Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

  She cracked her teeth together in fury. And hurt. “Don’t ‘look, Heather’ me,” she shouted. “Just say it. I want to hear you say it.” He thought she wasn’t good enough, tough enough, skilled enough. Which one was it this time?

  It didn’t matter. Either way, Jace didn’t think she could handle herself.

  Heather had been hearing it her entire career.

  “I . . .”

  Heather braced herself.

  “I need you to be safe.” The admission was almost whispered.

  That stopped her cold. “You . . .”

  “Want you safe,” he growled. “Out of danger. So what if it’s not politically correct. So it alters your three-­star general career trajectory. I don’t care. You asked what I want? That’s what I want.”

  Heather’s throat closed up. She couldn’t have managed more than a squeak at that moment if her life depended on it.

  Damn it. She had gone the wrong way. The parade grounds were behind her.

  Heather spun the car around, ending up back at the intersection with the gas station and mini mart. Pulling into the lot, she slammed the car into park.

  “I don’t suppose I have to tell you,” she said, finally able to get her vocal cords working, “what I want is a career. The same opportunities men have. I have a place here, too. I’m good at what I do. I’m making a difference. Saving American lives.”

  There was a long pause. “I know. And I know my views are archaic. And I know I have no right to ask you to do this, but . . . turn around and go back to the TOC.”

  She clutched the phone. “I won’t do that, Jace. I can’t.”

  He sighed heavily. “I know. Just . . . I had to ask.”

  Heather swallowed the hard knot of disappointment in her gut. “We’re going to be working together soon. I have to know if you’re going to sabotage me, hold me back.”

  “No!” He actually sounded shocked. “Of course not. I don’t like it, but okay. There it is. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  Heather rested her head against the window, not really seeing anything. “I don’t see there’s any ‘of course not’ to it. So what was all the bullshit about your respecting me?”

  Another sigh. “I do respect you. I just also love you.”

  His words hung in the air between them. Heather chewed on her nail as she fought to find a response. A car pulled in past her and maneuvered over to a gas pump, and immediately pulled ahead as the driver noticed the yellow covering on the pump.

  Yellow covering.

  “Heather?”

  Brows pulled down, Heather looked more closely at the driver, who was now out of the car with the nozzle in hand. The middle-­aged woman looked curiously back at her.

  Yellow covering.

  “Jace, I’ll have to call you back.” She flipped her phone closed.

  Two of the four pumps at the gas station were covered. Empty.

  But a gas truck had been admitted onto base just this morning.

  So why was the reservoir almost drained?

  Her mind made lightning jumps. Heather dialed the base Security Police. “There was a gas truck let onto base this morning,” she said. “I have reason to believe it never arrived at the gas station. I think it might be bringing a bomb onto base.”

  “Nearly every cop we got is up helping with security for the president,” the sergeant on duty told her. “I’ll tell my patrol cars to haul ass to find your truck, but I’m really stretched on manpower.”

  Heather hung up and called Trevor. “We need to find a fuel oil truck that came onto base this morning and disappeared. I think he’s our guy. Or guys.” She filled him in. “I’m starting to search now.”

  Trevor swore. “Bollocks. I passed one heading toward one of the housing areas, roughly four miles back. I’m turning around now.”

  Heather pulled back onto the road and accelerated. “Did you notice the driver?”

  “No.”

  “Damn it. I’m heading your way now.” She disconnected, then called the SPs back and filled them in. The duty sergeant promised to send backup. Her next call was to Bo Granville.

  “Perfect timing, Langstrom,” he thundered. “Omran Malouf talked. Babbled all over the place. He admitted he was in cahoots with that Greek scientist, Pagonis, who was found dead in his lab. They were siphoning off phosgene gas and smuggling it into Azakistan. And you’re not going to believe who Malouf says he works for.”

  “Who, sir?”

  Colonel Granville almost crowed. “The conservative party leader and Prime Minister al-­Muhaymin’s chief rival, Najm al-­Najib. Remember his chief of staff? Met with an Iranian conservative in Tehran to talk about importing terrorism?” he asked. “Now we have a direct connection between al-­Najib and the planned attack on the US president. Headline-­news stuff.”

  A swell of triumph hit Heather. “That’s it, then. The why of all this. If the Azakistani prime minister fails to safeguard his ally, the American president, on Azakistani soil . . . my God! It would at best be an international incident. At worst, an act of war.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Sir, I think one of the terrorists is driving a fuel oil truck, heading toward the . . .” She wracked her brain. “Uh, the Dogwood Beach housing complex. A bomb, more phosgene—­I don’t know. The warhead? Trevor and I are heading in that direction. The military police are also sending backup.”

  “I’ll let the Secret Ser­vice know . . .”

  Her call waiting beeped. “It’s Trevor,” she said. “Maybe he found it. I’ll call you back.”

  “Conference me in . . .”

  Heather had already jabbed the buttons to end one call and accept the other. “Trevor?”

  “I see it,” he said. “It’s half a mile ahead of me.” He paused. “It’s a small one, not one of the huge tankers.”

  That was good news, at least. Although, if there really was a bomb inside the truck, the size of the tank probably didn’t matter.

  “I’m pulling across the road,” Trevor reported. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the guy’s just lost.”

  “Yeah.” But Heather didn’t believe it for a moment. She sped up again. She was still at least six minutes from Trevor. There was the sound of a car door slamming shut.

  “Give me your cross streets.”

  He did so, adding, “I’m trying to flag him down.” Trevor swore sharply. “He’s not slowing. Fekking hell.” There was a thump, as though Trevor had fumbled his phone. The unmistakable tearing sound of automatic gunfire ripped through her speaker, a gunned engine, the crash of metal on metal. Silence.

  “Trevor!”

  Through the tinny receiver, she heard a diesel engine crank over. It whined as the driver put it into gear. The sound slowly faded as the truck moved farther away.

  Her heart in her throat, Heather waited. Nothing further came through the phone line.

  “Trevor?”

  Her call waiting beeped. It was Jace. She hit the ignore button, disconnected her line with Trevor, and called 9-­1-­1. Her voice was remarkably calm, considering how hard her heart thudded, as she requested an ambulance and the military police.

  Finally, finally she could see the government car. It was half on, half off the road, and at an odd angle. The hood was crushed. She braked hard behind him and threw herself out of the car.

  “Trevor. Trevor!”

  A faint voice answered her. “Here.”

  Thank God!

  She ran to the other side of the car and saw him. He sat propped against the front wheel. His face was white, and he held his side.

  “Sod it all.”

  Dropping to her knees next to him, she said, “Are you shot? I heard gunfire.” She checked him for telltale blood. There didn’t seem to be any. “What happened?”

  “Bloody hell,” he
said, disgust and pain twisting his face. “I cocked it up good. The truck rammed my bastarding car. It spun out, and I caught the back bumper. I’ve a ­couple of cracked ribs.”

  “Ambulance is on its way.”

  “Help me into your car. Mine’s bolloxed. We’ve got to stop the tanker.”

  If she took Trevor away from the scene of the accident, he wouldn’t get the medical help he needed. And if his ribs were broken rather than cracked—­and that was the extent of his injuries—­he risked a punctured lung if he moved around.

  “I’m good for it. Let’s go.” Trevor struggled to his feet. “The driver is our terrorist, absolutely no doubt.”

  “Zaahir al-­Farouk?”

  “Yes.”

  “We should wait for the ambulance . . .”

  “Not bloody likely.” Trevor was walking slightly hunched over, and Heather realized he wasn’t just holding his ribs.

  “Your arm is broken.”

  Trevor didn’t stop. “Just the wrist. We’ll need to find something to splint it with.”

  Heather trotted around until she was in front of him, forcing him to stop. “The ambulance will have a splint. And a wrap for your ribs.”

  The British SAS officer shook his head. “We can’t wait. Every second we stay put is a second the terrorists come closer to detonating a biochemical bomb among civilians. I’m not willing to risk it. Give me your keys.” He held out a hand. His functioning hand.

  Heather blew out a breath and popped the trunk of her car. “Is there a first-­aid kit in your car? Government vehicles usually have them . . .”

  “Bandages and aspirin, I’m afraid.”

  “Damn it.” She rustled around in her trunk, looking for anything that could be used as a splint. Roadside emergency triangles, emergency blanket, emergency flares. Nothing, however, useful for this emergency. Although . . .

  She plucked out the emergency triangles. The tough plastic was hard to break. She finally resorted to sticking her foot inside it as though it were a stirrup, and yanking up as hard as she could until it cracked. Repeating the process, she ended up with two roughly straight pieces. Heather tugged her belt free. Luckily, it was one of her stretchy ones.

  She set the two pieces of plastic against his wrist, and wrapped the belt several times around them before securing the end. Trevor grunted in pain, his lips white. “Will that do?”

  “Yes.”

  He moved gingerly. Heather could relate. One of her ribs had been cracked—­mostly just bruised—­and every step she’d taken had been painful. He must be in agony.

  A bit of color returned to his face. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Although, what they were going to do when they caught up with the oil truck was beyond her. Neither of them had a weapon of any sort.

  Wait . . .

  She dashed back to the trunk. The flares. There were three of them. Too bad they were roadside flares and not the kind that could be shot out of a pistol. Still, it was better than nothing.

  Maybe not by much.

  Chapter Thirty-­Eight

  September 11. 2:58 P.M.

  Main Parade Grounds, al-­Zadr Air Force Base

  JACE ALMOST THREW his phone against the fence in frustration. Why wasn’t Heather picking up? Okay, maybe it was too much to hope that his declaration of love be met with an, “I love you, too,” but to hang up on him?

  About to shove the phone into his pocket, he paused, then dialed Trevor. Maybe he and Heather had linked up. Again, there was no answer. What the hell was going on?

  He’d barely pressed the disconnect button when it rang. “Heather?”

  “Do I gotta rattle your teeth, Reed?” Colonel Granville barked. “I need your focus, son.”

  “Sorry, sir. I can’t reach either Heather or Trevor. They should be here by now.”

  His commander grunted. “Langstrom’s after a fuel truck. Says there’s a bomb of some sort on it. Heading into one of the housing complexes. Dogwood Beach.”

  Oh, shit. The bottom fell out of Jace’s stomach. She was supposed to have stayed at the TOC, where it was safe. Now she was chasing after the terrorists and their bomb on her own? Damn it all to hell.

  “On my way, sir.” Jace disconnected.

  He caught Tag’s eye, and his senior sergeant immediately left the bench he was searching and came to Jace’s side. “Whassup, boss?”

  “They’re not coming here,” he said. “Heather found them. Looks like they’re going to a housing area instead.” He swept the area, hoping to spot the rest of his team. “Fuck. I can’t get through to Trevor. He never made it here. I think—­hope—­he and Heather linked up. Get the team together and haul ass. Dogwood Beach housing area. Got it?”

  Tag already had his phone to his ear. “We’re two minutes behind you.”

  Jace sprinted back down to the metal detectors where he’d linked up with Brian Seifert. The agent in charge stepped forward to meet him.

  “I expected Trevor Carswell to meet me here,” he said, wasting no time. “Did he come through? Anything on the wire about Heather Langstrom?”

  “No to Carswell.” The agent pulled off his sunglasses. “A call came in to the police station from a Heather Langstrom, in reference to a fuel oil tanker. It’s believed to contain some sort of explosive. We have our snipers on the lookout, but nothing so far.”

  Jace glanced up at the roof of the closest building, where both snipers and spotters swept the area with binoculars. A drop of cold sweat shivered down his spine.

  “It’s not coming this way. We have it heading into one of the housing complexes. Don’t stand down, obviously. We could be wrong. There could be two trucks. I’m going after it.”

  He made it to his BMW in ten seconds flat and dove inside, foot already jammed to the pedal.

  Where was Heather?

  He pressed her speed dial again, finding himself holding his breath and praying. “Come on. Pick up pick up pick up.”

  “Jace?”

  The male voice threw Jace for half a second. “Trevor? Where’s Heather?”

  “Driving. We found a gas truck, a small fuel oil tanker. It’s heading southwest, toward the housing areas. Not toward the parade grounds. Do you copy?”

  “Copy that,” Jace replied automatically, but his heart sank. In retrospect, it made perfect sense. Knowing virtually every law enforcement officer would be protecting access to the president, the terrorists had, instead, chosen a soft target. Civilians. Aa’idah had even said as much. “Families and children,” he said, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “We assumed that meant the ­people up at the parade grounds today. Visitors, families, Azakistanis and Americans alike, doing the whole carnival thing. We were looking in the wrong place.”

  Trevor made a noise that might have been agreement. “I don’t know what the second chemical is. A blast powerful enough could send a plume of poisonous gas across the base. The parade grounds are only a ­couple of miles away . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “There it is!” Heather said in the background.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” said Trevor. “I know what they’re planning.”

  Chapter Thirty-­Nine

  TREVOR’S CELL PHONE BUZZED. In reaching for it, he fumbled Heather’s phone, which dropped to the floor and went dark. He leaned over carefully, mindful of his broken ribs and wrist, and plucked it from the floor mat. His own phone, damaged when the truck rammed his car, buzzed again. He pressed a few buttons, but the phone didn’t respond. Finally, he just dropped it into the cup holder next to Heather’s.

  The noise stopped, then started again.

  “It’s Shelby,” she told him. “Answer it.”

  “I think the truck ran over my phone. Let it go to voice mail.”

  Instead, Heather snatched her cell from his good hand and punched the number in one-­handed.
“Trevor. We’re chasing down what is most probably a bomb on wheels, completely unarmed, heading into ground zero of a biochemical explosion designed to kill hundreds of ­people. Talk to the woman.” She hit the speakerphone button and handed it to him. When he simply glowered at her, she motioned for him to speak.

  “Erm. Shelby?”

  “Trevor? Whose phone . . . oh, never mind.”

  He opened his mouth, but before he could get more than a syllable out, she spoke over him. “I have an update you need to hear. Jay Spicer pressed a few contacts. I guess Heather and Christina convinced him the Kongra-­Gel had a Plan B?”

  They’d convinced the CIA station chief? That was news to her.

  “Anyway, the conservative party leader’s chief of staff? He used to be the chief of police in Tiqt. He gave Sa’id al-­Jabr his job.”

  Heather thumped her palm against the steering wheel. “I knew there had to be something. Did he tie al-­Jabr to the Kongra-­Gel?”

  “Heather? Hi. No, but he’s convinced there is one. He’ll find it. He’s very good at what he does. You asked the wrong questions, apparently, and alarm bells started ringing.”

  Heather and Trevor exchanged glances. She was unsurprised, but hearing it confirmed relaxed something inside her. “Anything else?”

  “That’s not enough?” Paper rustled. “The meeting in Tehran I mentioned at the briefing, Trevor? Between Najm al-­Najib’s chief of staff and Iranian fundamentalists? It was to arrange Iranian funds and weapons to support recruiting and training of antigovernment troops. We can’t confirm al-­Najib’s involvement at all, though. He’s either covering his tracks really well, or he really doesn’t know what his chief of staff is doing.”

  “How does that tie in to an attack against the American president?” Trevor asked.

  Shelby hesitated, as though unwilling to impart bad news. Finally, she said, “If he can embarrass or discredit the prime minister, he can push for a vote of no confidence and force early elections.”

  Heather furrowed her brow. “Okay. Let’s talk this through. We’ve been so focused on the president’s visit and the families around him, we didn’t stop to consider an attack only on civilians. Away from the celebrations going on at the parade grounds. So what’s the big picture here?”