Double Impact: Never Say DieNo Way Back

by Tess Gerritsen

  She surveyed the room once more as they moved through it. The overturned furniture and shattered crockery had definitely been added since she left. Papers were scattered over the floor. She didn’t remember those, either, from before. Part of the evidence, she presumed.

  As they approached the room where she’d awakened, she balked, couldn’t make her feet take the final steps. “Please, can’t we just leave,” she pleaded once more.

  Ignoring her plea, Michal turned to Thomas. “Stay with her,” he ordered.

  She watched, her heart racing, as Michal shoved the door inward and entered the room. Thomas stood a few feet away as if fearing, like Raoul, she might cost him his life, as well, if he got too close.

  The seconds turned into minutes and still she gleaned nothing from the hushed conversation in the room. Ami prayed with every ounce of strength she possessed that they hadn’t found something in the room that would contradict her story. Surely Tanner would not be so careless.

  Carlos hated her. He would like nothing better than to nail her. She could imagine him on his hands and knees going over every square inch of the place looking for clues against her. She trembled. God, how much more of this could she stand? She closed her eyes and tried to slow the drunken ’round and ’round sensation in her head. She summoned the image of her son and focused on him, pushing away all other thought. He was all that mattered.

  “Ami.”

  Her eyes opened to Michal standing in the doorway, looking directly at her. Before she could dredge up a proper response, he had taken the few steps that yawned between them.

  “I want you to come into the room and look closely at this man. Tell me if he is the one who hurt you.”

  Panic broadsided her. Man? What man? Her gaze flew to the open doorway. Carlos and three other men were crowded around someone seated in a chair. The image of the man tied to a chair in the cellar flashed through her mind. That scene had resulted in death. Not again. Who…

  Surely it wasn’t the man who’d actually inflicted her injuries. Tanner wouldn’t have left him to face certain death. Though the idea wasn’t completely without appeal, she didn’t want to be responsible for his death. Michal, without question, had murder in his eyes.

  Her mind whirling with confusion and fear, Michal ushered her into the room. Carlos and the others parted, revealing the man tied to the chair.

  For one long moment Ami was unable to speak. He was tall and thin, Libyan maybe. She peered into his dark eyes and saw the fear there.

  “This man,” Michal explained, “is the leader of a subversive group who has made more than one attempt on my life. According to witnesses, his people moved into this place shortly before we arrived. Carlos has reason to suspect they have had someone watching for our arrival.” Michal turned to her then. “Now, tell me if this is the man who hurt you and I will make him pay.”

  Dead silence fell over the room as all present awaited her response. She thought of Raoul and how he had died to provide an excuse for her stupid attempt at escaping. How could she have ever believed even for a second that she could escape this nightmare? Now this man was to die, too.

  She couldn’t do it.

  Not even to save her own life.

  She shook her head adamantly, ignoring the resulting pain. “No, it wasn’t him.”

  The pent-up breath the man exhaled echoed in the otherwise silence.

  Carlos looked ready to throttle her…or worse. Michal appeared taken aback and Ami felt certain she had just signed her own death warrant.

  “Look again…more carefully,” Michal urged. “Are you certain?”

  With no other option, Ami did as he instructed. She looked at the man and surmised from the swelling of his face and the blood leaking from his busted lip that he’d already paid a hefty price for something he hadn’t even done.

  “No,” she said firmly, determined not to be responsible for another man’s death. No matter what kind of extremist or terrorist he was, she would not be his judge and executioner. “It’s not him.”

  Michal peered deeply into her eyes for what felt like an eternity before he turned to Carlos. “Let him go.”

  “What?” Carlos bellowed. “We cannot—”

  “Release him,” Michal ordered. His attention shifted to the prisoner. “Tell your people that I am far from finished. I will not forget this transgression. Nor will I overlook another.”

  Glowering at both her and Michal, Carlos did as he was ordered, cutting the man free then jerking him to his feet. “Go!” He pushed the man toward the door.

  Ami recoiled as he staggered past her, at once relieved and fearful. He collapsed against the door frame and didn’t appear able to go farther. She’d been right. Carlos had already worked him over considerably.

  “Get him out of here,” Michal ordered, his patience at an end.

  Carlos grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to attention. “What are you waiting for, imbecile? Get out!”

  When Carlos would have shoved the prisoner through the door the man twisted, his right hand snagging Carlos’s weapon from his waistband.

  Ami’s breath left her in a whoosh and the scene lapsed into slow motion. Displaying surprising strength, the prisoner shouldered Carlos aside and leveled the barrel of the weapon on Ami. “American whore!” he screamed.

  Michal dove in front of her.

  A blast exploded in the room as Ami hit the floor hard on her backside, sending pain piercing through her.

  Another blast splintered the air.

  The prisoner dropped the gun and crumpled to the floor. He lay facing her, his sightless eyes unblinking.

  She blinked, stunned.

  People scrambled around her. Muffled voices. She couldn’t understand…couldn’t make out their words. Could hardly hear at all. She turned to see…

  Michal.

  He dropped to his knees.

  Carlos and Thomas instantly appeared on either side of him.

  Ami struggled to her feet, scarcely noticing the detonation of agony that accompanied her every move.

  She pushed her way between the men hovered around Michal.

  Bright crimson spread across the fabric of the white shirt he wore, the spot widening, plunging toward the center of his chest.

  Blood.

  He’d been shot.

  Nausea roiled in her stomach. The room spun. And then the lights went out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JACK WAITED IMPATIENTLY at a table for two on the terrace outside Café Marly. He didn’t care that the chic French restaurant sat beneath the arcades of the Louvre overlooking the majestic pyramids of steel and glass, or that tourists strolled through the courtyards with properly awed expressions. He only cared that his appointment was late.

  The waitress stopped at his table once more to see if he needed anything else, but Jack waved her off. The last thing he needed was more caffeine. Or a flirtatious waitress looking for a roll in the hay with an American businessman. Ordinarily, Jack would have considered that a good thing, but there was nothing ordinary about the situation.

  The events of the past twenty-four hours had convinced him beyond a doubt that Ami Donovan was in over her head.

  Arad had taken her for medical attention, indicating that he had accepted her story. According to Fran Woodard, who’d stayed behind to monitor the situation, Arad’s men had discovered the planted evidence.

  Jack massaged his temples, but produced no relief for the insistent throbbing there.

  Preston Fowler was already in Paris and had agreed to meet with Jack for a status briefing. Jack was pretty damned sure he wasn’t going to want to hear what he had to say.

  “We’ll have to make this quick,” Fowler said, appearing out of nowhere and snapping Jack back to the here and now. “The American ambassador moved our meeting up so I don’t have much time.” He hefted his portly frame into the delicate chair on the opposite side of the tiny table and scanned the terrace for the waitress.

&nb
sp; “Hello to you, too,” Jack rumbled.

  Fowler gestured to the waitress and indicated that he would have the same as Jack, a high-octane espresso. Then he settled his irritated gaze on his subordinate.

  “Be thankful I was able to fit you in at all,” Fowler said crossly. “My schedule is tight. I have to be back in the States by morning.” He leaned back in his chair, ignoring its creak of protest. “What is it that couldn’t wait until the regularly scheduled briefing?”

  Jack pinned him with a gaze he hoped relayed the urgency of the situation. “We have to pull her out.”

  Fowler laughed outright, oblivious to the indignant stares cast his way at the outburst. When his amusement died, a mixture of anger and impatience replaced it. “Tell me you didn’t drag me over here for this worn-out tap dance.”

  “She was almost made,” Jack said, his own temper flaring. “Arad is far too suspicious of her already.” He shook his head. “This latest setback is only going to increase the risk to her. She won’t be any use to us dead.”

  The waitress stopped at their table before Jack could say more. She served Fowler and sashayed away. Jack was forced to wait out Fowler’s preoccupation with the woman’s swaying hips before he could continue.

  “You have to let me pull her. I think—”

  “You’re thinking,” Fowler cut him off, his attention swinging back to the discussion, “with your dick instead of your brain.”

  “She won’t last—”

  “And as far as this latest close call goes, the way I hear it, she brought that heat down on herself.”

  Jack’s spine stiffened. “Who told you that?” There were only three people besides him who knew what had really gone down.

  “Patterson and I go way back,” Fowler said bluntly. “He told me about her little escape attempt.” His glare turned as hard as flint. “Didn’t you make it clear to her what she had to lose?”

  Something snapped deep inside Jack. Some boundary that had heretofore kept his emotions in check when it came to his profession. But this time was different. This time it was personal. He hadn’t saved her life two years ago just to watch her die now.

  “Let’s say we get really lucky and somehow this assignment is successful,” he said tautly. “Any of Arad’s men who survive will kill her. Even if she’s fast enough and cunning enough to get away, she won’t last twenty-four hours. Arad is too popular among his peers and those who support them. Once that world knows he’s dead and that she had something to do with it, she won’t stand a chance against the wave of vengeance that will be unleashed. She won’t be safe anywhere on the planet. Even terrorists have their loyal followings.”

  Fowler leaned forward. “Who do you think you’re talking to, Jack?” There was no mistaking the underlying fury in his tone. “I know the reaction projections just as well as you do, maybe better. It’s the only way. We haven’t been successful in our attempts to turn one of his men. She’s the best shot we’ve got. We all want him dead. What part of that don’t you understand?”

  Jack clenched his jaw and reached for calm. It wasn’t to be found. “When did we stop caring about the cost? There was a time when we didn’t sell out our own.”

  Fowler simply looked at him in that arrogant manner that was apparently prerequisite to the position of deputy director. “Think about it, Jack. Things have changed. We don’t do business with terrorists anymore. We squash them. Any way we can. In this case, she’s our ace in the hole.”

  Something about the way Fowler looked when he made that last statement or maybe the overconfident, condescending tone of his voice, brought a new kind of clarity to the situation. Realization sent dread washing over Jack.

  “You set this whole thing up,” he said, scarcely believing the words even as he uttered them.

  Fowler snorted haughtily. “A little slow on the uptake, are we, Jack?”

  Before Jack could roar with the indignation exploding in his chest, Fowler went on. “We needed Arad taken out of the picture. You had her stashed away, under the watch of that damned pricy shrink we keep on the payroll, why not use her? What do you think? That we’re in the business of baby-sitting?” Fowler huffed with self-righteous indignation. “She’s an asset. We use our assets, otherwise we dump ’em. The plan was perfect.” Fowler chuckled at his own ingenuity. “We knew Arad had a weakness for her. All we had to do was expose her in such a way that suspicion wouldn’t be aroused. The assassination attempt on one of Peres’s old friends was the perfect solution.”

  Rage erupted inside Jack. “You son of a bitch,” he hissed.

  Fowler’s expression turned lethal. “I’d watch my step if I were you, Jack. You’re already skating on thin ice. As I said, we don’t keep assets that lose their value.”

  Jack’s secure cellular line vibrated. He snatched it from his jacket pocket and answered the call before his baser instincts could take over completely. The way he saw it, he and Fowler had nothing else to discuss and killing him was against the rules. Nothing he could say or do at this point would make a difference. Ami was in too deep. Too vital to the ultimate goal.

  “Tanner.”

  “Jack, there’s been a development.”

  Fran Woodard. His heart rate kicked into overdrive. “Is she all right?” If Arad had learned the truth…

  “It’s not our girl,” Fran assured him. “It’s Arad.”

  An altogether different anticipation surging inside him, he demanded, “What happened?”

  “Carlos picked up one of the scumbags from that extremist group we framed. Apparently things got out of hand and Arad was injured.”

  Shock quaked through Jack. “Is he dead?” Relief edged into the fringes of his anticipation, renewing the hope that Ami might just survive. If Arad was dead, he could pull her out. The hesitation on the other end of the line went on for a beat too long, crushing the hope that had sprouted. “Dammit, Fran, is he dead?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted reluctantly. “They rushed him away. There was a lot of blood.”

  “Where is he now?” Jack should get back there, be close by. The flight took only—

  “They’re at the clinic—the same one he took Ami to just a few hours ago. I’ve given them an hour, but no one’s come out yet. It doesn’t look good.”

  That butcher shop scarcely met the most remote definition of a medical clinic. If Arad needed surgery or a blood transfusion, he was a goner.

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Wait.”

  His pulse pounding out his tension, Jack’s brow furrowed against the pressure as he waited for Fran to tell him what the hell was going on. He should have stayed. But when he’d learned Fowler was in Paris, he’d hoped to talk him into aborting the mission. He clenched his teeth against the rage that rose all over again when he considered what Fowler had done behind his back.

  “They’re coming out.”

  Jack stilled completely, even his heart seemed to stop beating, his nerves felt raw with frustration…with anticipation. He wanted this over. He wanted Ami safely reunited with her child and hidden away from harm.

  “Arad’s alive.”

  The two words deflated his hopes like a players strike right before baseball season. He muttered a curse.

  “He looks like hell, if that makes you feel any better,” Fran added. “They’re loading into two cars. Patterson and I’ll be right behind them.”

  The airport, Jack knew already. Arad would want to get back to his estate. The fortress he called home. The only place on the planet he felt truly safe.

  And once he was back there, Jack could do nothing but wait.

  Ami was on her own.

  MICHAL DID NOT BREATHE easy until he reached his home.

  His shoulder hurt like hell, but he would live. The most important thing was that Ami was alive and safe for the moment. He downed his whiskey, numbing the pain a bit. How long would she be safe here? How could he allow the possibility of another incident such as the one that had taken place
in Tripoli?

  He could not. It was that simple.

  She was soaking in the tub now, relaxing the soreness in her muscles where the bastard had beaten her.

  Her reluctance to identify the man who had harmed her nagged at him. Whether it was the man Carlos had killed or another of his group, Michal did not care. They were complete scum. Anti-Israeli as well as anti-American. Still, because she was so upset, he had been willing to give the man his freedom, mainly, he admitted, so that he could take Michal’s warning back to his people, and the bastard had tried to kill her.

  He poured himself another drink and downed half of it. He should have killed him and been done with it. But he had allowed emotion to get in the way. A nearly fatal mistake. His gaze tracked Carlos’s pacing. He had more to say on the subject, of that Michal was certain. But he restrained himself out of a respect that lessened each day.

  “Speak your mind, my friend,” Michal told him, his pain nicely numbed with the heat of the liquor flowing in his blood.

  Carlos pulled up short and glared at him. “You almost got yourself killed.” The muscles of his face worked with the rage simmering inside him. “Because of her. I told you.” He took two steps toward Michal’s relaxed position in a wing chair. “She betrayed you once. How can you be sure this was not an elaborate setup?”

  Michal shook his head. “You are wrong, my friend.”

  Carlos flung his arms in the air as if beseeching a higher power for guidance. “They have never before made a move so bold,” he argued. “And this story of hers as to how she escaped. I do not believe this.” He moved his head side to side for emphasis. “She would not have escaped those animals. She is too helpless for such a fearless feat.”

  That was the part that nagged at Michal the most. This Amira was far too vulnerable and terrified of his world. Still, in her desperation perhaps she had been merely lucky.