The Protector

by Marliss Melton

  Suddenly she wasn’t mad at him, anymore. Instead, she was terrified of the grim picture he’d just painted. Ike was right. She was pathetically helpless. Without him around to protect her, she was a walking target for her father’s enemies. Dear Lord.

  Hearing Ike’s muttered curse, she realized her eyes were welling with tears.

  He grimaced and started reaching for her.

  “Don’t.” She put out a hand, denying herself the comfort she craved more than anything. She wasn’t here to be comforted. She was here to learn from Ike, to pick up anything and everything she could, to fight for her future. That was why her father had picked him, of all people, to be her protector.

  She pushed to her feet. “Teach me something else,” she demanded, gesturing for him to rise.

  Ike searched her face with uncertainty. “I think you broke my ribs,” he stalled.

  “You’re full of it.” It would take more than a kick from a girl to slow him down. “Come on, Ike. It’s like you said: people want me dead. Let’s not make it easy for them. Are you going to teach me or not?”

  The crooked smile that stripped years off his craggy face made her heart flutter.

  “Now you sound like your father,” he remarked, rolling to his feet.

  Hmmm. She would rather Ike saw her as a woman than a former-Marine mentor, but there would be time for that later. Right now she was going to try to learn everything he could teach her.

  **

  Mustafa slipped into the side entrance of his father’s two-story colonial with an uneasy knot in the pit of his stomach. The kitchen was deserted. The house, which was always stirring with tenants coming and going, seemed vaguely threatening. Given the events over on Brandywine Street, it wasn’t any wonder Mustafa felt perturbed.

  Advised by agents about the mix-up with the pizza boy, he had immediately called Vengeance to warn him that the address he’d provided was, in fact, a trap. Allah willing, the extremists would still consider him an ally. Trust was a fragile thing among murderers and thieves.

  As he climbed the rear stairwell to his room, he called to his father, surprised when no one answered. Even the two tenants renting rooms appeared to be out. The silence made his footfalls sound louder, made his scalp tighten.

  Unlocking his bedroom door, he pushed it cautiously open. It groaned inward into a darkened room.

  Hadn’t he parted the drapes that morning?

  He flicked the light switch, but the lamp across the room did not come on. With a steadying breath, Mustafa plunged into the darkness. The door slammed abruptly shut behind him. He whirled to see the shadow of a stranger locking the door.

  A flashlight flared, catching his startled face in its glare. “Who are you?” he demanded, flinching from the bright invasion, his heart racing.

  “You know who I am,” said a gentle voice, in strange-sounding English.

  He recognized the voice as belonging to the Afghani teacher who’d addressed the Brotherhood several months ago, at Imam Nasser’s invitation. “What do you want?”

  “Your traitorous head on a stake,” came the ominous reply.

  Mustafa, whose heart stopped on a down-stroke, rushed to appease him. “You don’t understand. I only share what my sister can glean from her husband. I have nothing to hide.” Slipping his hand into his pocket, he blindly punched in the password to unlock his Blackberry, then speed-dialed the number the FBI had given him in case of emergencies.

  The light wavered as the stranger stepped nearer, causing Mustafa to snatch his hand from his pocket. It would take the agents several minutes to arrive. In the meantime, if he could get to his pistol…

  He headed for the bedside table where he kept it.

  “You work for the FBI,” the man accused, pursuing him.

  “No.” Mustafa denied it, bumping into a bookcase in the dark and becoming disoriented. Had his room been rearranged? “My sister’s husband is a clerk on the counterterrorist squad,” he insisted.

  His words prompted a disbelieving laugh. “You are an abomination to Islam. I have read your notes with the transcriptions of the online chat.”

  Mustafa bumped into the couch where his bed was supposed to be. Allah have mercy. Where was his pistol?

  “Looking for this?” Something metallic glinted in the Teacher’s hand.

  Mustafa bolted in a sudden panic toward the door, only to crash into a table and spill onto the Kurdish carpet with a yelp of fear.

  The stranger straddled him to keep him pinned. He seized Mustafa’s thick hair and yanked his head back. The sound of a switchblade ringing free froze Mustafa’s blood, as did the feel of its razor edge against his Adam’s apple.

  “Tell me where to find the Commander’s daughter,” the Teacher demanded.

  Mustafa considered fabricating an answer. Would it save his life? Probably not. “I really don’t know,” he admitted, his heart sinking. At least he would die defending true Islam.

  In the next instant Mustafa felt a sharp intrusion, heard the cartilage in his throat split. He screamed, only to feel a geyser of blood spray his chin, its coppery odor overpowering. Light shimmered briefly in the darkness. And then...nothing.

  Farshad wiped his blade clean on the back of the dead man’s shoulders and stood up. Over the burble of blood seeping from his victim came the sound of tires squealing on pavement.

  Snapping the switch blade shut, he crossed to the window in time to see a dark-colored Buick jerk to a stop in Mustafa’s driveway. It expelled two men, who raced toward separate entrances.

  Surprised, Farshad glanced back at the dead man. Had he summoned help, somehow? He could hear the new arrivals throwing their shoulders against locked doors downstairs. It wouldn’t take them long to gain entry.

  Quelling his panic, Farshad wrenched open the window, stuck one leg outside, then the other, and sat for a moment on the sill, looking down. It was a straight drop to the hedge.

  Behind and below came the sound of doors crashing open, feet thundering up the stairs.

  Praying his middle-aged body would survive the fall, Farshad jumped.

  He hit a mature holly bush, feet first, palms down. It slowed his descent, even as dozens of stiff, thorny leaves pierced his clothing and broke his skin. Over his grunt of pain, he heard a shout of alarm above him.

  Wrenching free, Farshad staggered across the dimly lit lawn into the shadows. As he glanced back, the drapes at Mustafa’s window parted, and a man stuck his head through the opening.

  Farshad fled into the night.

  Had he been reckless in confronting the informant? Perhaps he should have sent Shahbaz to do the deed. But Shahbaz was neither stealthy nor bright enough to have wheedled his way inside. He could not have silenced an old man and a tenant with lethal efficiency, nor discovered Mustafa’s transcriptions of the extremists’ rhetoric in the online chat.

  Only he, Farshad, could have accomplished such feats, proof that Allah protected him, still.

  As for the whereabouts of the Commander’s daughter, Allah would have to reveal that secret as well, and soon, for the FBI was casting their nets everywhere trying to identify him.

  In the meantime, he would leave Shahbaz a letter, warning him that the FBI special agents were bound to pick him up for questioning. He was to tell them nothing about the way they communicated.

  Fortunately, Shahbaz still could not identify Farshad if his life depended on it.

  Chapter Eleven

  The fog that blanketed the cabin cast an ethereal light on Eryn’s sleeping face, making her look like an angel. No one would look at her and know that she packed a wallop when she kicked. He had bruises all over his body to prove it.

  When she finally retired to her room last night, it had taken all of Ike’s willpower not to offer her his bed. To his relief, she’d marched up the stairs without asking. He’d heard the springs on her mattress creak briefly, then all went still and silent. For a change, she had slept like the dead.

  Given how hard she’d work
ed that day, he regretted having to rouse her now, just hours into a full night’s sleep. But he couldn’t risk leaving her sleeping and alone.

  “Eryn.” He gave her shoulder a gentle shake.

  She lurched awake, grabbing him hard with both hands, her eyes wide open.

  “It’s just me,” he said, impressed with her reflexes.

  “Ike.” She fell limply against her pillow and blinked up at him. “Are you wearing a cap?”

  “Yes.” It was a ski mask, actually, but he’d rolled it up so that it looked like a cap. “I need you to wake up.”

  “We’re training now?” she moaned, casting a glance at the fog-shrouded window. “What time is it?”

  “Zero-one-hundred hours. We’re not training.” He didn’t want to tell her what they were doing yet. “Just get dressed and come downstairs.” He stood up, ignoring her shocked silence. “Keep the lights off and dress warm,” he added. Marshalling the willpower to avoid looking back, he trotted down the stairs.

  Eryn wriggled into a pair of jeans, donned one of the sweaters she’d bought at Dollar General, but she couldn’t find a second sock in the dark. Giving up, she pushed her bare feet into her Skechers and crept downstairs. She spied Ike standing by the armchair.

  A thick fog at the window illumined his all-black attire: black sweater, black jeans. With the cap covering his silver hair, he looked younger and more dangerous than ever.

  Foreboding twisted her insides. “What’s going on?”

  “Intruders,” he said calmly. “I need to see who they are.”

  I, not we. She locked her knees as fear threaded through her body. “You’re going to leave me here?”

  “I’m going to put you somewhere safe. Winston will keep you company.”

  Mystified, she allowed him to lead her to the bathroom, where he shut the door, pulled the blind, and snapped on a pen light.

  This is safe? She watched in confusion as he rounded the bathtub, shone the light on the whitewashed paneling behind it, and ran his fingers over the grooves.

  With a snick, the paneling pulled away, and cold air spilled into the room. A dark, musty-smelling maw now stood where the wall used to be.

  “The cellar,” he explained, pointing a shaft of blue light down the stairwell. “You’ll be safe down here.”

  Eryn eyed the sharply descending steps in astonishment. She had bathed and showered in this tub and never once suspected there were stairs behind it.

  “I don’t like dark spaces,” she informed him.

  “You’ll be fine.” He pulled her, resisting, toward the opening. “I won’t be gone long. There’s a cot and a blanket. You can sleep.”

  “Who could sleep down there?”

  Ignoring her protests, he herded her down the steps with Winston right behind them.

  Eryn’s foreboding rose as she touched down on an earthen floor. “Please.” She clung to his arm. “I can help you, Ike. I’m not helpless anymore.”

  He pried her hand loose. “Here, I’ll leave you a light.” Striking a match, he held it to a lantern that was hanging from the ceiling.

  The brightening wick drove back the shadows, revealing a cellar packed with military paraphernalia. Eryn looked around in astonishment. Ghillie suits hung like shag carpets on the far wall. Firearms of every shape and size had been mounted on the other three. Half-opened boxes showed stores of artillery, ammunition, and battle dress uniforms underfoot. Winston sniffed at them cautiously.

  “If you hear anyone upstairs, douse this flame,” Ike instructed, recapturing her attention. “The light bleeds through the floorboards. If Winston makes a sound, tell him ‘Quiet.’ You can also make him ‘Sic,’ but that’s not going to happen.”

  “Who would I sic him on?” Ike’s precautions, like all these weapons, seemed excessive. The last two times he’d suspected interference, nothing had happened.

  “That’s what I’m going to find out,” he said, telling her nothing.

  She felt his hand on her head one minute; the next, he was up the stairs, shutting her in.

  The panel closed with a click. Floorboards creaked overhead, then all was silent save for the sound of Winston padding about, sniffing boxes.

  Eryn shivered. Eying the uncomfortable looking cot, she crossed the room to sit on the coarse blanket and to think.

  Ike was grim and tense again. Oh, God, was it possible he suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? He’d certainly seen enough of combat to have picked it up.

  Her gaze touched wonderingly on the fearsome collection in front of her. Poor man, did he need all these weapons just to make him feel safe?

  But then she noticed four boxes labeled by size. Those were for his survival and security course. Maybe all of these weapons were for his course.

  In that case, Ike wasn’t paranoid. That was the good part. The bad part was there probably were intruders on his property! Who could it be? The FBI? Terrorists?

  Disturbed, Eryn called her dog over. As he sidled up to the cot, she threw her arms around him, petting him distractedly.

  Winston rumbled his pleasure. He liked for her to remove his collar now and then and give his neck a good scratching. With nothing else to do, Eryn obliged him, fumbling with the catch on his collar. Puzzled, she leaned closer.

  Wait, this wasn’t Winston’s collar. It was the same color, same material, but the buckle plate was different.

  Figuring out how to release it, she took off the collar and studied it in the flickering light. When and where had Winston gotten a new collar?

  The answer hit her with a corresponding outbreak of goose bumps: At the safe house when she’d been too drugged to notice the difference. But there’d been nothing wrong with the old collar. Why would Winston need a new one?

  And then it hit her.

  With a gasp, she dropped the collar on the cot and jumped to her feet, backing away from it.

  Metal or plastic-coated, Ike had said when he’d searched for the transceiver. My God, then the FBI had been stalking them, using the collar, all along!

  Maybe Ike already knew that. Maybe that was the secret he’d been keeping from her.

  She gave a half-hysterical laugh. Hey, at least he wasn’t crazy.

  Concealed by a stunted cypress and the ghostly fog, Ike watched two federal agents through the eye holes in his ski mask, as they wended their way along his southern-most boundary. Unlike last night, they’d crossed his property line at one point—intentionally or by mistake?

  He hadn’t been content to study the images on his laptop. He’d wanted to know what the hell they were up to, and that entailed getting close enough to listen to their conversation.

  But by the time he reached their location, up where his property abutted the Shenandoah National Forest, there were only two men, not three. The wet mist muted the beams of their flashlights as they picked their way along the rocks.

  Straining to hear their conversation, Ike searched for the third agent’s heat signature through his rifle’s scope. He’d feel a whole lot better knowing where that man was. Perhaps he’d returned to their vehicle, which they would have parked on Skyline Drive, the only road within miles of Ike’s southern boundary.

  “You sure this will work?” the curly-haired agent asked his partner.

  “I’m not sure of anything,” retorted the other man. “Just keep quiet and keep your eyes peeled.”

  Peeled for what? Ike wondered, thoroughly unsettled. An answer occurred to him at once. For him, of course. They had activated his alarm tonight in order to draw him out while...oh, fuck, while the third man went to the cabin to look for Eryn.

  Aw, hell, he’d heard something in the forest earlier, which he’d convinced himself was a bear or a deer. After all, the agents hadn’t done anything last night but reconnoiter. But that was just to lull him into a false sense of security. Tonight they were going for recovery.

  Scuttling from his hiding place, Ike accidentally kicked a pebble loose. As it clattered down the slope, the
agents pivoted, swinging their lights in his direction.

  “Freeze! FBI! Get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

  Like hell, thought Ike, who was fairly sure they couldn’t see him. He continued his descent, moving on all fours to keep his balance.

  A bullet whizzed over his ski mask, fired from a 9mm pistol that shattered the quiet. Now that was a lucky shot. Ike’s temper flared. He considered returning fire to teach the agents a lesson: No one but an idiot fired at a Navy SEAL sniper. But they were no doubt hoping to goad him, so they’d have something to charge him if they ever managed to catch him.