by Gail Barrett
Nadine stared at her brother, at a loss for words. What was so important about this reception that he’d risk his wife’s health?
“And, Nadira?”
“What?” she asked, still incredulous.
He held up a two-way radio. “If you try to contact anyone, or if you leave Leila’s side even for a second—your CIA friend will pay the price.”
Her blood went cold. Her head felt suddenly light. He’d just admitted that Rasheed was his prisoner. He knew who he really was.
And now Sultan would be keeping his eye on her, making sure she didn’t sneak off to rescue him. And if she disobeyed his order, if she slipped away during the reception to try to find him, Rasheed would die.
Sucking in a reedy breath, she struggled to form a plan, but any hope she had of rescuing Rasheed skittered away. For his safety, she had to stay at the reception. She couldn’t risk causing him any harm. But what if Sultan was toying with her? What if he intended to kill Rasheed regardless of what she did? Was it better to take the chance?
Her brother gave the guards a signal. They hustled Leila and her through the walkway connecting the wings. Feeling dazed, she glanced through the windows at the guests milling around outside, oblivious to the danger playing out before their eyes.
She followed Leila through a metal detector at the entrance to the ballroom. A stern-faced guard searched her purse. A bomb-sniffing dog checked her over while she stood there woodenly, too worried about Rasheed to make a peep.
Why had he come? Why couldn’t he have waited a day before taking such a terrible risk? Sick with worry, she trailed Leila into the lavish ballroom and took her place in the receiving line.
Chandeliers glittered overhead. A string quartet played in the background, its muted strains sounding far away. Waiters slipped through the gathering crowd, serving champagne and gourmet hors d’oeuvres.
She ignored it all, her mind in a total uproar, stray thoughts circling like an endless carousel. The island. The surgery. The terrorists. Leila’s mysterious file. She knew she was missing something. Something important. Something to do with Sultan’s roommate, the engineer who might have built a bomb.
“Biomedical engineering!” The thought sliced at her out of nowhere, the clue she’d been trying to recall.
Standing next to her, Leila gave her a funny look. “What?”
“Biomedical engineering. That’s what Sultan’s roommate studied.”
“Yes, that’s right. He interned in a hospital for a while.”
And biomedical engineers designed things— imaging equipment, replacement joints, prostheses. Surgical implants.
Oh, good God. Horror congealed inside her as everything began to fall in place. Maybe that’s what he was doing on the island—delivering Leila’s implants. Sultan had brought the package to the clinic that night.
And if he was a bomb maker...could the implants contain a bomb? A bomb that she installed?
Nausea roiled inside her. She clamped her hand to her mouth, the absolute horror of it making her want to retch. But she knew that it was possible. Drug cartels and prisoners had smuggled contraband via body cavities for years. And terrorists had tried to implant bombs before; they’d done it in Saudi Arabia not long ago. That plot had failed. They’d had problems with the detonation, a design flaw they’d needed to fix.
But Kamil was smart. He’d graduated at the top of his class, then done his grad work at M.I.T. And if he’d perfected the design...
She shuddered, convinced now that she was right. It explained Sultan’s insistence that Leila have surgery. It explained why they’d done it on the island, where they could escape scrutiny from the U.S. authorities. It even explained Leila’s infection. The explosive material inside the casings could be leaking out.
The plan was diabolical, yet brilliant. The bomb-sniffing dogs would never detect them. The scanner would have picked them up, but they wouldn’t have raised any concerns. Half the women in attendance probably sported implants of various sorts—breasts, buttocks, cheeks. Even the vice president had supposedly undergone surgery to enhance his chin. All her brother would need was a detonating device, probably a cell phone he could depress as soon as the target approached.
And they’d be dead.
Her hands began to shake. Her head whirled as unsuspecting guests greeted her warmly, then continued by. The target was probably the vice president. He was the most important dignitary here.
But why would her brother do it? It was too obvious. The reception was at his house. Why would he risk taking the blame?
He wouldn’t have to. She gasped as the final clue slid into place. Leila’s forged documents. They were making her look like a rogue agent, a suicide bomber working on behalf of Iran. No one outside the family knew her. No one knew how ludicrous that idea was. They’d only see that she came from Iran, that her marriage to Sultan was an unhappy one, and assume she wanted revenge.
And the forged documents would back up that claim. Knowing her father, he’d probably even hired someone who looked like Leila to make the trip. Witnesses in Iran would identify Leila as the one they’d seen, lending the story even more credibility.
The attack would be cataclysmic. The vice president would die. Her father and brother would play the shocked allies, horrified that someone they were close to had masterminded such an evil plan. The blame would shift to Iran, an enemy of both Jaziirastan and the United States.
The U.S. government would have to retaliate. They couldn’t let a brazen assassination go unpunished, especially one of this magnitude. They’d probably bomb Iran, Jaziirastan’s ancient enemy, sparking a war in the Middle East.
Jaziirastan had a lot to gain. As a U.S. ally, they’d receive money and arms to assist the fight, bolstering their power in the Middle East. And with the vice president dead, Jaziirastan’s closest political ally, Senator Riggs, would run for president—increasing their influence even more.
Horrified, she stared at Leila, the awful irony sinking in. She’d fled home to become a doctor. She’d risked her life repeatedly, going through years of hell to attain her dream. And then she’d dedicated her life to healing others, to helping battered women regain their dignity.
Now her family had used those very skills, turning them against her to carry out their warped plans.
No wonder Sultan had manipulated her into performing the surgery. How amused he must have been when she implanted the bomb. She would even cause her own death, avenging their honor! She’d played right into his twisted hands.
Shocked beyond reason, she closed her eyes. She was going to cause Leila’s death. She was going to assassinate the vice president. She would spark a conflagration that could turn into World War Three.
No. She had to stop this. No matter what the obstacles, no matter how impossible the chance for victory now seemed, she could not let these evil men win. She snapped her gaze to the ballroom entrance. She caught Sultan watching her, a sick half smile on his handsome face.
If she bolted now, Rasheed would die. If she waited, Sultan would detonate the bomb.
And for the first time in her life, she couldn’t see a clear way out.
Chapter 14
Rasheed had always prided himself on his patience. He’d spent years working his way through the Rising Light’s training camps. He’d spent years forging the right connections and earning the terrorists’ trust. And he’d spent more years than he could remember sifting painstakingly through bank documents, tenaciously piecing together their financial network so he could destroy the bloodthirsty group. He’d persevered with cold calculation, tamping back his raging need for vengeance, biding his time as he worked single-mindedly toward the greater goal.
But now that patience was shot. Knowing Nadine was being held captive somewhere in the compound had done away with his self-control.
He closed his eyes and inhaled, reminding himself for the hundredth time that he had to wait. Then he trained his gaze on the guard yawning in his armchair near the pool house door. Sitting idly by while she was in danger was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But this wasn’t just a battle, it was a war. Giving away his hand too quickly would destroy any chance he had of getting her out alive.
He grimaced, the slight motion making his swollen eye throb. The endless hours he’d spent curbing his frustration had taught him one thing. He was no longer dead inside. Ever since he’d met Nadine, the emotions he’d thought he’d buried with Sarah’s death had come blazing back to life full force. She’d opened the lid and let them out, resurrecting needs and feelings he could no longer ignore.
He felt emotions, all right—fury, frustration. And fear. The gut-wrenching terror that he’d arrived too late to save her life.
Voices arose just outside the pool house. His pulse began to thud, but the voices faded away. The guard slumped lower in his seat, his head lolling forward, his eyes drooping closed. But then he jerked them open and pulled himself upright in an effort to stay awake.
Rasheed inhaled through his teeth. The reception was in full swing now. His chance to mount a rescue was nearly gone. While he sat huddled on the pool house floor, waiting for the damned guard to fall asleep, Nadine’s time was running out.
At least the long hours he’d spent twiddling his thumbs had done one good thing—they’d given him time to figure out where he’d gone wrong. He never should have let Amir live. He’d humiliated and enraged him, increasing his desire for revenge. To retaliate, Amir had undoubtedly gone to their leader, Manzoor, and reported his suspicions about him. And Manzoor wasn’t dumb. Already paranoid, and with a vital mission to carry off, he wouldn’t want to take a chance of having a traitor in their midst.
So they’d set him up. They’d checked in to a hotel. They’d separated him from Nadine to see if he’d make a move. And they’d alerted al Kahtani, who’d been watching for him—letting him sneak inside the compound while he set his trap.
Why al Kahtani hadn’t shot him outright, he didn’t know. Maybe he intended to interrogate him later. Maybe he didn’t want to risk a gunshot with the vice president’s security detail so close. Or maybe he wanted to torture him by forcing him to watch Nadine die—just as they’d done with his wife.
But al Kahtani had made a mistake. He should have executed him while he’d had the chance. Because now he was the one who would die.
The guard’s eyes closed again. Rasheed fingered the cord binding his wrists, preparing to break it loose. He’d spent the entire day sawing away, millimeter by excruciating millimeter on the edge of the metal air vent cover on the floor. It was like wearing down a stone with water, spending hours leaning at an awkward angle, the pressure chafing his wrists into bloody pulps. But it had worked. The tiny ripple in the metal had provided the edge he needed to weaken the cord. Now one strong jerk and he’d be free.
The guard’s mouth turned slack, his breathing slowing and growing deeper. Even more alert now, Rasheed leaned forward, his gaze fastened on the dozing man. The guards had rotated throughout the day, working in pairs. This guard’s partner was posted outside.
The guard began to snore. Seizing the opportunity, Rasheed gritted his teeth, bracing himself for the jolt of pain. Then in one swift move, he snapped the weakened cord.
Ignoring his stinging wrists, he untied his feet, and removed the ropes. Then he rose and crept behind the sleeping guard. Moving quickly, he slid one arm beneath his jaw, the other behind his head in a rear naked choke hold. Then he pulled his shoulders back, applying pressure to his throat, squeezing down hard on the arteries to cut off his blood supply. Seconds later, the guard passed out.
Rasheed lowered him to the floor. He removed his radio and sidearm and stripped him of his shirt. Taking an extension cord from the nearby lamp, he secured the guard’s hands behind his back, and used a towel to gag his mouth. Finally, he dragged him behind the couch, out of sight from anyone coming through the door.
Rising, he tugged the guard’s shirt on over his own. He strapped on his pistol and pocketed the radio, making sure he turned the volume down. Then he crossed the pool house to the window, inched aside the drape and glanced out.
The second guard leaned against the pillar supporting the overhang, just a few yards from the door. Frowning, Rasheed dropped the drape and scanned the room, needing a diversion to lure him inside.
He headed to the kitchenette. A quick search of the cupboards netted him a barbecue lighter and some magazines. He chose a spot on the floor kitty-corner to the entrance, out of the guard’s direct line of sight, then set the magazines on fire. Wisps of smoke curled up, the stench from the glossy pages filling the air. Slowly, the flames began swirling higher—not exactly creating a bonfire, but generating enough smoke to draw the guard.
Satisfied, he cracked open the door. “Hey!” he called to the guard. “Come here a minute. Help me put this out.”
“What happened?” The guard ran in. Rasheed kicked the door shut behind him, then sprang forward and took him down. Hurrying, he yanked off the cord from the blinds to secure him and confiscated his gun. Finally, he stomped out the fire, coughing as the smoke dispersed.
His heart racing, he inched open the door and glanced outside. No one was in the immediate vicinity. The activity was centered on the ballroom where the vice president was scheduled to appear. He set the lock on the door and closed it, doubting it would buy much time. But every second counted now. His head high, trying to exude the impression that he belonged in the compound, he started walking toward the wing where the reception was being held.
He had no idea where they were holding Nadine prisoner. The grounds were too extensive, the mansion itself at least twenty thousand square feet in size. He’d never be able to search it by himself—not with al Kahtani’s guards on watch. They’d only capture him again if he tried.
His only option was to get inside the reception. He could alert the CIA people embedded with the vice president’s security detail and get them to mount a search. He just hoped to hell they could find her before she died.
Catching the sound of approaching voices, he slowed, then ducked into the shadows of the main building, tensing as several guards strolled up. The replacement shift? Silently swearing, knowing they could sound the alarm at any moment, he waited as they went past.
Then he raced past the central hall to the wing that held the ballroom. Sticking to the shadows, he peered through the giant windows at the people inside. They were decked out in formal clothes, laughing as they drank champagne beneath the enormous chandeliers. Somewhere out of sight, musicians played.
He couldn’t go in the main entrance. He’d never get past all those guards without detection, especially with his swollen eye.
He’d have to sneak through the back, pretending to be a guest. Summoning what little remained of his fractured patience, he settled in the shadows to wait. The wind turned cold. The lights strung around the patio swayed.
Then a side door opened, and laughter spilled out—along with a lone guest. Heavyset and wearing a tuxedo, the man walked to the edge of the patio and lit a cigarette. He stood facing the fountains, his shoulders hunched against the cold—a Washington bigwig relegated to refugee status, smoking furtively in the dark.
Rasheed was about to ruin that bigwig’s night. But he couldn’t help that now. He had to rescue Nadine.
And this man was his ticket in.
* * *
Nadine stood in the reception line beside her sister-in-law, a macabre sense of unreality gripping her nerves. Any minute now, they were going to die—Leila, the vice president, all these unsuspecting people...even Rasheed, unless she found a way to thwart the attack right now.
But she still didn’t have a plan.
The n
ewcomers kept strolling through the entrance. They joined the long line snaking toward her—women and men, diplomats and businessmen. They smiled and laughed, a myriad of languages filling the air— English, Spanish, Chinese.... Behind her, in the main part of the ballroom, people were sipping champagne and eating hors d’oeuvres as if at any normal Washington event. The quartet continued to play in the background, the sophisticated music jarring given the brutal savagery that was about to occur.
Anxiety built to a crescendo inside her. She gripped Leila’s arm with one hand to hold her up, using the other to greet the guests. Abu Jabril, her brother’s old roommate, stood across from her near the entrance, leaning against the wall, his studiously casual posture at odds with the alertness in his cold eyes. So he was going to watch his handiwork. But he was a coward, positioning himself clear of the blast.
She shifted her gaze to Sultan. He stood beside their father at the start of the receiving line, a short distance from Leila and her—which was clever. He’d effectively created two receiving lines, separated by a dozen yards. This way, he could keep her in his sights, making sure she didn’t try to rescue Rasheed. He could also guarantee that she would stay by Leila’s side until the bomb went off. And as soon as he greeted the vice president, he could quickly move away and avoid getting hurt by the bomb.
Her gaze went from her father’s cruel face to Sultan’s crafty smile, and fury edged out her fear. That they could plot something this sinister against their own family, that they could justify killing her because of some stone age code of honor disgusted her beyond belief. And worse, they intended to kill Rasheed, a man who had more honor than they would ever have.
Rasheed. Her heart stumbled hard, a torrent of emotions ripping through her chest. He was brave, honorable, heroic. And she prayed that he would survive. She closed her eyes, battling back the panic clawing at her nerves at the thought that such an amazing man could die.