Cait was like a bull at a gate when she was riled: pigheaded, obstinate and totally focused, and now that she had clarity as to who the perpetrator was, this was one crime she had no intention of letting slip by. Her vision led to a clarity of direction she hadn’t experienced since her lover Rishi had been murdered by those bikie scum when she had to overcome the supernatural power of the metaphysical cobra that was pursuing her.
Tariq would rue the day that he crossed her. Cait was a woman scorned, he’d invaded the sanctity of her family, and he was going to pay.
So Cait decided then and there that she’d meet O’Donnell. Now all she had to do was convince him to trust her and her intuition.
O’Donnell wasn’t aware of Cait’s intentions. Instead he had a plan of his own—he had to convince her to help him. He needed Cait as his person on the ground to somehow gain Aziz’s trust in the hope of then guiding him to Tariq. It was the only positive and tangible link he had to the terrorist.
But as far as O’Donnell was concerned there were obvious limitations that went with Cait’s recruitment—she was emotionally fragile and questionably not a strong-willed person, although she had shown some positive signs in this regard when they first met. But not enough to convince him . . . yet.
In fact, he felt given the pressure Cait was under that she could easily turn on a dime and blow her cover, especially if she started on the blame game with Aziz and Tariq. Plus she was just a young girl traveling with her parents and to his knowledge had no experience in field operations, so involving her as his conduit, even at a high level, was potentially fraught with danger.
O’Donnell knew from past experience that if Cait did accept his request, he’d have to keep her under strict surveillance, as well as attempting to locate Tariq at the same time. Last year an innocent undercover field operative in Istanbul whom he’d recruited to help him monitor the cross-border traffic of ISIS fighters from Syria into Turkey was discovered by the enemy. The bastards hung him by his wrists, naked, and tortured him for hours—days, in fact—progressively skinning him alive, inch by inch from his ankles to his torso, until a bullet to the head finally ended his pain and suffering, and it still played heavily on his mind.
O’Donnell had naively recruited the operative, who seemed the perfect person to infiltrate the enemy ranks, but as it turned out had no idea how to conduct himself in the field, and he screwed up big-time.
And the operative was tortured to death for his well-meaning innocence.
The Istanbul assignment occurred just after O’Donnell had received his secondment from the SAS to the AFP. After killing the young child in that fateful ambush in Afghanistan, O’Donnell had become moody and maudlin and was rapidly turning into a person to stay away from. In the field, Ice started taking excessive, almost gung-ho risks. His field buddy, Bravo Three, had noticed a change for the worse in his partner, and had even spoken to the shrinks at base camp about him. In Bravo Three’s eyes his partner had developed a death wish, plus he was now subject to violent mood swings.
Bravo Three had seen it before, and out of concern for his partner, reported him. As much as he didn’t want to see his partnership break up, Bravo Three was convinced that Ice was suffering from battle fever and needed time out away from the killing and death to get his head straight again.
Then it happened one day when he was winding down after another mission out to the desert: the final nail in O’Donnell’s coffin.
O’Donnell totally misheard a conversation in the Snake Pit—a.k.a. the Sergeants’ Mess—and thought that the Regimental Sergeant Major had called him less than human for killing the young boy.
So Ice committed the unforgivable.
He took a swipe at the RSM—a.k.a. God—when they were in the Snake Pit, hitting him hard on the jaw, loosening a few teeth and knocking him to the ground.
And that was it. O’Donnell’s fate was sealed. No one, but no one, ever crossed the RSM. He was the most powerful person in the regiment, and he ruled with an iron fist.
The CO called O’Donnell in to his office and immediately suspended him from active duty.
“Ice, we go back a long way, so I’m talking to you more as a friend than your CO. Sorry mate, but you need a time-out,” said O’Donnell’s commanding officer.
“You know it, don’t you? You haven’t been yourself lately. And you need help,” continued the CO. “So I’ve spoken to the camp psychologist, and as of now you’re suspended from active duty. You’ll be flown back to Australia tomorrow.”
Silence.
O’Donnell’s world just came tumbling down around him. He could have been tortured to death and he wouldn’t succumb, but what he was hearing from the CO was worse than death. It was like a personal Armageddon.
“Ice, we really respect you and the sacrifices you’ve made for your country. Just rest assured, there’ll be no recriminations. Your service record will remain clean. I made sure of that. You’re just going on extended leave.”
What his CO neglected to tell O’Donnell was that he knew Ice well enough to be aware that he still needed an involvement, so he had pulled a few strings and arranged for a secondment for Ice to use his SAS skills and work as a field agent for the AFP.
But somewhere away from the front line.
And now today, nearly twelve months later, O’Donnell’s past was coming back to haunt him. His operative’s grisly death in Istanbul was yet another body to sit side by side in his head with the killing of the young child. It was like Afghanistan all over again. The demons of the combined deaths pursued him on a nightly basis, every time he closed his eyes in an attempt to leave the conscious world and fall to sleep.
In fact, in Istanbul, if it wouldn’t have been for his six years of SAS training and time as a frontline sniper, he would have no doubt been killed when the shit hit the fan and bullets starting flying through the air. Then in the same clash, his last field operative was captured by ISIS terrorists.
And unfortunately, much to O’Donnell’s distress, once again he survived; his operative didn’t, just like the dead child.
To complicate matters even further, this time round in Sicily there was only one of him on the ground, so he had no backup, and at this early stage it was way too early to involve the Italian authorities. O’Donnell was now just an AFP field agent on an ASIO job and he wasn’t on the front line anymore, with an autonomy to make instant life-and-death decisions.
When push came to shove, O’Donnell knew that his authority was strictly limited to surveillance only. No physical contact allowed, no guns, no arrests. That had been part of the deal that his CO had negotiated for him.
He had to stay out of direct action . . . and no killing.
Part of the agreement that the brass at ASIO had negotiated with the Italian police was that when the time was right, all information regarding any terrorist activity was to be passed over to the Carabinieri and the Servizio Informazioni Speciali, and they would conduct any required raids and make the arrests. All the accolades would be claimed by the Italian authorities and O’Donnell would simply slip away as a journeyman, a ghost who touched the earth but left no record of his existence.
“So Cait, thanks for coming here and meeting up again,” said O’Donnell. He was sitting in the same seat at the same table as yesterday, hoping and praying that Cait would turn up.
“I know I said it before, but I really appreciate it.”
Cait sat down, her gaze traveling over to the area where the exploded car should have been, but all signs of the blast thirty-six hours ago had been meticulously eradicated. The area was back to tourist heaven again, the only telltale sign of the prior mayhem being the charred edge of the piazza where the car had blown up and burst into flames. She subconsciously searched for the lingering presence of Dec’s aura where he lay injured, but the paving was pristine, a strangely shiny contrast to the dirtier, worn paving that lay adjacent to it.
“Yeah, hi Tony . . . again,” said Cait, sensing his relief t
hat she had shown up. “We’ve got forty-five minutes before I have to leave to see Dec. That okay?”
Cait tilted her head forward and peered at O’Donnell over the top of her sunglasses, noticing his previously stressed appearance fading as she spoke.
He’s actually pleased to see me, she realized, and the thought sent an unexpected spark through her body.
O’Donnell subconsciously massaged the large ugly scar on his left side that to him was his calling card from Afghanistan. He embraced the scar’s jagged edges; it was his constant reminder of the innocent child he’d killed. He wore the wound like a tattoo that was etched into his skin.
“Sure, Cait. Same as yesterday? Coffee and a pastry?”
“That’d be nice. But can I have a Mattonella di Cioccolato con Fichi this time, please? The layering of figs, chocolate and pistachios is to die for.”
“You’re talking my language. I’ll order two,” said O’Donnell, catching the waiter’s eye.
“I ran an Interpol and Europol search on Tariq and cross-referenced it to the name Mohammed that we already had on file and guess what?” continued O’Donnell, his voice raising a few octaves in excitement as he talked. “We got a match.”
For the first time in a week, he could see the case moving forward.
“So far we’d only been searching for the name Mohammed. Well, now with your help by disclosing that he’s actually called Tariq, we discovered that he hasn’t only got an Interpol Red Notice against his name, but we’ve now been able to pin a whole lot more activity on him.”
O’Donnell paused for air, taking a sip of water from his drink bottle.
“Cait, Tariq’s a terrorist and he’s bad news. Extremely dangerous. It appears he’s been active for at least ten years. He’s one of those radicals who needs to be put behind bars and the key thrown away.”
I wish I’d had the bastard in my crosshairs when I was in Afghanistan. The thought ran through Ice’s head like a bullet out of his assault rifle.
The coffee and pastries arrived. O’Donnell paused to take a sip of his espresso and try the chocolate-based pastry that Cait had recommended.
“Mmm, delicious,” he muttered through a mouth full of chocolate and figs, then continued.
“But somehow Tariq keeps escaping and disappearing off the radar. It’s as if someone’s protecting him. Then he crops up again in some other part of the world to blow something else up and goes straight to ground. We keep losing track of him . . . until now, that is.”
Do I tell him that I already know this? Cait pondered.
She’d already been inside Tariq’s head and rummaged through his gray matter, and last night she’d felt his presence in her latest vision, so she had a good heads-up on what he was about.
“Tony, I need to tell you something. But let me get to the end before you comment, promise?”
“Sounds ominous, but yeah, sure. Shoot.”
With a flick of her head and a comb through her blonde hair with her fingers, Cait cheekily moved a few remaining wispy remnants off her face.
Damn it, you’re flirting with me, thought O’Donnell.
As if she needed sustenance to divulge what she intended saying, Cait fortified herself with a sip of coffee and the last corner of her pastry.
“Oh, what the fuck. I’ll get straight to the point,” said Cait in her usual up-front manner when she put her serious hat on. “There’s no other way I can tell you. I’m psychic. I saw all this and more in a vision last night. I even have a heads-up on where Tariq is at present. The exact location’s a bit hazy, but he’s close by, I can tell you that for sure. Somewhere around here. He’s so close he could even be looking at us right now.”
O’Donnell was dumbfounded. He instinctively turned and scanned the piazza through soldier’s eyes, but saw nothing unusual. This was just so out of left field that he turned back and faced Cait, mesmerized, the expression on his face telling it all. She’d seen it before—people’s reactions to her disclosure that she lived in two worlds, two dimensions. It was usually a look of total disbelief, either, I’ll have some of whatever you’re on, ‘coz it’s gotta be good, or come on, get real and stop bullshitting me.
Until she proved them wrong of course, then their tune changed, and she more often than not ended up with them as disciples.
“Ah, Cait, I deal in the here and now. I realize that you’ve had a huge shock . . .”
“Tony, just shut the fuck up and let me finish. I’m deadly serious.”
O’Donnell looked at Cait, stunned by her bluntness and locker-room talk. Her reaction and demeanor were so far away from what he had expected that he suddenly thought he needed to take a step back and reassess. Maybe she wasn’t the blonde, ineffectual person he initially thought she was. This girl had balls. She’d just cut through the crap and gone straight for the jugular.
I like her, he realized for the second time.
“So Tariq’s around here somewhere. I can feel his presence. Don’t ask me how I know—you simply wouldn’t understand. And I’m talking local. He’s in a small room with other people who are protecting him. And you thought Tariq was bad! These guys couldn’t give a flying fuck about anyone bar themselves. They’re part of some group or sect. I don’t know what it is, but their vibes are dangerous. And they’re armed.”
Cait stopped to let the revelation of what she had just divulged sink in. She’d read O’Donnell to a tee, and he had a depth to him that was frightening. She could feel an undercurrent of aggression that was simmering just below the surface. Outwardly he was kind and caring, yes, but he was also dangerous and lethal.
Yes, you’ve killed, haven’t you, Cait realized in a blinding flash of the obvious.
But she knew she could control him. Just.
O’Donnell would be headstrong and difficult, but useful. Taking in his physical alpha male presence, his muscled six-foot-four frame and his strong face, she thought that she could certainly partner up with worse. And now that she had sworn to make amends for Dec’s injuries, she would need O’Donnell’s machismo onside to enable her to see this through.
“Cait, I’ll ride with it for now, okay? The issue at hand right now is Aziz, and he seems to trust you. Would you be prepared to keep up contact with him? He must know where his brother’s holed up, especially if he’s around here somewhere, as you just told me he is.”
“Tony, I intend on seeing this bastard Tariq brought to justice,” said Cait, deciding that it was time for her to give O’Donnell a peek inside her true self.
“You have no idea how determined I can be. He chose the wrong person to cross. I’ve destroyed better people than him in the past.”
O’Donnell couldn’t believe the Jekyll and Hyde person he had in front of him. Cait had morphed from what he previously thought was a fragile, worried young girl into a hard-nosed warrior—a force to be reckoned with. He was having trouble reconciling what he was hearing.
“So yes, I’ll be your conduit to Aziz, but on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That you treat me as an equal and not as a mushroom.”
“What, fed on bullshit and kept in the dark?” replied O’Donnell with newfound respect.
“Exactly.”
O’Donnell held out his hand across the table. Cait grasped it firmly, her small hand almost totally enveloped by O’Donnell’s strong grip.
“You’re on, Cait Lennox. Now let’s work out the details.”
And the deal was done. O’Donnell now had a new field operative. But this time he was determined to protect his charge, and with his life if it came to that.
But from the glimpses of Cait’s true self I’ve just witnessed, maybe it’s Tariq who needs the protection, he mused to himself.
There’s just something about this girl that doesn’t fit the mold.
If only he could see it; Cait had the same dangerous and gritty personality as him. They were both assassins. It was just that so far Cait’s hit count was a single figure
—one—when she’d taken out her kidnapper, Boss-man, after he fucked with her life last year.
“Hi Aziz. You got time for a chat?”
Cait was sitting at what was turning out to be her usual table in Piazza del Duomo and Aziz had just entered the piazza from the northern end. He’d stopped at the charred ground where the car bomb had gone off and slowly walked around the area, pausing to pick something up from the ground, then walked across the open space of the piazza. Cait had caught his eye and waved.
O’Donnell had already given Cait a heads-up that Aziz was on his way. He’d spied him walking toward the piazza and rushed ahead, given her a prearranged hand signal that they had previously worked out between them, then merged into the morning crowd invading the piazza.
Aziz smiled and moved over to Cait’s table. She was a nice lady.
“Miss Cait. Hello. Are you good?”
“Yes Aziz, given the events of the past few days I’m okay. And you?” Cait smiled warmly at Aziz, trying to keep him onside and talking.
“I’m fine, Miss Cait.” Aziz was shifting from foot to foot. He wasn’t fine, actually. Cait could tell.
“How is your brother?” Aziz said.
Cait wondered how Aziz knew about her brother. She’d never mentioned anything to him about Dec being injured.
“Thanks for asking. He’s still in intensive care, but at least he’s stable.” Cait looked directly at Aziz, boring into him, trying to read his thoughts without being too obvious.
Aziz knows something! But he’s worried. Concerned. There’s something he wants to say. Cait sensed Aziz was having a battle in his head between good and bad; obligation and a need to know.
“Tariq’s not here today?”
“No, Miss Cait. He no come back to Cara di Mineo for a few days now.”
“Oh, still? That’s no good. Is he all right? Do you know where he is?” Cait was probing.
“He okay. Tariq sometimes do that. Just not come back for a day, a week, a month. But he always returns. Maybe tomorrow?”
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 62