Flashpoint

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Yes, sir.” Tess went through the door he was holding for her, and headed swiftly for the house.

  Sophia was gone.

  Of course she was gone.

  Decker hadn’t really expected her to still be here, waiting for him to change his mind and return and drag her to Padsha Bashir’s palace, where she’d be hideously tortured and executed.

  She’d taken everything. Her bedding, her clothes, her small supply of food. The extra burka and robe he’d brought back to her from the factory.

  The pair of handguns he’d left, unloaded, outside the bathroom door were gone, too, along with the two neat little stacks of bullets that he’d set on the floor beside them.

  The only thing she’d left behind was the five-dollar bill he’d tossed at her after he’d . . .

  Decker went to the sink and splashed water onto his face.

  Of course she didn’t take the money. She would have no way to exchange it for local bills. And using U.S. dollars in the marketplace would get her looked at, hard, by the shop owners. They might even notice she had blue eyes, guess that she was the woman everyone was looking for, and call the police, eager for a chance at that enormous reward.

  Fifty thousand dollars might not seem like a lot by American standards, but here in K-stan, it could set you up for life.

  Decker picked up the money from the floor and headed back into the lobby and down the stairs.

  He shouldn’t have left her.

  What had he honestly thought—after she’d tried to fucking kill him? That she wasn’t telling the truth about Bashir?

  But no, he’d been too freaked out to think it through, too pissed off at her—and himself—to realize . . .

  Decker had to sit down right there on the stairs. He had to put his head between his knees and force himself to take slow, deep breaths.

  Sophia would have done anything to stay alive. And she had, hadn’t she? And he’d let her, telling himself that it was her choice.

  But it wasn’t. She’d thought she had no choice.

  And that made it tantamount to rape—what Decker had done with her. To her. And he’d double damned himself by leaving her there.

  Terrified. Crying. Humiliated.

  He was supposed to be one of the good guys. He was supposed to be a hero, fighting on the side of justice.

  He should’ve walked away after she’d first told him about Bashir. He should’ve given her money—money she could use—with no strings attached. He should’ve told her to meet him tomorrow or even later tonight. His walking away might’ve proven to her that she could trust him. And he would’ve had time to get back to camp and find out if she, in turn, was really who she’d said she was.

  Instead he’d fucked this up.

  Completely.

  There was no way on earth he was going to find Sophia Ghaffari again. Not with Padsha Bashir looking for her. Not a chance.

  Decker stood and pushed his way out into the sunlight, relocking the basement door behind him.

  He went up the steps and down the alley, out into the crowded marketplace.

  He’d followed Sophia through a similar marketplace by wearing the burka she’d left behind when she’d ditched him at the factory. Earlier, he had watched her steal another, watched her climb back out of the window of a rundown apartment building, that nearly transparent dress hidden by this new robe, her face hidden once more by a heavy veil.

  People, most of them burka-clad women, too, began leaving their houses as the curfew was lifted, and Decker had pretended to come out of a nearby doorway.

  Dressed as he was, his face hidden by a veil, he’d crossed right in front of Sophia. He’d gotten close enough to bump into her, to mark her shoulder and back with a streak of gray dust from the road.

  And marked like that, with the added bonus of his own disguise, it had been ridiculously easy to follow her, even through the crowd.

  As Decker stood now and gazed out at the busy market, he saw a veiled figure, dust streaking her robe, standing near a table filled with fruits and vegetables.

  Talk about wishful thinking.

  It couldn’t possibly be Sophia.

  Could it?

  As he watched, a small hand reached out and pulled an entire melon up into the robe’s sleeve. It was artfully done. Poetic, even.

  But it couldn’t be her. She was miles from here. Had to be. Yet hope sparked in his chest, expanding quickly, as hope was wont to do. After mere seconds he could feel it even in the tips of his fingers. The melon thief was the right height and as close to the right build as he could tell, considering she was dressed in a figure-concealing robe.

  The shopkeeper didn’t notice the theft. No one noticed. No one but Decker.

  Sophia—he was actually daring to think it might be her—moved off. Slowly. Just another shopper who didn’t find what she wanted.

  Heart damn near pounding out of his chest, Decker followed. Finding one woman in a city of over a million people couldn’t possibly be this easy. But, Jesus, he wanted to find her. He needed to . . . what? Apologize?

  Sorry about the unnecessary blow job. . . .

  The melon thief moved slowly down the aisle of stands and carts, hampered by the crowd. Keeping his eye on that pale streak of dirt, Decker raced to catch up.

  He didn’t bother to keep his approach covert. She was hampered by her robe and veil—and he knew he could outrun her if she bolted.

  He saw the exact instant that she turned and saw him bearing down on her like a heat-seeking missile, because she picked up her skirts and fled.

  She was faster than she’d been last night. Faster, and less lucky—as she ducked into an alley he knew was a dead end.

  She was smarter than that—smart enough not to leave the safety of the crowd, smart enough not to let him get her alone.

  Unless, of course, she was carrying those handguns and wanted the privacy she’d need to blow him away.

  Decker stopped at the entrance to the alley, keeping behind the cover provided by a jarringly modern-looking Dumpster.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he called out in English, even though the hope had already faded, even though he knew it wasn’t Sophia he’d followed. Still, he had to see for himself.

  There was nothing, no response. Only the strangest sound. Heavy breathing. Snuffling and . . .

  “If you fire your weapon,” he called, “the police from the market will be here so quickly, you won’t have time to get away.”

  Again, only that oddly familiar noise. Sniffing and gasping and . . . Was she crying?

  “I just want to talk to you,” Decker said. “I’m coming back there. . . .”

  He stepped out from behind the Dumpster, knowing he made a very clear target, silhouetted against the brightness of the morning sky.

  If she rushed him, shooting as she came, she could conceivably escape before the police arrived.

  And yet there he went. Right down the middle of that alley.

  But even before he saw her huddled in the corner, crouched down on the ground, he recognized what he was hearing—why it sounded so familiar.

  This was the same sound his dog—Em’s dog now—had made when he ate.

  Ranger dove headfirst into his bowl, eating with a gusto that seemed part joie de vivre, part frantic starvation, and part fear that this meal might be his last. It didn’t matter what time Deck fed the damn dog, he always wolfed it down in record time, chomping and slurping and gasping.

  Just the way the melon thief was devouring the entire melon she’d stolen from the marketplace—seeds and rind and all.

  Decker realized instantly that she was destroying the evidence. The theory being that if there was no melon, then she couldn’t have stolen it.

  He realized a fraction of a second later—as the last of his hopes were dashed—that not only wasn’t she Sophia, but she also wasn’t even a woman.

  “She” was a boy. Barely a teenager, he’d taken off the veil to have better access to that melon.
He was skinny, with dark hair and pale skin—as if he didn’t often get out into the sun.

  He was also missing his right hand. He’d been marked—most cruelly, and some years ago, from the look of it—as a thief.

  “I thought you were someone else,” Decker told the kid, using the local dialect, hoping to alleviate his fear. “It’s okay—I’m not going to turn you in.”

  The boy’s entire burka was a mess, with streaks of dirt and dust and melon down the front of it.

  Deck backed out of the alley, glad that Nash hadn’t come with him. If he were here, Khalid would no doubt have a new assistant.

  Decker went back to the marketplace, knowing what he’d known even before he’d left Rivka’s barn.

  That he wasn’t going to find Sophia Ghaffari unless she wanted to be found.

  And she didn’t want to be found.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  “Where is he?” Tess leaned close to ask, and Jimmy saw that she was perspiring beneath the scarf she was required to wear—at least in this part of town—whenever she stepped outside of the house.

  The temperature was already two million degrees, and the sun was still climbing into the sky. They stood in Rivka’s yard and sweated as they watched young Khalid harness his horse to his wagon.

  Jimmy was grateful for his cargo shorts and short-sleeved shirt—the back of which was already soaked. Tess must’ve been dying.

  “Other side of the neighbor’s wall,” he told her now, his back carefully to that wall in question. “Across the street and east. Don’t look.”

  She gave him an exasperated roll of her eyes. “I wasn’t going to.”

  “You know, if you don’t want to do this—”

  Tess cut him off. “I do.”

  He was the one having serious doubts. “I’m not so sure—,” he started.

  She stepped even closer. “I am. I can do this.”

  To someone, like, for instance, Boston Globe reporter Will Schroeder, who might’ve been watching them, like, for instance, from behind the neighbor’s stone wall where he was too far away to hear their hushed voices, it would look very much as if Tess were gazing up at Jimmy with eyes that were filled with affection and concern.

  Of course, her concern was only that Jimmy was going to change his mind and make her stay behind.

  “This isn’t hard,” she said, “or dangerous.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” he countered. “Because there’s not a moment that passes here in K-stan that isn’t dangerous.”

  “I meant, it’s not more dangerous than staying behind while you go off and play James Bond.” She winced. “Sorry—that came out wrong. I know that this isn’t any kind of a game.”

  Damn straight it wasn’t. “Decker isn’t going to like the idea of your being alone out there,” he told her. It was easier to say Decker instead of I. I don’t like the idea of you alone out there. Damn it, this was a mistake, sending her out so that Schroeder would follow her instead of Jimmy. If something happened to her . . .

  But Schroeder was a persistent prick. Jimmy could shake him—no doubt about that. But it would take effort. And then Schroeder would wonder why Jimmy had gone to such effort to shake him. He’d lurk in the neighbors’ yards night and day and night in hopes of finding out.

  “I won’t be alone,” Tess assured him. “I’ll be with Khalid.”

  “Whom we don’t really know,” Jimmy countered.

  “Who thinks you’re God’s nicer brother,” Tess told him. “He’s so completely ready to worship at the altar of Nash. You own him. Totally. I don’t know all of what you said to him—”

  Jimmy shrugged. “I just offered him this job.”

  “You’re really great with kids, you know.”

  Okay. Now he was starting to get embarrassed. “It’s not that big a deal. It’s not that hard to do. You listen when they talk. Most kids spend their entire lives being ignored or used as punching bags. Conversation can be a real pattern interrupt.”

  Tess wasn’t so willing to shrug it off. “Khalid told me you cleared it with Rivka—that he can keep his horse and wagon here for as long as he needs to. Do you have any idea what that means to him?”

  Yeah, actually he did. “His own barn is a pile of stones.” Jimmy kept his voice even. “As long as Rivka doesn’t mind . . .”

  It wouldn’t take a lot of effort to make sure that Khalid continued to treat him like a hero. And more important, he was going to treat Tess like a hero’s wife.

  Khalid, like Rivka and Guldana, thought Tess really was Jimmy’s wife. And how weird was that?

  “He adores you,” Tess said, smiling up at him. “If I wasn’t afraid you’d take it the wrong way, I’d tell you I do, too. You’re the very nicest jerk I know.”

  Jimmy laughed. “Yeah, and you’re too forgiving.”

  “You want me to stay mad at you?” she asked. “That could cause real problems, considering we’re sharing a bedroom.”

  But not a bed.

  Jimmy cleared his throat. “Well, it’s one thing to forgive, but . . .”

  “I think it’s useful,” she said. “My not completely hating your guts. I mean, communication could be a hassle.”

  “You don’t just not hate me, Tess, you actually like me,” he said, and it wasn’t until the words were out of his mouth that he realized they sounded like an accusation.

  Tess adjusted her head scarf. “I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. I’ll try harder to hate you. Does it help that I think you’re relationship challenged and a socially pathetic loser?”

  Jimmy laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “It does. Thanks.”

  She smiled back at him. “Good.” She stood on her toes to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Have a nice day, dear. I’ll make sure Khalid brings me back by curfew.”

  He caught her arm. “Yeah, whoa, he better have you back way before that.” Jimmy had told the kid to find the nearest work party and to get Mrs. Nash signed on to help doing something relatively safe. Like handing out aid packages. He’d told Khalid to stay away—far away—from the Grande Hotel. “I need you back here, this afternoon at the latest, finding out everything there is to find out about Sophia Ghaffari.”

  Because, Sainted Mary, Mother of God, what was up with this Sophia woman and Decker? Jimmy had never seen his partner so completely rattled.

  And by a recently escaped palace concubine? A woman Decker had been with for at least part of last night? A significantly lengthy part of last night. Deck had returned to Rivka’s well after the sun was up.

  Add into the bizarre equation the fact that said recently escaped palace concubine had very nearly managed to kill Decker. Which meant that, at some point, Deck’s guard had been down.

  Or at least lowered.

  And didn’t that make Jimmy’s imagination run wild.

  Except for the fact that this was Decker. Put him alone in a room with a palace concubine, and Deck would probably end up helping her do her taxes.

  Across the yard, the horse sneezed and shook its head, making the bridle jingle. Jimmy looked up to find Tess watching him. He was still holding on to her arm. Too tightly.

  He let her go.

  “You all right?” she asked softly.

  “I’m worried about Deck.” Okay. His honesty surprised her almost as much as it did him. “Killing me when he finds out I let you go out with only Khalid,” he added.

  And she so didn’t buy it. But being Tess, she played along. “It’s not like we have a choice. Besides, we’ll probably both be back long before Decker is.”

  Over by the wagon, Khalid gave Jimmy a thumbs-up—horse, boy, and wagon were all almost ready to go. To take Tess out of the safety of this yard and into the city.

  Shit.

  “If you’re stopped by a patrol of any kind, either official police or one of Bashir’s goon squads, let Khalid do the talking,” Jimmy told Tess. “And if you’re in doubt, keep your head covered.”

  She was smilin
g at him. “No eye contact, even if I’m directly addressed. Especially if I’m directly addressed. It’s not always easy to tell Bashir’s men apart from the police, although depending on the precinct, the police might be even more difficult to deal with than Bashir’s squads of murderers, so don’t let my guard down. When I come back to the house, don’t forget to check that that piece of rope is hanging on both the gate and by the door. If it’s not, don’t go in the house, don’t slow down, just walk on past. Check inside that old shed down the street for messages. You know, if you talk really fast, James, you may have time to tell me all this for a third or even a fourth time before the wagon clears the gate.”

  Shit. “Sorry, I’m just . . .”

  Tess touched his hand. Her fingers were actually cool. In this heat. How did she manage that? “I’ll be careful.”

  “Yeah, I know you will.”

  She squeezed his hand. “You be careful, too.”

  While Tess distracted Will Schroeder, Jimmy was going to walk the perimeter of the newly modified target area around the hospital.

  The information from Sayid’s autopsy report had made him significantly revise his estimate of how far the terrorist leader might have been able to walk after being injured in the quake.

  And he had been able to walk.

  His ribs, his shoulder, and his right arm had been badly broken, but the damage to his legs was minimal.

  He’d had a head injury, but cause of death was internal injuries.

  Tom Paoletti had reported that Sayid’s hospital files listed him as conscious but extremely confused at check-in. He was unable even to ID himself, yet he’d told the triage medic that he’d walked there. That medic had probably assumed anyone ambulatory to that degree could wait to see a doctor. He’d blown it big-time by sticking Sayid into a makeshift bed in the lobby without checking his blood pressure—which by then was probably dropping fast.

  According to hospital records, Sayid had bled to death within a matter of hours.

  With his injuries, he simply could not have made it to the hospital under his own steam from more than a few very short kilometers away. And that was assuming he had a giant S on his T-shirt.