Sleep would be unattainable until he found Ballard’s safe house. Then he could see if there was even a remote possibility of connecting with Ballard’s contacts. If not, then the trip to Amman was a waste. They would have no more intel than the CIA. The chemical weapons deal, assuming it was real, would go off without a hitch.
Then, when Alex saw a story in the papers about hundreds of families murdered by a chemical weapon released in Lebanon or Iraq or Syria, he would know it was because he’d made a mistake.
That was not something he could live with.
A few streetlights let off a weak yellow glow. Alex glanced at the buildings they passed, searching for the number corresponding to Ballard’s purported safe house on Al-Urdon Street.
Outside of a small grocery store, a man wearing a long, white thobe and plastic sandals used a hose to wash scraps of food into the street. Another man with a white beard drew down the metal shutter over his convenience store.
Both gave Alex and Skylar passing glances. Skylar was dressed conservatively in baggy khakis and a loose-fitting shirt along with a scarf covering her black hair. Alex had gone with a pair of hiking pants and a long-sleeved technical shirt. While they were a mile outside the main tourist hubs at the center of Amman, Alex hoped they could still pull off a touristy vibe.
He adjusted one of the straps on his backpack and nodded a hello at both men. In turn, the men returned his greeting with wide smiles.
“Just keep pretending like we’re hiking back to our hotel after a long day of sightseeing,” Alex said to Skylar.
She looked back over her shoulder. “Any one of these people could be a lookout. Could be paid rats to keep an eye on Ballard’s safe house.”
A group of young boys ran out of a storefront and sprinted down the street, carrying a couple of balls. A wrinkled woman yelled at them from the doorway they’d rushed out of, shaking a gnarled fist. When she saw Skylar and Alex, she started tut-tutting and let out a low laugh. She motioned at the boys as if to say, “Kids, huh?”
By every account, the neighborhood looked innocent enough. Bakeries and cafes, hookah bars and clothing stores.
People chatted at storefronts or walked home from a long day of work. While the fairly busy street gave them an air of anonymity, Skylar was right. Any one of them might be watching Ballard’s safe house. Maybe one of them helped punch the missing agent’s card for the last time.
“There’s 368,” Skylar said, pointing to three golden numbers emblazoned on the side of an apartment building. “The safe house is 380. Got to be close.”
Alex slowed as they drew closer to the address. Every building looked nearly identical, with sandy brick façades. Tangles of wires dangled between rooftops covered in satellite dishes. Lights glowed from inside a few of the houses. Below the scent of cooking meat, Alex could also detect the slightly sweet aroma of hookah smoke.
A woman was watching them from the second floor of a house across the street. She ducked behind the curtains when Alex looked at her.
The back of his neck tingled. He started to feel eyes on him.
All it would take was one well-placed shot. An attack from any of these windows. Ballard’s trail would be lost forever. Alex and Skylar just two more casualties to a secret war most Americans didn’t even know was going on.
A door across the street suddenly opened. Skylar tensed. Alex’s hand instinctively went for the holstered pistol hidden under his shirt at the bottom of his spine.
But it was only a woman in her mid-forties dragging a couple of trash bags toward a can at the street corner.
At Alex’s signal, Skylar crossed the street. Separate, they stood a better shot at retaliating against an ambush and keeping an eye on each other.
Alex looked up at the big, blocky blue letters on a nearby building. 374.
Past a couple more restaurants and a line of parked sedans, he reached 378.
Then his stomach tightened into a painful knot.
He had expected the investigation to be difficult. He had expected they would run into a few obstacles. That any clues at the safe house would be hard to find.
What he hadn’t expected was that 380 Al-Urdon Street would be gone. He saw only the husk of a two-story structure with a gaping wound revealing an interior of twisted wires, broken pipes, and piles of broken bricks. Half of it was blackened and covered in soot.
The place looked like it had been bombed.
-3-
Wadi Musa, Jordan
Balagh braced himself.
He had expected his hotel room to be empty. But he had been wrong. That mistake might cost him his life.
A large man with a crown of black hair and a face full of scars stalked toward Balagh. He had no shirt on, his muscles flexing, vessels bulging.
Balagh’s mind raced, trying to place the guy’s bulbous nose and his piercing eyes. Was this man why he had the unshakeable feeling he was in danger?
The only way Balagh was going to find out was by taking this man down right here and right now. Because it was already too late to run. Even if he did escape, he had no money. Only a couple gulps of water. No food.
It was either fight here or die back out in the streets.
The fear of his life ending at the snap of this big man’s fingers awoke something inside Balagh. Even though he didn’t know much about himself, he could feel the muscles rippling along his arms. He didn’t know why or how, but he was absolutely certain he knew how to fight a man like this. His brain was already making instinctual calculations.
Drop low.
Sweep one leg into the back of the man’s knee.
Catch his wrist.
Push backward at the elbow.
One arm around his neck and squeeze. Hold on for dear life until the man goes unconscious.
The man was only a few steps away. A couple more then he would be in striking distance.
The man curled both fists but kept them by his sides, leaving his abdomen and face open for Balagh’s assault. For an assassin or mercenary, or whoever this guy was, he didn’t seem to have honed fighting instincts.
“Why are you in my room?” the man asked. His voice rolled out a smooth baritone in a rough Russian accent.
“Your…?” Balagh took a step backward and held up his key. “This is my room.”
The man narrowed his eyes and took another step forward. His breath stank of onions and alcohol. “My wife and I have been in this room for two nights. This not your room.”
For the first time, Balagh saw a woman in the bed drawing the covers up around her chest. His heart still beat heavily against his ribs, but he let the adrenaline fade. Maybe this guy was exactly as innocent as he said he was.
“I’m very sorry,” Balagh said, taking a step backward. He held up his hands in a placating gesture, showing the man his keys. “There must be some mistake with the front desk.”
“Get out,” the Russian man said.
Balagh had no problem complying. The Russian man slammed the door shut behind him.
His hope of finding refuge in that room was gone. He trudged back down the hall toward the front desk.
The receptionist was a young woman, no more than twenty-five. Her eyebrows arched immediately upon seeing him walk past the intricate carved columns lining the lobby toward her. Her hand disappeared under the desk.
No doubt ready to set off some security alarm. But as he drew near, her expression softened.
“Mr. Torrence,” she said. She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, straightening. “You must have had a long day.”
You have no idea.
Balagh glanced at her nametag. Jana.
“Hello, Jana,” he said. He placed his keys on the desk. “I must have made some mistake.”
She looked him over again, no doubt thinking he must have made a lot of mistakes. “Yes, sir. I believe you forgot to check out with us.”
“Oh, oh,” he said, trying to stall. “I’m sorry. That would explain the man… uh, in my room.”
>
Jana took the keys from him. “I’m afraid your reservation ended—” She paused, typed something on a keyboard behind the desk, then looked up at him. “Why, you left here about four days ago.”
“Four—” he stopped himself then pressed a hand against his forehead. “Time really flies. I’m so sorry.” He shook his head. “It’s a long story.”
“No need to explain.” Jana continued typing, and the printer behind her buzzed. “Of course, as you know, we had to charge the card you left on file.”
“Understandable.”
She turned to the printer then passed him a fresh receipt.
He glanced at it. He’d been here nearly a week. Or at least, that’s what the receipt showed. It also showed the last four digits of a credit card he definitely did not have in his possession. And his name, according to this receipt, was Robert Torrence.
That definitely didn’t sound right. Balagh might be fake as well, but it felt better in his mind.
Who in God’s name was he?
Jana looked down at his hand. He realized he’d been tapping nervously on the desk.
“Sorry,” he said. “Did I… Did I leave anything in my room?”
“Yes, Mr. Torrence. Hold on a moment.” She disappeared into a room behind the front desk. A few moments later, she came out with a black duffel bag. “I’m afraid this was all we found.”
“That’s great,” Balagh said, forcing the best smile he could muster and taking the bag.
“Do you… Do you need a room to perhaps refresh yourself?” Jana asked.
Balagh almost said, “Yes.”
But if he was in danger, if someone was hunting him, staying in a hotel where he’d already been didn’t seem smart.
Then again, he had no idea if he had any cash or cards in that duffel bag. If he passed up this chance to worm his way into a room, he might not have another.
“Mr. Torrence?” Jana asked. “Are you okay?”
“Ah, yes, sorry,” Balagh said. “I have another hotel now.”
“You do?” she asked.
As much as the thought of a warm shower and bed tempted Balagh, the sooner he got out of there, the better. “I do. Thank you again.”
He walked straight out the front door.
On the street, he took a left and moved out of sight of the hotel. He paused in front of a rectangular house that was dark inside and set his duffel bag on the waist-high stone wall lining the sidewalk.
He unzipped the bag to find a few shirts and extra pants. Socks and underwear too. There was no food, no water. Not that he expected it.
There was a zipped pouch against the lining of the duffel bag, and he dipped his fingers inside. He felt a small booklet and pulled it out.
It appeared to be a US passport. The name inside said Robert Torrence, and the image looked like him. At least as far as he could tell from the glances he’d gotten of himself in mirrors and windows.
He probed around the bag again. Maybe he missed something.
But no, that was it. No money. No credit cards.
No clue what he would do next.
Slumping down against the wall, he sat down on the sidewalk. Accepting Jana’s invitation seemed like his best—maybe only—option after all.
He placed his backpack and the open duffel bag beside him on the sidewalk.
Come on, Balagh, he thought.
There must be a phone number, a name, something swimming deep beneath his consciousness. Someone he could call for help.
A tap, tap, tap sounded to his right. He swiveled to see a dog walking toward him. The creature’s tongue was hanging out of its mouth, and its tail drooped low. The poor animal’s ribs pressed against its taut flesh.
The dog paused when it reached him, sniffing at Balagh’s clothes, then started to walk away.
“Am I too dirty even for the dogs?” he asked.
The canine turned around as if in answer. It sat down on its haunches and stared at him, panting.
“Poor guy,” he said. “I know how it feels to be out here without a home.”
The dog laid down and rested its head on Balagh’s lap. He scratched behind the canine’s ears.
A car rumbled by, kicking up dust in the road. Balagh started coughing. The dog licked at his face when he had trouble stopping.
He reached into his bag and drew his last water bottle. He unscrewed the cap, ready to down it. But the dog looked up at him hopefully, its tail wagging slightly. Balagh remembered Attayak’s parting words for him in Petra. How he should return the favor when someone in need approached him in the future.
It appeared that time had come sooner than he had expected.
“Brother, you look worse than me,” Balagh said. He cupped his left hand and poured a little water in it.
The dog lapped it up, tail wagging more furiously. When the dog finished, it pushed its nose into Balagh’s hand.
“No more. Sorry.”
The dog huffed then started sniffing through the duffel bag. It whined, pulling at the tough canvas.
“All I got in there is clothes,” Balagh said.
The dog kept sniffing, pushing its nose against the inner lining.
Balagh tried to pull the bag away, but when he did, he felt something under the lining where the dog had been investigating. Something he’d missed before.
He pressed his fingers over the lining. There was something in there. Multiple somethings.
His pulse quickened, and he probed along the underside of the zipper. He felt a seam. It was rough, as though it had been done by hand. He pulled on it, peeling away the fabric.
Inside, he found another passport, two credit cards, and a few thin stacks of Jordanian dinar and US dollars.
He flipped through the passport. Yet another picture of him. But this one was a Jordanian passport. The name here wasn’t Balagh, either.
How many identities did he have?
The dog whined, poking his nose through the money.
“I’ll get you something to eat now,” Balagh said. “Don’t you worry. And—”
Another object under the cash caught his eye. The item the dog seemed to be most interested in. It was nothing but a small glass vial, no bigger than his thumb, with a black cap.
He held it up in the glow of the streetlight. The vial held a dark, viscous liquid that moved like thick oil. But when the light hit, the fluid sparkled silver.
Did this single vial have something to do with why he’d been wandering around Petra without any memories?
“You know what this is?” he asked the dog.
The animal cocked its head and took another sniff. It let out a breath and then sat down again.
“That makes two of us.”
Amman, Jordan
Skylar glanced around. She made sure the few people still wandering along the cracked sidewalks weren’t looking her direction. Then she slipped between the remnants of a doorway into the shadowy interior of 380 Al-Urdon Street.
Only the pale moonlight and the penlight she pulled from a pocket illuminated the destroyed space.
“Hell of a safe house,” she said to Alex.
He had his own light out as he prowled around the first floor. Half of the second floor had collapsed. Piles of bricks and wood filled what might have been a living room.
Alex picked up one of the charcoaled bricks. “Think someone found out about Ballard then bombed it when he was here?”
“I mean, what else do you take from this?” Skylar asked.
She dug through a few of the bricks. Maybe there was a lead buried here. A computer. A body, for God’s sake.
Alex traced his finger along a wall. He drew it away covered in black dust.
“Something isn’t sitting right with me,” he said. “If there was a bombing, why wouldn’t the CIA have included that in the report?”
“Maybe they had the info at one point,” Skylar said, starting toward a set of stairs beyond the piles of bricks. She tested the first step with her prosthetic foot.
It creaked before she even put her whole body weight into it. “But they scrubbed it like they scrubbed everything else.”
“Don’t know about that.” Alex bent down behind the metal frame of a sofa. “If they suspected a bomb blast took him, then why continue this farce? Write it off as an operative KIA and call it a day instead of pretending they don’t know what happened to him.”
“They think he escaped. That he wasn’t here.”
Skylar started up the first couple of steps. They groaned but didn’t break. One at a time, she took them until she was halfway up. Then the floor beneath her split with a loud crack.
Charcoaled wood gave way, splinters jutting out like a broken bone. She looked up toward the next few steps. Each was more blackened than the last. They looked like a strong wind might blow them away.
Maybe the second floor would have to wait.
Alex was still picking through the broken furniture in the main living area. The headlights of a passing car shone through the busted doorway. They shrank into the shadows, and Skylar held her breath until it passed.
She leaned out of the doorway slightly. Just enough to check up and down the street. She didn’t see anyone watching.
But just because she couldn’t see them now didn’t mean someone out there hadn’t already made a phone call or shot a text to whoever might be lying in wait. Biding their time to see who might come to investigate Ballard.
A shiver traced down her spine. She tried to shake the creeping sensation that someone had their eyes on her. They needed to figure out what in the hell happened here. Fast.
Alex picked apart the remnants of a shattered flat-screen TV, examining the wires.
“Anything?” Skylar asked.
Alex shook his head, setting the knot of burned wires down. “You and I could spend the whole week here trying to figure out if someone bombed Ballard. We’d need a real bomb squad to investigate.”
Skylar looked out the doorway again. “Or we could ask the locals.”
“I don’t want to be knocking on any doors at this time of night,” Alex said. “But you’re right. Might do us some good to start with them.”
Demon Mind (Vector Book 2) Page 3
