Elusive Promise GO PL 2

by Barbara Freethy

  In fact, she didn't think she would ever forget him, and that bothered her more than a little bit.

  "It's possible one of the security cameras caught a glimpse of him as he moved through the party. Maybe you can come down to the office tomorrow and take a look."

  "I will do that. I just wish I could do more. I'm really scared for Jasmine. The kidnappers murdered the two guards. They won't be afraid to kill Jasmine."

  "They could have left her in the room to die and just taken the ring. So, I'm going to go with the assumption that they want to use her in some other way—ransom, more than likely."

  "Then why haven't they made contact yet?"

  "I don't know," he said grimly.

  She didn’t, either, and her gut told her no news was probably not good news in this case.

  A few minutes later, Damon pulled up in front of a two-story brownstone in Greenwich Village. "There are two flats in this building. The bottom apartment is empty. You'll be on the second floor. We'll have an FBI police officer posted downstairs for extra protection."

  "Okay." She'd spent time in FBI safe houses before. She knew the drill. She just wasn't used to being the person who was in danger.

  Damon walked her up the stairs and into the building. A uniformed male with sandy-brown hair and brown eyes, who appeared to be in his early thirties, was waiting in the lobby.

  "Officer Briggs," Damon said with a nod. "This is Special Agent Parisa Maxwell."

  "Pleased to meet you," the officer said. "I'll be here all night."

  "I appreciate that," she said with a tired smile, then followed Damon up the stairs.

  Damon unlocked the apartment with a code and waved her inside.

  The living room had a card table and four folding chairs. The bedroom had a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and an armchair. Her suitcase was on the floor by the bed.

  "It's not much," Damon said. "Sorry."

  "It will be fine."

  "Maybe I should stay with you."

  "You don't need to do that."

  "I would have taken you home, but Sophie has a friend staying with us."

  She let out a breath and sank down on the edge of the bed, kicking off her high heels. "It's fine. I'm fine. I have a gun in my suitcase, and I'm well trained. Plus, the officer is downstairs. You don't have to worry about me."

  "I know you're capable of taking care of yourself. But you almost died tonight, Parisa."

  "I'll be okay. I'm more concerned about Jasmine. I want to talk to the Kumars again tomorrow."

  "That's a good idea. They may speak more freely to you as an old family friend." He paused. "When were you last in Bezikstan?"

  "When I was sixteen years old. I'm sure the country has changed a lot since I was there."

  "Yes. The Bezikstan government is currently under attack from a couple of rebel groups, who are growing in strength and radical thought. That diamond could buy a lot of weapons."

  "I know. I also know that Raj Kumar is very close to the government leaders. Perhaps Jasmine's kidnapping is part of a bigger play."

  As she yawned, he said, "I'll let you get some rest. We can talk tomorrow."

  "Thanks." She walked him back out to the living room, turning the dead bolt after he left the apartment. Then she returned to the bedroom, opened her suitcase and pulled out her gun.

  Just as a precaution, she took it into the bathroom with her. She would take a hot shower and then go to bed. When she woke up, maybe she'd remember something important, something that would help Jasmine.

  Four

  Parisa didn't know what woke her up—it might have been the click of the door, or the sudden stream of light—but instinct brought her out of bed and to her feet as a dark figure came toward her. She saw the glint of a badge and for a moment, she was confused.

  Was it the police officer who was supposed to be downstairs by the front door?

  "What's going on?" she demanded.

  Then she saw the gun in the man's hand, and her training kicked into gear.

  Her first goal was to disarm him, which she managed to do with a swift waist-high kick that sent his weapon flying. She battled on, using her fists and her feet to fight. The man was bigger, but she was quicker.

  She dodged several blows, but a stumble by the dresser gave her attacker an advantage, and he landed a punch against the side of her face that sent her reeling, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, she had to fight to stay conscious.

  As he came at her again, she jerked to the right, knocking him off-balance.

  She sprang back up to her feet, but he was too fast, and suddenly his hands were on her throat, and he was bending her over the dresser with a deadly force. As she looked into his dark, evil eyes, she knew this was not the man who had been assigned to watch her door.

  Where the hell was he?

  She grabbed at her attacker's arms, kicking her feet, trying to find leverage, but she was losing air. Her brain was spinning. Lights were flashing before her eyes.

  And then a man charged into the room.

  He grabbed her assailant by the arms, pulling him off her.

  She sank to the floor, gasping for breath as her rescuer went after her attacker with deft, trained moves. While they were fighting, she crawled across the floor and grabbed the gun her attacker had discarded. As she stood up and took aim, her attacker bolted out of the room.

  Her rescuer turned his face into the light that was coming from the living room, and she gasped.

  "You?" It was the mysterious stranger with the compelling green eyes. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Saving your life—again."

  She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "It's five o'clock in the morning."

  "I was going to wait until the sun came up to speak to you, but when I saw that guy go into the building, I had a bad feeling. My instincts were correct."

  She didn't know about his instincts, but hers were screaming caution. "How did you find me? How did you get in here? Where's the guard that was downstairs?"

  "He's by the front door—unconscious. I'll answer all your questions, but right now, we need to go." He didn't look at all concerned by the gun in her hand. "Someone just tried to kill you."

  "I'm aware of that. Is the guard dead?" Her stomach turned over at the thought of that man being killed because of her.

  "He's still breathing."

  "Good. We need to get him help."

  "You can call from somewhere else. Put on some shoes, grab what you need—"

  "I'm not taking orders from you," she interrupted.

  "I saved your life twice. Doesn't that offer some sort of trust?"

  "No. And I was perfectly capable of saving my own life."

  He gave her a speculative look. "You sound pretty confident—for a translator who works for the state department."

  He knew who she was, and she had no idea who he was. That put her at a disadvantage, and she didn't like it. "I've taken a lot of self-defense classes. How do you know what I do?"

  "I know a lot of things. And I want to talk to you, Parisa. But we need to get out of here before your assailant comes back with some friends."

  She wanted to argue, but he made a good point, although how he'd found her at an FBI safe house raised a lot of red flags. Maybe he was undercover for some other agency. Judging by his combat skills, he'd been trained somewhere.

  "What's your name?" she asked, as she put on her sneakers and threw her long, wool coat over her leggings and T-shirt.

  "Jared."

  It might be a bad decision but going with him seemed less risky than staying put. She threw the attacker's gun into her suitcase and then tucked her own gun into the waistband of her leggings. Jared grabbed her bag, and she followed him down the stairs.

  She stopped by the door to check on the guard. He was lying face down, with a big bump on the back of his head, but he had a pulse and was breathing, with no evidence of massive blood loss. She'd call Damon as soon as they got out of th
e building.

  Jared went out the front door first, motioning her to hang back for a moment. Then he said, "It's clear. My car is nearby. Let's go."

  She didn't want to hop into his car, but there were no taxis around and she couldn't wait to get a ride. Hoping she wasn't making a huge mistake, she got into the silver Ford Focus, while he put her bag in the trunk and then slid behind the wheel.

  "Don't worry, you're going to be fine," he said as he started the engine. "And you do have a gun, so…"

  "So, don't mess with me," she finished, pulling it out from under her coat.

  "You seem pretty comfortable with a weapon. Was that also part of your self-defense training?"

  "It was," she said, ignoring the sarcasm in his voice. "Where did you learn how to fight?"

  "I took some martial arts classes."

  "More than a few, I'm guessing. Where are we going?"

  "There's an all-night diner not far from here. Why don't we get breakfast?"

  "You want to eat now?" she asked in surprise.

  "I'm hungry. And I'm sure you're going to argue if I try to take you anywhere but a public place."

  "Fine. Give me your phone. I need to get someone to take care of the officer."

  He handed it over. She couldn't help noticing it was a cheap throwaway phone that didn't even have a lock on it. She punched in Damon's number, which she had memorized.

  He answered with a wary, "Yes?"

  "It's Parisa."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I was just attacked at the apartment. I'm all right, but the guy got away."

  Damon swore. "What about Briggs?"

  "He was knocked out, but he's alive. Can you get someone over there to check on him?"

  "Yes. Where are you now?"

  "I'm going somewhere else."

  "On foot?"

  "No, I'm in a car."

  "Come to my house."

  "That's not a good idea."

  "Then go to the FBI office or to the police station."

  "I can't. The person who attacked me was wearing a uniform. I don't know if he was an FBI police officer or NYPD, but someone discovered my location. I can't trust anyone. I need to stay out of sight for a while."

  "What else can you tell me about your attacker?"

  "Not much. It was dark. I saw a uniform and the gleam of a badge. He had dark eyes. I'm assuming his hair was also dark. Beyond that…" She was frustrated with the lack of detail she could provide. "I know it's not much to go on."

  "Maybe we can get more from Officer Briggs."

  "I doubt it. He was hit on the back of the head. I have to go. Don't call me back on this phone. It's not mine. I'll be in touch with you when I get a chance." She set the phone down on the center console.

  Jared gave her a speculative look. "Was that the police or the FBI?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "They want you to come in. But you can't trust them."

  "I can't trust you, either." He knew her name. He knew about her job. He'd found her at the safe house.

  What else did he know, and who the hell was he?

  "Then why didn't you tell them about me?" he challenged.

  As their gazes met, a shiver ran down her spine. It was a good question. Why hadn't she told Damon about him?

  "Well?" he pressed.

  "I honestly don't know. But you're right, we need to talk."

  * * *

  Parisa's right eye was swollen and her dark hair was a tangled mess, but her brown eyes were sharp and alert, and even in leggings, a T-shirt, and a black wool coat, she was a very attractive woman. She was also an enigma, an equation that didn't quite add up. She'd fought her attacker like a pro. And she'd handled her weapon as if it were a natural part of her. Was she really a translator for the state department?

  Jared suspected she was not.

  She had secrets. So did he.

  He wondered who would break first.

  Parisa sipped her coffee as they waited for their breakfast. She sat facing the door to the diner. The sun was starting to rise as the clock moved toward six thirty, but it was still dark outside. There were only a few other people in the restaurant: a woman in a nurse's uniform and an older man who was reading the newspaper. One waitress worked the counter while a male cook appeared to run the kitchen.

  He would have preferred to be in Parisa's seat, but she'd slid in to that side of the booth before he could stop her.

  "Well?" she prodded. "You said you wanted to talk, so talk."

  "You said you wanted to talk, too. Why don't you begin?" he countered.

  "All right. What's your last name? Were you invited to the party at the consulate or did you crash?"

  "My last name is MacIntyre, and I was not technically invited to the party."

  "You might want to think of a better answer. The police and FBI are going through the surveillance video from the party. I'm sure you're on it. They'll be contacting you."

  "Good to know. Did you see who took Jasmine Kumar?"

  She stared back at him, her gaze assessing. "Someone obviously thinks I did, based on what happened at the apartment."

  "That's not an answer."

  "What were you doing upstairs at the consulate?"

  "I was looking for an available bathroom. The ones downstairs had long lines."

  "You were wearing a black chef's coat—as if you were in disguise. I think you came up the back stairs by the kitchen."

  He tipped his head. "So, you do remember something."

  She frowned. "I just remembered that."

  "What else?"

  "I know you didn't want security to find you in the stairwell, that's why you rushed away. How did you get out of the building? Did you use the tunnel exit from the basement?"

  "There's a tunnel from the basement?" he asked, preferring to get more information than he wanted to give.

  "The police said the kidnappers probably took Jasmine out that way." She paused, tilting her head to the right as she gave him a speculative look. "What's your deal? Who are you? What do you want from me? How did you find me at the safe house?"

  "That's too many questions."

  "Take them one at a time."

  "I can tell you this—I didn't have anything to do with the kidnapping."

  "That's not enough. Tell me more," she said, a determined glint in her eyes. "Are you working for someone? Homeland Security? FBI, DEA, ATF?"

  "That's a lot of initials. What you need to know is that I want to help you find Jasmine."

  "All those agencies have a better chance of finding Jasmine than you or I do."

  "Maybe not. We might have the inside track."

  "I can't imagine why. And I'm not going to work with you, until you tell me who you are."

  "You think working with the FBI is a better option after one of their officers just tried to kill you?" he asked.

  "I'm sure he wasn't really an officer."

  "But he knew where you were, and that apartment was clearly a safe house."

  "Most people wouldn't know what a safe house looks like."

  "An empty apartment with a guard—it wasn't a tough guess."

  "How did you find me there? You better tell me something, or I'm going to walk out the door."

  He smiled at her challenging words, feeling remarkably charged up by the conversation. He liked a woman who could keep up, and this woman was not only keeping pace with him, she was charging ahead. He had no doubt she would make good on her threat to leave if he didn't give her something. "I followed you from the hospital to the apartment."

  "Why didn't you come looking for me when I first got there?"

  "I decided to wait until morning, until you were awake, but then I saw a guy approaching the building. He had on a uniform, but the way he was moving gave me pause. When he went inside the building, the front door stayed open. That seemed odd. I went to investigate and saw the guard on the ground. That's when I knew you were in trouble."

  She shook her head in bemuse
ment. "I can't believe you followed us from the hospital, and we didn't see you."

  He shrugged. "Maybe the person who took you to the safe house isn't that good at spotting a tail."

  "He's very good, which means you must be good at avoiding detection."

  He ignored that as he leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. "Now, it's your turn. Who are you, Parisa Maxwell?"

  "You already know. I work for the state department."

  "What I know is that you fought your attacker like someone with training. You picked up the gun like you knew exactly what to do with it. You didn't scream for help. You didn't call the cops or the FBI until we were away from the building, and when we came into this diner, you picked this table and your seat, so you could watch the door."

  "I was being cautious."

  "Are you a cop? Private security? FBI? Military? A spy?"

  "I asked you the same exact questions, and you didn't answer. Why don't we cut to the chase? What's your job? And why were you at the party?"

  He decided to tell her something, so they could move the conversation along. "I'm a reporter. I came to the event looking for a person who might have information for a story I'm writing."

  "Who? And what's the story?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Ben Langdon. You were talking to him at the party. It looked like you were friends."

  Her eyes widened. "Ben Langdon is a college student. Why do you want to talk to him?"

  "I've recently discovered that Mr. Langdon was in Paris at the time of an explosion at a Left Bank café. Two people died."

  "Are you talking about the bombing at Café Douceur before Christmas?"

  "Yes." His gaze narrowed. "I'm surprised you know about it. It didn't get much public attention here in the States."

  "Why on earth would you think Ben was involved in a terrorist attack?"

  "I'm not sure of the level of his involvement. But I do know Ben dated a woman in Paris named Sara Pillai. Sara is a Bezikstan citizen. Her stepbrother Isaac Naru belongs to the radical group taking credit for the Paris explosion—Brothers of the Earth. Both Sara and Isaac disappeared after the bomb went off. Ben stayed in Paris for four days and then returned to NYC two weeks ago. When I learned he was going to a party at the Bezikstan consulate, I went there to see if he might use the opportunity to meet up with Sara or Isaac again."