by Tracy Brody
“All FBI personnel maintain watch for al-Shehri!” Cal said, only the words were punctuated by the sharp crack of small-arms fire.
Tony squeezed through the opening doors and dashed to the right. He had to believe she got to her weapon and defended herself. If Hakim was dead, he didn’t have a problem with that. Angela might have the information they needed based on what she hinted to him earlier.
Two shots destroyed the lock. Despite the pain in his leg, he shouldered his body into the door, which swung open into the spacious marble foyer of Hakim’s apartment. He held his breath, listening, desperate to hear Angela call out that all was clear.
What he heard instead was Hakim cursing in Arabic. Tony’s heart froze in his chest and blood roared in his ears. He motioned for Cal to cover the near side of the foyer.
During the split-second dash to the far side of the foyer, he caught a glimpse of Hakim—arm raised; gun pointed. Tony tried to channel his rage, maintain his professional bearing. It wasn’t working.
“FBI! You’ve got nowhere to go, Hakim. Give it up,” Cal called out.
A shot hit the foyer wall in response to Cal’s attempt to defuse the situation.
Ray Lundgren peered around the corner, his eyes narrow and hard.
Tony motioned for Lundgren and Grant to enter. Where the hell was Angela? Her silence amplified the thwump-thwump of his heart. Unable to take it anymore, he gave Lundgren a signal to go high and one to Grant to go low. He started to count down.
“Alive,” Cal huffed.
Fine, but I can make it painful. He visualized a shot to the groin. Three … two …
Another shot rang out, followed by a wummph sound of a large object—or body—hitting the floor.
A cautious peek around the corner showed Hakim crumpled on the floor. Thank God.
“Angela!”
“Here.” A weak, pained cry answered him. Tony kept his weapon trained on Hakim’s unmoving body—eyes open but unseeing. Blood pooled under his head. His mouth was set in a twisted grin. A gun lay on the floor near his body.
Conservative heels and delicate ankles rested on the plush Persian carpet. Tony spun and dropped to where Angela slumped against the sofa, her face contorted in pain.
“Call for a bus!” he yelled as he took in the wet stain of blood near her left shoulder.
Lundgren edged past him and moved to check Hakim’s body.
“Weiss already has one on the way,” Cal answered.
Tony gently examined her wound. “You’ll be all right,” he assured her.
“That’s not … the one … worried … about.” Her words came in ragged gasps, and her gaze dropped from his eyes. Her hand pressed against her side, and dark blood seeped between her fingers.
Shit. This was bad. Panic stole his breath, and his heart pounded. No, don’t lose it, Vincenti! He eased her to a prone position and pressed his hand to her side to staunch the flow of blood.
“I know … where … target is.” Her body shook with the effort to speak.
“Hakim’s dead. Save your strength. Tell the medics to hurry,” he cried, afraid she might go into shock.
She gripped his arm with a blood-soaked hand. “Plan’s … set. Gotta stop it. Girl in … movie is … Fatima.” Pained whimpers punctuated her words. “Target’s L.A. or Holly … wood. Check studio … filmed … Den of Iniquity.” She grimaced, struggling for breath. “Promise … you’ll stop ’em.”
She was losing so much blood. Her face was ashen, and her lips were turning blue. He pressed harder on her side, even though it would hurt. His emotional pain mirrored her physical pain.
Don’t let this happen, Lord. Please. His eyes misted over, and his nostrils flared and tingled from the burn. “We’ll stop it. I promise. I owe you a dinner.” His voice cracked. Where the hell were the medics?
She choked on a pained sob, tears escaped and ran into her hair at her temple. “I really … wanted … that …” Her voice faded, her eyes closed, and her grasp on his arm relaxed until her hand slipped limply to the floor.
“Angela. Angela! Stay with me.”
Her eyes fluttered halfway open, then closed again.
Sixteen
Tony stood out of the way to allow the medics to work, but close enough to watch the slight rise of Angela’s chest with each strained breath. The men worked quickly to control the bleeding and set up an IV. Their serious tones and expressions only added to his nausea.
He turned away from the sight, his gaze landing on Hakim’s body. His fingers itched to empty his entire magazine into him. Only the bastard put a bullet through his own brain and wouldn’t feel a thing. Life was not fair.
His heart sank further when the medics transferred Angela to the gurney, leaving a pool of blood on the carpet. He trailed them out of the apartment. Dried blood covered his hands. It coated the underside of his short nails.
“We’ve lost her pulse. She’s crashing!” the bald medic exclaimed, watching the portable monitor at the foot of the gurney.
“Charge the paddles,” his partner ordered, already pushing the gurney into the elevator Rozanski held.
The medic ripped open the defibrillator pads. The doors slid closed in Tony’s face. His arms hung slack. All energy drained from his body. The world spun around him. He closed his eyes and fought to suck in a breath.
“You okay, man?” Rozanski interrupted his silent plea for God to intervene, not that he deserved for God to answer his prayers.
He wanted to vomit. His knees threatened to buckle under him. He needed to sit down. Or punch someone. Or a wall. Maybe that would expel this helpless anger. Unable to answer his friend, he shook off Rozanski, who went back into the apartment, leaving him alone.
The strength of his emotions surprised him. He and Angela had never been on an actual date, nor had sex, yet he was more comfortable around her than any woman he’d spent time with in over a decade. She understood him. Trusted him. And he’d let her down in the worst possible way.
The anguish of losing her before having a chance to see where it could go bore down on him. It blackened his perspective on life and killed the hope that had started to take hold. His head dropped; his foot tapped on the marble floor. He wanted payback.
Revenge.
But Hakim was already dead. The only thing he could do was fulfill his promise to stop whatever the hell Hakim had set in motion.
What had she said?
He concentrated. Angela’s last words replayed through his mind. Energy charged up and spread, replacing the numbness. She’d figured it out and had given him the key they needed.
He limped back in, ignoring the corpse and the stain of Angela’s blood, to interrupt Carswell’s conference with Lundgren and Calomiris.
“How is she?” Lundgren asked.
Cal leaned closer.
We’ve lost her pulse. She’s crashing! Tony swallowed the wave of torment. “It looked bad.” All that dark blood meant the bullet must have hit an organ.
“Shit.” Lundgren shook his head.
“I wanted to believe otherwise, but …” Cal exhaled. “And we still don’t know—”
“Actually …” That word was enough to make Cal shut up and Carswell to snap to attention. “She got a lead on a possible target.”
Cal’s jaw dropped. “How? Spill it!”
“I don’t know how. She said architecture—”
“Another code word?”
“Yeah. But she”—Tony pointed to the spot where Angela had lain, bleeding, desperate to tell him what she’d risked her life for—“she said the woman in the porn movie was Fatima. The cousin? Something made her think the place they filmed the movie is the target. In California. Not here.”
Carswell wasted no time getting on his cell phone. “Sir, we have a lead on the target. Hoffman thinks.” He paused. “She thought Hakim might be planning to bomb the studio where the porn film we found on his computer was made. Have Singh review the conversation and see what he can make out to back that
up.” Carswell stepped away while he wrapped up the call.
Carswell rejoined them a minute later, his phone still in his hand. “We need to do damage control and set back up to have a shot at al-Shehri. If he gets word, he’ll slip away for sure.” He scanned from the body on the floor to the destroyed door, his face grim. “I’m going down to talk to the doorman and concierge. I’ll get you updates on what Singh learns about the film-studio lead. What are you thinking?”
“That my team needs to head to California,” Lundgren answered without hesitation.
Tony nodded in response. With all the commotion on the street, the ambulance, curious bystanders, al-Shehri wouldn’t show here. The Bureau could handle things on this end. No time to grieve or mourn. They had terrorists to stop and a bomb to find.
He’d promised.
It’d only taken a few hours for the Bad Karma team to evacuate their hotel and get to the airport where the NEST team had loaded their equipment on their transport plane. A somber mood had permeated the combined group ever since they’d listened to the recorded conversation between Angela and Hakim shortly after takeoff. While nothing Hakim said identified the target, Tony’s gut instinct told him to trust Angela. She’d put her life on the line to get it. It had to mean something.
“Listen up.” Lundgren garnered the attention of the Bad Karma team. “The Bureau’s got an address for the studio. It’s north of L.A. in the San Fernando Valley. Grochowski has alerted the Los Angeles FBI office and local NEST team that we’ll be working with them.”
A quick examination of Hakim’s living room had turned up the picture that Angela referred to, backing up her theory. Hopefully, the Bureau would scrounge up information on the “actress” in the movie to lead to a break.
“Coordinates are being sent now. We’ll need an analysis of the surrounding area,” Lundgren continued. “The studio is the last chance for stopping the bomb. We need to find it before they put it in place.”
“If it were me assembling a bomb according to the specs we found, I wouldn’t do it someplace where I’d have to mess with stairs. It’s too volatile. Rule out apartments. Too many people around in crowded buildings that might ask questions,” the SEAL leading the NEST team speculated.
“Rule out any middle-class or above, predominantly white neighborhoods. Our guys would stick out there, raise suspicions,” Porter added.
“They might not be smart enough to think that through,” Dominguez said.
Grant leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “No. The unidentified guy on the three-way call with al-Shehri and Hakim was educated. You could tell by his word choice. Probably got a degree in this country. I wouldn’t write him off as some backwoods, downtrodden recruit. He’s probably thought this through to cover his ass.”
“Agreed,” Porter continued. “Ideally, I’d set up shop in a rental house near a nuclear power plant to mask any radiation. Maybe a big hospital. I’d want to be within twenty miles of the target. Pick a poorer neighborhood with a diverse mix. Mostly Latino and African American to blend better. Probably work in the garage.”
“It’s a hell of a lot of territory to cover. We’re gonna need to narrow that down.” Lundgren focused on the NEST team leader.
“I’ll make the call. Our aircraft will start a grid search. See if we pick up any readings.”
“Since this could turn into an urban assault mission, Colonel Mahinis is sending out Alpha team as backup. They’ll bring out the gear we need. Until we get more to work on, I suggest you grab what sleep you can. Could be a busy few days.” Lundgren stepped to loom over Tony. “You need to let Grant take a look at your leg.”
“It’s just sore.”
“I didn’t make you go get checked out in New York ’cuz I knew you’d want to be here. So, drop your pants, Vincenti.” No trace of his dry humor was present.
“First time he’s heard that from a guy,” Dominguez cracked.
“At least without punching him,” Rozanski said through laughter, the tension in the plane easing a little.
Tony ground his teeth together. Lundgren didn’t back away. Even though the NEST guys were also doing little to hide their amusement, Tony stood and unfastened his pants. He couldn’t go with the paramedics working on Angela and he’d promised her he’d stop this attack, so there was no way he’d sit on the sidelines during this mission.
He grimaced when Grant probed his bruised and swollen thigh with his fingertips. His body jerked when Grant felt further up his leg. “You go any higher, and I will kill you.”
“This is no picnic for me, either.” Grant continued his physical exam. “It’s definitely bruised, but since you can walk, doesn’t seem to be torn ligaments. I’ll wrap it and give you something for the swelling and pain.”
“Fine. Hurry up.”
“Don’t get your briefs in a bunch.” Grant couldn’t maintain a straight face as he moved to get his medical kit.
Dominguez stared at Tony from across the aisle. “I’m sorry about Angela, man.”
Tony gave an abrupt nod, not in the mood to get into a discussion about his relationship with her. Or, more accurately, the lost possibilities. He’d rather sit half-naked the rest of the flight. Grant ambled back and handed him two tablets.
“I’m capable of doing that myself.” He took the elastic bandage from Grant.
“Whatever. Just doing my job.”
If he’d been in the battlefield or seriously hurt, he would have accepted the help. Confined in this plane with no place to escape, he needed something to do.
Only it didn’t take his mind off Angela. He couldn’t banish the memory of her warm, sticky blood on her hands. On his hands. The rug. The smell of singed flesh still filled his nostrils. At Hakim’s, he’d washed his hands three times, but now he picked at the blood caked under his cuticles. A dark cloud engulfed him, forming an invisible barrier to keep everyone at a distance.
The fact that Lundgren hadn’t given any info on her condition after talking with the Bureau didn’t bode well. He needed to know. One way or the other.
Mack Hanlon had been outside the building when the medics brought Angela out. His eyes were closed, but Tony reached over and tapped his arm anyway. Mack’s eyes flew open. He stared at Tony—waiting.
“When they came out—what’d you see?”
Mack’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he swallowed visibly. “I was watching the street for al-Shehri. I … I didn’t see much.”
“What. Did. You. See?” Tony asked through clenched teeth.
Mack hesitated again. “One of the paramedics was bagging her, and they had the portable defibrillator on the gurney. That means she was still alive,” he said, but couldn’t maintain eye contact.
Seventeen
“Yo-ho! The A-Team is here!”
Tony recognized Alpha Team leader, Dale Simpson’s jovial greeting when he entered their temporary command post in the FBI’s Los Angeles field office. While the Bravo team deconstructed cubicle partitions and moved empty desks around to set up the past few hours, they’d given Tony space. No more.
He sucked in a deep breath before he checked his phone for the umpteenth time—in case he’d missed a callback from the voice mail he’d left Carswell.
“Better than the Cavalry. You candy-asses want to give us a hand with this shit? Half of it’s your gear since you did a piss-poor job of packing.” Jeremy Milledge took the first good-natured jab to start the ribbing between the teams.
“Can’t help it if the brass tasks us first for the big missions one after the other and uses you guys as backup.” Mack punched Milledge in the arm on his way past.
“Your wife can call me for backup anytime she needs to.” Laughing, Milledge threw up his hands.
The men guffawed, and Mack pointed his thumb and forefinger at Milledge, then pulled an imaginary trigger.
“Speaking of lovers, we brought your boyfriend, Grant,” Leon Hightower’s voice sang out.
“Boyfriend? What the—Dita!” T
he Belgian Malinois nearly knocked Grant over.
The team’s working dog slobbered all over Grant’s face. It almost made Tony smile. Almost.
Porter issued a sharp whistle. Dita ditched Grant for Porter, who ruffled the dog’s fur and made baby-talk noises. The dog made his rounds, getting affectionate pats from the rest of the Bad Karma team.
Dita padded over to where Tony sat on a rolling chair. The dog nuzzled his arm, but he wasn’t in the mood to play. Only Dita didn’t go away. Instead, he laid his face on Tony’s leg, staring up with big, sad eyes, whining as if sympathizing with him. Man’s best friend.
He scratched Dita between the ears and ran his hand through the thick, silky fur on the dog’s neck, drawing comfort from the contact before he roused himself to his feet to help unload their equipment.
When he hauled in a crate of weapons and ammunition a minute later, Tony sensed a change in the room. Several pairs of eyes fixated on him.
Great. Someone, probably Dominguez, had filled in Alpha team on what happened in New York. About Angela. Despite the silent camaraderie, his relationship with Angela didn’t compare to the loss all these men had experienced: friends, teammates, marriages.
He kept moving to avoid conversation. Each hour that passed without word on Angela pushed him closer to the edge. He needed information so he could concentrate on the mission. They had their hands full in New York trying to track down al-Shehri, but couldn’t Carswell spare two fucking minutes to call him? Unable to take it any longer, Tony slipped outside and called the New York FBI office again.
“Supervisory Special Agent Carswell isn’t in the office,” the operator said.
Though he hadn’t expected him to be in, Tony debated whether to leave another message. “Can I talk to Special Agent Calomiris or leave him a voice mail?” With Jarrod and Angela’s past, he might have better luck with Cal.
Halfway through the message for Calomiris, the back door opened, and Dita bounded out, followed by Hightower and Grant. Tony inserted a finger in his ear to block out the distraction of the men’s voices while they tossed a tennis ball for the dog to retrieve.
