Ambush

by Barbara Nickless

  Zarif’s shrug was eloquent.

  I said, “He was the one who approached you about Malik.”

  “That is correct.”

  Hal had been one of Dougie’s closest friends. After Dougie died, it was Hal who helped me bring home his military working dog, my partner, Clyde. It was Hal who kept me upright at Dougie’s funeral and who checked in with me now and again—probably a promise he’d made to our mutual friend. Still robust at sixty, gentle, and smart, Hal was something of a distant father figure for me, offering the attention I hadn’t gotten from my own dad.

  But thinking of him this way had been a mistake. Hal worked for the CIA. And if the CIA was after Malik, then trusting him was impossible. I was furious with myself for not taking a closer look at Hal Beckett as soon as Sarge mentioned the CIA.

  Had Hal brought Malik to Zarif to keep him safe? Or to hide the boy until he was ready to use him?

  Or was there something more?

  “Do you know where Hal is now?” I asked.

  “I have heard nothing more from him. He mentioned a job. Perhaps he is out in the cold.”

  Zarif escorted me to a black Mercedes SUV. Before I got in, he blindfolded me.

  “Your duffel is in the passenger seat,” he said. “Hamid will ride in the back with you. To make sure you are comfortable.”

  “And to make sure I don’t peek.”

  “That, too.” He helped me into the vehicle and closed the door.

  I fumbled for the button to lower the window. “Zarif?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell Malik I’ll be back. When it’s safe for him.”

  “If it is safe.”

  He had that right.

  For what seemed like hours, I sat in silence with the equally silent Hamid, bracing myself first against a series of hairpin turns as we descended out of the hills, then along a string of roads that eventually led, judging by the smoothness and sudden acceleration, to a highway.

  I spent the time thinking over everything I’d learned that day. The enigma of the Iranian, Zarif. The men and weapons Malik and his uncle had brought in from Iran. I threw out theories about why a loyal American would invite enemies into Iraq, then hide their presence, but came up with nothing that made sense. I thought about the man who had helped Malik escape, then brought him to Zarif. Strider was only one fly in the ointment, but I spent a lot of mental energy on him. To Strider’s credit, Malik trusted him. Then again, by the time Strider found him, Malik would have been desperate to believe in anyone.

  Finally, I turned my thoughts to Jeremy Kane. Sarge had told me that the Alpha wasn’t interested in going after the others involved in the cover-up in Iraq—Kane and Tucker and Crowe. But Sarge wasn’t exactly a man I trusted. And maybe something had changed. As soon as I arrived home, I’d get the details of the murder and start peeling back the corners. The death would be handled by Denver Major Crimes. But no one would question my interest in the murder of a fellow transit cop. And no one but an ass would refuse my help.

  The car slowed, then accelerated. The engine revved.

  Had I started a war by coming to Mexico? Were my own hands stained with Kane’s blood?

  I pressed my palms together, almost in prayer.

  Whatever the cause, the battle had begun. And it had already cost two lives—Angelo Garcia and now Kane. Maybe others I didn’t know about.

  Six months ago, when I’d learned that the Alpha was trying to erase the past, I’d been so afraid of losing everything that I’d risked my own soul to remain silent.

  But I was done with that. No matter what it cost me—my job, my GI Bill, even my freedom if my actions in Iraq came to light and I was court-martialed as a reservist—I would see it through.

  The Alpha—whoever he was—would pay for his treason.

  Long after we left Zarif’s home, Hamid said, “You can remove the blindfold.”

  I tugged off the scarf and let it flutter to the seat. Outside, day had surrendered to night, and all around us city lights blazed against the darkness. We sped along a highway through a river of traffic.

  “We’re in Mexico City?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How much farther to the airport?”

  “Forty minutes, give or take.”

  I pulled out my phone and glanced at the time on the digital display. Cohen would be in bed, but probably not yet asleep. I typed a text.

  You in bed?

  Cohen responded immediately.

  With the fur ball

  I smiled and typed. Something I should know about?

  He smells bad

  Stop feeding him steak

  We live like kings when the queen is away

  I miss you

  Miss you too. Things OK?

  I debated, then typed, Good and bad

  Home soon?

  Tomorrow early

  Didn’t work out?

  Not sure

  What’s your flight #? Clyde and I will be at the curb.

  I’ll get a taxi

  We’ll be there. Then he typed, Love you.

  Before I could think of a response, another text popped up on my screen.

  No pressure. See you soon.

  I felt a smile on my face as I slid the phone back in my pocket.

  The driver pulled up to the curb at departures. Hamid hopped out and came around to open the door.

  “You have a few hours to wait,” he said. “My apologies that I couldn’t get you an earlier flight.”

  I grabbed my duffel and stepped out of the SUV. “It’s fine.”

  “The driver will park. I’ll stay with you until you go through security. Mr. Zarif expressed his concern that the Americans might be watching the airport.”

  I opened my mouth to say no, then thought better of it. If I wanted to live long enough to help Malik, I would be a fool to fight alone.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The Benito Juárez International Airport was bustling with crowds of tourists and businesspeople. Hamid carried credentials of some kind, because he was able to get me to the front of the ticketing line. Even so, by the time we finished and walked to security, there was a mob at the gate.

  Hamid pointed toward a restaurant. “Miguel’s. They have excellent red mole. Would you like to wait there until the line goes down?”

  I nodded. In truth, being on the other side of the security gate made me feel trapped. A leftover from my time in the Marines, when we couldn’t leave the FOB.

  Miguel’s was dark and moody, heavy on the oak and brass, more British pub than Mexican cantina. Despite the crowd at security, it was almost entirely deserted—there was only the bartender and a middle-aged couple in a back booth. My lucky night—Hamid wasn’t the chatty type, and the quiet and solitude suited my mood. We both ordered a Negra Modelo at the bar, skipped the glasses, and carried our drinks to a booth where we could keep an eye on the room.

  Hamid set his beer on the table across from mine. He sat, but when his phone buzzed, he glanced at the screen and frowned.

  “I am so sorry,” he said. “I must take this call. I’ll be right back.”

  I watched him head out the front door, then pulled up the Denver Post site on my phone, hoping to learn more about the murder. The article in the Post was longer than the story in the Times, but there wasn’t much that was new. Just some filler on Kane’s background and the fact that the police had set up a hotline and were pursuing all leads.

  Next to the article was an artist’s rendering of the suspect. Wide and angry eyes stared into mine, a wild halo of hair framing a face stretched tight with fury. The eyes were empty of everything human but rage.

  I startled when a presence loomed over the table, and a man slid into the booth next to me.

  “Don’t make a sound,” he said. “Or I’ll gut you.”

  Something sharp pricked my side, and I glanced down. The man turned his wrist enough to show me a blade.

  I stayed silent. But inwardly, I cursed
myself for my carelessness.

  Where the hell was Hamid?

  I said, “My guard just stepped out. He’ll be right back.”

  The man laughed. “Not in this lifetime.”

  My skin went cold at the implication. “What did you—?”

  “Use your imagination. Now me, I’m just here with a friendly word of warning. Relax. Take a sip of your drink.”

  I did as he said, swallowing hard as I moved my eyes enough to glance around the bar. The bartender had vanished. The couple in the booth were still ogling each other, oblivious to anything around them. A man in jeans and a hoodie staggered through the door and made his way toward the bar, clearly drunk and as oblivious as the couple. He sat down and rested his face in his arms.

  “None of these sheep will help you,” the man said. “But there’s no need to be afraid. I won’t hurt your pretty little skin, as long as you listen.”

  There was the faintest lilt of an accent—Canadian, maybe. He smelled of soap and sweat. I could just make out a knee encased in green khaki and the sleeve of a tan shirt. My gaze fastened on the hand holding the knife. The hand was large and pale and puffy with big knuckles and neatly trimmed nails. A desk jockey’s hand, I told myself. Not the hand of a killer.

  I rolled my eyes sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

  “Tut-tut,” he said with a dig of the knife. “Eyes forward.”

  I complied.

  Across the table from me, Gonzo’s ghost slid into the booth. Gonzo was a Marine buddy who’d been blown apart by an IED. I’d processed his body, and because of that he liked to show up in my life sometimes. Now he shook his head at me, apparently amazed at my ineptitude. Pretty critical for a dead guy.

  “Be smart,” he mouthed.

  “See, we think you’ve gotten a little confused,” the man beside me said. “You and us—we’re on the same side. We all want to put Iraq behind us.”

  A woman came in and approached the bar. “Hola!” she called.

  The drunkard’s head stayed down. The bartender didn’t emerge. I kept watching for Hamid.

  Beside me, the man lifted his arm—the one without the knife—and draped it over my shoulders. Another large, pale hand came into view. This one had a smear of blood on it.

  “Snuggle,” he said, then sighed when I went stiff.

  “Hola!” the woman called again. She glanced at her wristwatch and left.

  “As I was saying,” the man went on. “We want to lay Iraq to rest. The boy is secondary. Give us the intel Doug Ayers gave you, and the boy won’t matter to us. We’ll go away. You’ll be safe. The boy will be safe. It will all be done with.”

  The intel again. It was the same request Sarge had made of me.

  I’m here for the intel, girl. Then I gotta take care of you.

  When I’d truthfully protested that I didn’t know what he was talking about, he’d left bruises trying to get me to talk. It hadn’t helped. I still didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Turn over whatever it was Ayers gave you, he’d said, and I promise it will be quick. A single shot to the temple.

  But Dougie hadn’t given me anything that could qualify as intelligence. A compass. A ring. A broken heart.

  No video of men smuggling weapons into Iraq.

  Perhaps taking my silence for refusal, the man said, “If you don’t agree, then think of your friend Angelo as a warning. A taste of things to come.”

  “Deal,” I whispered. “I’ll give you what you want. But I require guarantees. Some way for me to know we’ll be safe.”

  “We all want guarantees.” He leaned in, brushing his cheek against mine. I didn’t suppress the shudder. “But you got nothing to bargain with. If anything comes out about Iraq, you got as much to lose as we do.”

  “How do I know you won’t kill the boy and me after you have what you want?”

  “Your deaths would not be our first choice. We prefer not to draw attention to ourselves, if we can help it.”

  “Hasn’t stopped you so far.”

  “Even so, we’re not in the business of guarantees. That’s as much as you’re going to get.”

  I decided to see how far I could push this. And I wanted my capitulation to sound believable. “And I want money.”

  “Even the noble warrior has a price, eh? How much?”

  “Two million.”

  The blade broke skin and trailed along my ribs. A line of fire followed the knife’s path through my flesh, and a trickle of blood ran down my side. On the other side of the table, Gonzo shook his head. Not your day to die, he told me.

  “You’re a greedy little shit,” the man said.

  At the bar, the drunkard lifted his head. He didn’t look our way.

  “A hundred thousand,” the man said, twisting the knife. “That ought to pay off that dump you live in and maybe buy your granny a nice casket.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound. “Two fifty.”

  The tip of the knife withdrew. My side continued to burn.

  “Deal. You have twenty-four hours. After that, we assume you’re not going to deliver without some additional motivation. Should we start with the boyfriend?”

  My thoughts flew apart.

  Panic kills, Gonzo said.

  “That’s not enough time.” I scrambled to find a reason. “I can’t access the intel that quickly.”

  “What, you hid it in Fort Knox?”

  “A safety deposit box. But my access is limited.” Was there even such a thing? “I set it up that way. Because of you assholes. I can’t open it again for a month.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Totally. “No.”

  Across the table, Gonzo gave me a thumbs-up.

  The man said, “Did you forget how much you have to lose? Because if you did, we can remind you. One person at a time.” The knife dug back in. “Give us everything Ayers gave you. Every nickel and dime, every photograph. Every piece-of-shit junk he gave you. And forget that month bullshit. You’ve got forty-eight hours. Figure it out.”

  He slid out of the booth, then leaned back in. When I went to turn my head, he grabbed my chin and held me still. “Go home to your boyfriend. And your mutt. Two days. We know where to find you.”

  “If anything happens to someone close to me,” I said, “the deal is off. I’ll take the intel and go straight to the Feds and the devil be damned.”

  “Such a little shit.”

  He released me, and I caught a glimpse of close-cropped blond hair and a pockmarked cheek before the back of his hand slammed into my face. Tears sprang to my eyes, and blood flew from my nose.

  “Bit of advice,” he said. “Don’t piss me off. And don’t try your hand at poker.”

  He straightened and walked away. The drunk staggered after him. Maybe they’d been in cahoots. I pressed a napkin to my nose. When the bleeding stopped, I lifted my blouse to check the damage. The wound wasn’t much more than a scratch. Or that’s what I told myself. But it was deep enough to bleed like a mother. I grabbed another cloth napkin from the table, folded it, and pressed it against the wound, then tucked my shirt back in, grateful it was dark enough to hide the blood.

  Then I yanked out my phone and shot a text to Zarif.

  Assaulted at airport. I think Hamid killed.

  A response came immediately. You OK?

  Still breathing. Okay was relative. I was alive.

  I sat in the booth for a while longer, until the bleeding and shaking stopped and the wild rage banked down to a slow smolder. Gonzo sat with me.

  Good job, he said. Live to fight another day.

  “That why you volunteered for the mission that got you killed?” I asked, trying on snarky.

  It fit better than fear.

  I was halfway through the security line when I came out of my fog enough to notice a flurry of activity outside the passageway leading toward the terminals. The passenger line stopped moving forward as security agents closed crowd-control ropes and spoke into
their radios. On the far side of the cattle chute, two policías went by at a run.

  Around me, people—tourists, mostly—chatted in nervous voices.

  “I heard some dude was killed,” said a guy in a Hawaiian shirt. “In the men’s bathroom.”

  “My sister is out there,” said a woman, looking at her phone screen. “A guy was knifed. She got the news from an airport employee.”

  My phone buzzed with a message. I pulled it out. A text from an unknown number. The hair rose on the back of my neck, as if I already knew I’d find something terrible.

  Hamid, I thought.

  I opened it.

  A blond, acne-scarred man wearing a once-tan shirt and green khakis sat slumped in a rain of blood between a toilet and a tiled wall. His large-knuckled hands lay in his lap, the fingers of one hand curled around a knife.

  My tormentor.

  Someone had slit his throat.

  CHAPTER 8

  How, one might ask, does a regular citizen get caught up in the shadow lives of men and women who live by subterfuge, conspiracy, assassination, and treason?

  All it takes is a single wrong step.

  —Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.

  I shuffled onto the plane as if my feet were shackled. The ticket Zarif had purchased was for the window seat in the front row—first class. The attendant took one look at my bloodied shirt and wounded face and maybe came to her own conclusion about the kind of company I kept. But she was kind, offering a pillow and a stiff drink. I accepted both and tried to shut out the image of the man with the bloody second smile beneath his chin.

  But my mind kept circling around the thug’s death, wondering who had seen fit to eliminate him from the equation. Wondering who else had a dog in this fight. If I was lucky, there was someone aside from me and Zarif who cared about Malik’s survival. Maybe the mysterious Strider, the rescuer Malik had mentioned.

  If I was unlucky . . .

  I shifted in my seat, all too aware of forces swirling invisibly around me.

  Did I still have forty-eight hours? Or had that deal died along with the man?

  A businessman took the seat next to me. He gave me a polite nod, then leaned back with his own drink, a set of noise-canceling headphones, and the Wall Street Journal. Maybe he was a businessman. Maybe he belonged to Zarif, or to the Alpha.