The 3rd Cycle of the Betrayed Series Collection: Extremely Controversial Historical Thrillers (Betrayed Series Boxed set)

by Carolyn McCray

  But why even think about it? Rebecca would never approve. She was in baby central right now with three young infants needing her constant attention. He couldn’t even begin to think about gallivanting all over the world with her stuck at home with their children.

  Thank goodness his knee had kept him from having that awkward conversation.

  * * *

  Rebecca was just trying to take a few minutes to have a bath and read the latest archeology journal. You know, the one where Bunny had not one, but two articles.

  Some days…

  Then a shrill high-pitched scream came from the play room. Not two minutes before, the twins had been sleeping in their cribs. And yes, they had cribs in the play room because if you tried to take the twins out of the playroom during the day and into their bedroom, forget about it. Their screams would get dogs to bark for miles.

  So Brandt had set up cribs in the playroom. Usually, once they went down, the twins were down for at least an hour, but apparently, from the cries from the playroom, they were wide-awake.

  Rebecca rose from the soothing hot water and tossed a towel over herself, not bothering to dry off. She was hoping to resolve this screaming match quickly and quietly.

  Last she’d seen her, Kasa was reading her “Princesses with Power” pop up book. That usually got Rebecca at least ten minutes of me time.

  Yet again, the screaming told her otherwise.

  Rebecca rushed in to find Kasa on the floor, holding her ankle next to Jimmy’s crib.

  “Kasa?” Rebecca stated halfway between sympathetic and half way to scolding.

  She pretty much knew what her intrepid daughter had done.

  Kasa had tried to power her way up the crib. They had moved the cribs into the middle of the room to avoid this, but Kasa just wouldn’t give it up.

  Long eyelashes soaked in tears, Kasa looked up at her, “I’m sorry, Momma,” Rebecca’s two and a half year old daughter muttered. “But I’ve got to get practice for when I go in-country.”

  Okay, first of all Rebecca had a hard time staying mad at Kasa for any length of time and certainly not for doing exactly what her father preached… practice, practice, practice.

  Yes, their daughter was hell bent on becoming the youngest person to get accepted into the Special Forces.

  They really shouldn’t be surprised. It was practically baked into her DNA. Her father was SF, her mother was a paleo-archeologist who had seen more combat than most enlisted personnel. And Kasa was named after perhaps the sweetest, yet strongest girl Rebecca had ever known, Vakasa.

  “I know sweetie, but you’re only supposed to practice with Mommy or Daddy watching you.”

  Kasa rubbed her ankle. “Well you guys aren’t always going to be around when I’m on missions, now are you?”

  Rebecca rubbed her little toe-headed girl’s hair. Said with a toddler’s lisp it was all the funnier, but she really shouldn’t reward her for breaking the rules.

  “No Princesses of Power for the next half an hour.”

  Kasa’s eyes widened to nearly black. “No…”

  Rebecca shrugged as she grabbed the beaten up copy of the book on the floor.

  “Next time make better choices.”

  Kasa pouted, but Rebecca didn’t back down.

  If this little girl thought she was going to be getting into the Special Forces, she’d better learn about following a direct order.

  The girl brightened as she stood up and her ankle didn’t bother her. “When is Uncle Ricky coming back to visit?”

  Rebecca shrugged. “I don’t know, baby.” Maybe this could be one of those teachable moments everyone was so fond of talking about. Rebecca usually didn’t pay much heed to teaching advice. She wasn’t looking to be a tiger mom or helicopter mom. She knew each family was different. And Lord knows she didn’t need to push Kasa, the girl was already on fire to be just like her Daddy.

  “You know how it is out in the field. That’s the downside to being operational,” Rebecca explained, pretty sure that she had the only toddler who understood what operational meant. “You don’t get to come home much. Let alone visit friends.”

  Kasa solemnly nodded. “That’s the price we pay.”

  Rebecca noticed that her daughter said “we” as if she was already a part of that exclusive club. Rebecca had to shake her head. The girl was determined, that was for sure.

  “Can I trust you to play quietly while I finish my bath? No more gymnastics?”

  Rebecca looked over to the twins. Now that their sister wasn’t crying they had lain back down.

  Kasa nodded again. “Can we call Daddy, first?”

  Rebecca tilted her head. “So that he can tell you that you can read Princesses of Power?”

  Kasa frowned, looking down.

  While Brandt and Rebecca tried to stay on the same page parenting-wise, Kasa did have her husband wrapped around her little finger.

  He didn’t mean to be a sucker, he just was. It was nearly impossible for him to say “no” to his little girl. Especially when she turned on the charm, batting those long eyelashes at him, staring up with those blue eyes, her hands clenched in prayer?

  Who had a chance against that?

  Seriously?

  “Once I’m out of the bath, we’ll call, okay?”

  Kasa saluted Rebecca. “Okay!”

  What a strange little family they were raising.

  CHAPTER 2

  Brandt felt his phone vibrate on his hip. It didn’t buzz, but he knew it was a call from Rebecca. Normally he would take it in a heartbeat, but now wasn’t exactly the time to answer it.

  He glanced down at his watch. It was eleven thirty-eight, so it was probably Kasa calling to try and talk him into doing something she shouldn’t be doing anyway.

  Focusing back at the problem at hand, Brandt felt pretty good regarding the position he’d taken up. It was near enough to the Sunni force that anyone on the other side of the room would think it was the Sunni shooting at the Shiite.

  Now to get this party started.

  Brandt aimed, a low angle shot just at hip height toward the Shite.

  Once the bullet dinged a piece of metal, the Shiite responded by firing in force which forced the Sunni to fire back.

  Brandt just sat back and watched the melee unfold.

  Emboldened, or simply desperate, the Sunni tried to make a stand to protect their bomb factory, but the Shiite weren’t slouching.

  Very soon this deadly standoff ended as most standoffs did... Most of the men were dead on the ground. Only one Sunni and one Shite remained standing. Or more accurately, they were crouching behind cover.

  One was practically beneath Brandt.

  Brandt slung his rifle and ever so quietly climbed down. If done correctly, he could get behind the man, choke hold him unconscious, take care of the Shia and have one of the Sunni to interrogate later.

  Ah, but like all good plans, something always went sideways.

  The door burst open and the rest of his team advanced, firing in a spray pattern. Both the surviving Shia and Sunni went down.

  “Stop!” Brandt cried but it was too late. Way too late.

  Brandt hung his head. Bull.

  “Sarge?” Lellum called out.

  “Here,” Brandt grunted, climbing down from his perch. “I had it under control.”

  “How were we supposed to know that?” Bull retorted.

  “You have to trust me, Bull. I would have broken radio silence if I needed help.”

  Neither Lellum nor the rest of the crew would look him in the eye. At the least they had the decency to be contrite. Bull, on the other hand, stood there defiant, his chin stuck out like he wanted someone to clock him on it.

  Normally Brandt would be more than happy to oblige, however in his new position that could get him arrested.

  Stupid bureaucracy.

  If anyone in the history of law enforcement needed a right hook to the nose, it was Bull.

  Before he could contemplate B
ull’s broken nose any further, Lellum said, “Sarge, over here.”

  Brandt went over and found a bunch of papers all written in a language he didn’t recognize along with a map of San Francisco with a big red circle around one area of the city.

  His blood chilled as he realized that this bomb-making group had a target already planned out. And that circle encompassed a lot of possible buildings.

  So Brand went to his go-to source. Rebecca.

  He only had to hit one button. She was his #1 speed dial.

  “Sorry, hon,” She started out. “We just had a mild Princesses of Power crisis.”

  “No worries,” he said, snapping picture after picture of the papers lying around. “I’m sending you pics. What language is this?”

  * * *

  Rebecca had to shift from Mommy-brain to paleo-archeologist brain in two seconds flat.

  Her eyes scanned the odd letters and punctuation. This was weird, even for her.

  “Babe, time sensitive,” Brandt said over the phone.

  “My guess? Ancient Moroccan Arabic,” Rebecca reported hoping like hell that she was correct.

  “Can you translate it?” Brandt asked.

  “If you could give me a couple of days, maybe,” Rebecca responded.

  “Don’t have that kind of time,” Brandt stated. “I think they have already put a suicide bomber into play.”

  Rebecca’s phone dinged with another text picture. This was of a map with a large red circle around the buildings.

  Brandt continued. “I mean, the Jewish consulate is in that circle, but that feels a little on-the-nose for someone writing in ancient Moroccan Arabic.”

  “True, true,” Rebecca muttered. “Give me a second.”

  Her mind flipped through the buildings in the area to figure out the one that these Sunni bombers were the most angered at. It couldn’t just be about religion. The Moroccan dialect spoke to a personal connection.

  “Is today Friday?” Rebecca asked. But she knew the answer to that. “Grimm” was on tonight, so it was Friday. “You’ve got to get to 499 Ferril Street.”

  “Why?” her husband asked.

  “Do you really want me to explain it?” Rebecca shot back.

  “No, no,” Brandt said.

  She could tell he was about to hang up. “Don’t forget the strawberry banana Go-Gurts! Not strawberry mango!”

  Then a click on the line. He better get Kasa’s favorite treat or there would be hell to pay come bedtime.

  * * *

  “Are you sure?” Lellum said. “That building can only hold a few hundred people at most.”

  He wished his transport man would step on the gas and forget the questioning.

  “I’m sure,” Brandt stated. Rebecca was sure. So that made him sure.

  As they turned down Ferril Street, it became apparent that his wife was right. Not that he needed visual confirmation.

  But here it was anyway. The street was blocked off for some sort of parade celebration. From the banners it was a Moroccan Jewish festival. There were thousands of people in the streets.

  Damn if Rebecca wasn’t spot on.

  Lellum parked the car as his men piled out.

  “Fan out,” Brandt said. “Look for the bomber near highly trafficked areas.”

  He could try to evacuate the area, but with this many people? More would die in the stampede than a bomb. Plus it could give the bomber the opportunity to flee with the throng.

  As he walked up and down amongst the revelers, Brandt pulled out his phone and dialed Rebecca. “Anything?”

  “Right, because I’ve been sitting around translating ancient Moroccan Arabic, rather than doing the laundry….”

  “Well, you have, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” Rebecca snorted. “They seem to be after an Abbou Jihf. He is from the old country and his family is rumored to be responsible for the death of Mustah Ben Raissi Bouchaid.”

  “I don’t know who that is,” Brandt admitted.

  “A pro-French Moroccan politician.”

  “Who was assassinated recently?” Brandt asked and he’d missed that?

  Rebecca gave a sad chuckle. “No, honey, in 1955.”

  “What?”

  “Sweetie, fundamentalists can hold grudges for millennia, a few decades is nothing.”

  “Great,” Brandt said in the most ironic way possible. “Can you send me a pic of this Jihf guy?”

  “Done,” Rebecca stated as a wail pierced the line. “Someone’s up from their nap.”

  Then the line went dead. No great surprise.

  His boys had sets of lungs on them.

  Passing the picture on, Brandt looked at the man’s features.

  He had long grey hair, normally held back in a ponytail. A prominent brow and square jaw. Even though the man was obviously in his seventies, he had a vigor about him.

  Brandt went up one of the many stoops in the area to survey the crowd from above.

  Then a loud cheer broke out and Brandt focused his attention on the source.

  Jifh walked out of one of the buildings, waving to the crowd.

  The attack would be soon, as one of Jifh’s assistants place a microphone in front of him.

  Not caring about his knee, Brandt jumped down from the stoop and ran along the edge of the crowd, until he could break left and shove his way to the landing.

  He put his hand on the back of Jihf’s hand, bending him over as he backed the man into the building. If they could take away the epicenter of the bombing, maybe, just maybe they could stop the bombing itself.

  “What is going on?” an assistant asked as Brandt threw himself backwards into the door, dragging Jifh with him.

  “There’s a bomber out there,” Brandt stated.

  The man’s dark skin went nearly white as he turned. Brandt grabbed him by his elbow. “Don’t. Stay here, spread the rumor I arrested him.”

  “But… but a bomb…”

  “Which we don’t want going off,” Brandt replied. “Now get Jifh out of here while I go catch the guy.”

  Brandt didn’t wait for an answer. He opened the door and walked out onto the steps, waving for the crowd to quiet down. “Mr. Jifh has been temporarily taken into custody over visa issues.”

  While Brandt was lying through his teeth, his gaze swept over the crowd. While everyone was angry, there was one young man, dressed in traditional Moroccan garb that seemed really pissed. And for a man dressed in a red flowing embroidered overcoat, why was he carrying a black backpack?

  Brandt gave a loud whistle, twirled his finger in the air and pointed the man out. All of his team turned and headed toward the man.

  Then Brandt saw it. The red detonator in the man’s hand.

  Brandt didn’t panic or even allow a frown to cross his face. He just said to the crowd. “So sorry to break up your festival, but you don’t have the proper permits. Please disband in an orderly fashion.”

  The crowd seemed determined to not move at all.

  Brandt watched the man’s shoulder, forget about his hand. All action came from the core. The suicide bomber’s shoulder was quiet, for now.

  Could Brandt pull his weapon and shoot before the man hit the detonator?

  He didn’t know, but was about to find out.

  Brandt shooed at the crowd. “Nothing to see here.”

  Finally the revelers broke and began melting into the alleys, breaking up the clog. Only their man moved against the crowd, uphill. In the opposite direction of the parking garage.

  Brandt followed, as did his team until the bomber ducked into a building and disappeared from sight.

  Now that he didn’t have to play it cool, Brandt broke into a run, uphill, and not a twinge from his knee. All that physical therapy was paying off.

  His team met him at the door.

  Thankfully, if the bomb did explode it would be more structural damage than mass casualties.

  Then he looked at the sign on the door. A daycare facility was on the
third floor.

  “Bull, Lellum, get your butts up there and evacuate them.”

  “But--” Bull protested.

  There was challenging authority and then there was stupid.

  Children’s lives were on the line. He didn’t have time to argue. “Now!” he barked.

  That got Bull’s feet moving with Lellum right behind him, leaving Brandt with his three other men.

  They charged in the door to find the hallway empty.

  Brandt led his men in. The elevator was on the move. From the first floor it looked like to the second. And stopped. Thank God.

  There was no waiting on the elevator. Brandt turned and went up the steps Bull and Lellum had taken. They were old and steep. His quads complained after the first floor, but Brandt pushed through, testing his knee to see if it could keep up.

  It did.

  They burst through the second floor door to find the bomber standing in the middle of the hall. His thumb hovering over the red detonator button. They must have been right under the daycare.

  This was something his Special Forces training had taught him. How to talk down a suicide bomber.

  Brandt lowered his weapon and spread his arms wide, setting the gun down on the ground. “What’s your name?”

  The man’s frown hardened into a line.

  On a hunch, Brandt pulled his phone out, showing the man he meant no harm and dialed it.

  “You better have those Go-Gurts,” Rebecca stated.

  “Honey,” Brandt said in an abnormally high pitched voice. “I have the man we were looking for here. Maybe you can talk to him.”

  * * *

  Rebecca took in a deep breath.

  Dear God, Brandt was asking her to talk to the suicide bomber. He must have had a reason.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m Rebecca Monroe.” As much as she loved Brandt she’d kept her maiden name, at least professionally. And here she was being a professional.

  God, she wished she could see what was going on. But she had to plunge in. “You are here because of Jifh, right?” she said in Arabic. Modern Arabic. She didn’t think she could make any sense in the ancient dialect.