself that will harm the children. The families. Both Azakistani and American. Many of my ­people will be on the American base. Can you prevent this from happening?”

  “I’ll do my absolute best.” Her British accent faltered for a moment. “But I need to know as much as possible. Is the explosion biochemical? Do you know where they are headed?”

  “All I know is the explosion is to be mixed with something else, something which will cause a cloud of poisonous gas to spread across the land.”

  Stephanie Tams darted to a computer, fingers tapping the keys.

  Aa’idah Karim sighed heavily. “I wish my brother to be safe. I wish he did not become involved with these bad men. He is a good man at heart, but very, very angry. Sometimes I think he does not even know why he is angry.” She sighed again. “Can you guarantee me my brother will not be harmed?”

  Christina rolled her eyes toward the Secret Ser­vice agents. Brian Seifert shook his head, once, sharply. Of course she couldn’t.

  “I wish I could promise you that, but you know I can’t. Aa’idah, he’s prepared to kill dozens, if not hundreds, of ­people.”

  “I understand. I . . . just, perhaps they will be arrested?”

  “We’re going to do our level best to find them and arrest them, Aa’idah. I promise you. But if they resist . . . you know I can’t promise your brother won’t be hurt.”

  Jace grabbed a pen and wrote “Photos?” on the yellow pad, turning it so Christina could see it. She nodded.

  “Aa’idah, if I show you some photos, would you be able to identify Zaahir al-­Farouk and the other two men? Would you be willing to show me a picture of your brother?”

  The young Azakistani woman clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I can do this. I have a picture my brother keeps, of these men with whom he associates.”

  Christina’s eyes snapped with excitement. Again, however, her voice did not reflect it. “That would be a huge help.”

  “I am . . . at the American Embassy in Ma’ar ye zhad. They have granted me temporary asylum from . . . my family. They will fax it to you. My brother Shukri will be on the left. I don’t know the man next to him. I think the one on the right is called Rami. I do not know the other man’s name, but he is a sheik. The one in the center is Zaahir al-­Farouk.”