“First of all, Mr. Barakat,” Heather said, “I hope you won’t take offense at my accusations, but you have been following me. And with all the crazy things that have happened, I just assumed . . . I mean, before I realized . . .”
“Please, it’s Musa.” He flushed. “And yes, that is true. I have been following you. To be honest, I have been trying to work up the nerve to approach you. In my country, as I am sure you’re aware, this conversation would not be happening. Not like this anyway.”
“Of course.”
“And while things are changing in my great land, I am from a very conservative part of the country, and I was not sure exactly what to do here. I may be very vocal about the progress my country needs to make in its treatment of women and what should be culturally accepted and thrown out, but to be here, in America, well, let us just say, it is one thing to shout it from a podium, it is quite another to see it happening here in person.”
“I think I understand, but why not just call me?”
“Because I was afraid . . .”
“Afraid . . .”
“Afraid you would not want to speak to me. And if you refused to speak with me, I would be obligated to return home without accomplishing what I had come all this way for. No, it was better to speak to you in person.”
Heather flinched. “Why would you think that I wouldn’t want to talk to you?”
“Because of the grief my country has brought to yours. But I had to meet you. Each time I thought it might be the right time to approach you, something happened. Either someone would come talk to you or you would be on your phone and I did not want to interrupt. I was hoping to simply catch you alone, but you are almost never alone—except when you are at your home. I did not think approaching you in the hospital would be best as you were working, but knocking on your front door would not be appropriate either.”
“You could have.”
He offered her a wry smile. “I suppose, but, for me, that is not how things are done. When you disappeared for those few weeks, I almost gave up and returned home, but I could not.” His eyes flickered. “Not until I had seen you face-to-face. Not until you knew the truth about Abdul.”
Heather leaned forward. “Okay, tell me.”
Travis couldn’t help wonder if the man didn’t want anyone knowing he was in the US because it would allow his opposition to strike while he was absent. Raid his home, take the rest of his family, whatever.
Musa frowned. “Abdul did not want to blow up that hospital. He was forced to put the bomb on.”
“Who forced him?”
Caden had fallen silent, casting glances at his phone every so often, and Travis figured he was waiting for Annie or Daria to get back to him about Mr. Barakat.
“I have my suspicions, of course,” the man said, “but no evidence to back those up. I did not find out about the whole plan until it was too late. But Abdul did what he did to protect his brother.” He swallowed and looked away for a moment. When he lifted his gaze again, Travis flinched at the raw pain there. “Abdul left his phone behind. I know his password and I found that he had received a text message from someone. It was a picture of my younger son. He had been taken, with orders for Abdul to do as instructed or his brother would die.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, and turned it so they could see. A young dark-haired, dark-eyed boy stared tearfully into the camera. His hands were bound, and a knife rested against his throat. “Rayi is only eight, he will be nine next week,” Musa said. “He and Abdul were very close. Ever since he was born, Abdul considered himself his protector. And so, he strapped the bomb on his chest as ordered, put on the shirt to hide the bomb, and went to blow up the hospital. He would have done anything for his brother—including die for him. Which he did.” His throat worked and he looked away.
“I’m so sorry,” Heather whispered.
“When I came here,” Musa said, all expression gone now, “my goal was to thank you for working so hard to save Abdul. I wanted to see the woman doctor who did not seem to care that her patient was the boy who wore a bomb on his chest.” He cleared his throat and met her gaze. “I wanted to meet the woman who heard my son’s last words.” He paused. “He was sent to blow up the hospital. No doubt to kill as many Americans as possible. Why did you try to save him?”
“Because that’s what I do. If someone needs help, I try to help.” She rubbed her eyes. “And Abdul asked me to help him.” She leaned forward. “You’re right, he didn’t want to do it. He took off his shirt to warn us—to show me the bomb. I think he knew there was a remote that would trigger the explosion, but in the end, he couldn’t kill innocent people. When whoever was controlling the bomb saw that he was trying to warn us, they detonated it.”
Musa blanched. “He tried to warn you?”
“Yes. You didn’t know?”
He shook his head. “I did not find his note until too late. It explained everything. Why he did it and where to find his brother. But he made no mention of his plan to not follow through.”
“It may have been a last-minute decision,” Gavin said.
Caden nodded. “That’s what I think. And Rayi was all right?”
“Yes. He was released shortly after Abdul left for the hospital. Traumatized, but physically unharmed. He will be okay.” He adjusted the baseball cap.
“So, they let Rayi go before they knew Abdul defied their orders,” Travis said.
“Yes, and he and my wife are under heavy guard at a secret location at the moment.”
“So, you came all this way to tell me this?” Heather asked.
“I did. But also because I wanted to apologize in person. My stance on my country’s cultural beliefs and treatment of women and children is well known. I have many enemies and it seems they have found a way to get to me—through my children. Once, laughter filled my home in spite of the turmoil in my country, the stress of my job, and my outspoken views. But now there is just the sound of my wife’s sobs. I was hoping that if I met you, talked to the woman who was with Abdul in his last moments . . . well, I suppose I was hoping it might bring some closure in addition to everything else.”
“Closure is a good thing.” Heather’s heart pounded her own rhythm of grief, the memories swarming, invading the semblance of peace she’d managed to find over the last few months.
“Sounds like you’ve made some serious enemies,” Caden said. “Can you think of anyone specific? Have you had any threats that really stand out?”
Musa’s features clouded. “No. And I have gone over and over it with that fine-tooth comb you Americans are fond of. I have come up with nothing. I mean, yes, of course, there have been threats, but we took precautions. Mostly we had been concerned they’d try to kill me, but instead, they went after my sons. They watched them, paid off their bodyguard, and grabbed them on their way home from school.” He scoffed. “And no one saw a thing.”
Someone saw something, but no one wanted to come forward. Heather frowned. “You’ve done some investigating on your own, I’m sure.”
“I have.” He smoothed his mustache. “I cannot sleep or eat or function some days. The death toll for children in Afghanistan is the highest in the world. Of course, we know this. Everyone knows this. But it does not make the pain any less. I must know who killed my son.” His eyes hardened. “And I will find out one way or another.”
“Was the shirt special?” Heather asked.
He blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The shirt he was wearing the day he died. Was it special to him?”
“No. Not that I know of. I had never seen it before. Why?”
She shook her head. “I have it. I kept it. You can have it back if it would . . . help . . . in any way.”
Musa tilted his head and studied her. “You kept his shirt?”
“I . . . yes . . . but don’t ask me to explain, please. I can’t.”
Once again, the man’s emotions nearly overcame him, but he fought them back with visible effort.
“I . . . no. It is special to you, I can tell. Keep it. Do not let his memory fade. Remember he died a hero, not a terrorist.”
“I’ll remember,” Heather whispered. A tear traced down her cheek, and she swiped it and straightened her shoulders. “Thank you for coming.”
“I am sorry I scared you. I just had to be careful.”
“I understand. Now.”
“Your English is very good,” Travis said.
“I had many tutors growing up. My father wanted me to go into banking, not politics. He thought it very important for his son to speak English. Abdul spoke it just about as well as I do.”
Caden tapped the table. “Just a moment if you don’t mind. I’ve thought of another question.”
“Yes?”
“How’d you know Heather would be here at the hospital? If you’re not involved in trying to hurt her, how did you know to find her here?”
Musa shrugged. “It was an educated guess. Her friend Asher James is in this hospital. It only makes sense that she would show up at some point to see him.”
Heather flinched. Talk about predictable. “So, you’ve just been waiting for me to arrive.”
“Yes.”
“But we came in the back way.”
“And as I was walking, I spotted a small caravan of security in the parking lot. I simply waited and saw you coming in. Some things can be attributed to—how do you say—dumb luck, no? I waited to see what floor you got off on and followed.” He frowned. “Although that is not the room I expected you to go to, so I lost track of you for a while. I have been wandering the floor, looking for you. You are here to see someone else?”
“It’s a long story.” Heather drew in a deep breath, her mind processing everything she’d just learned. She pulled her phone from her pocket. “Could I have your number?”
“Of course.” Musa gave it to her and she tapped it into her device.
When she finished, she looked at Travis. “Well, that solves one problem but raises another.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”
“If he’s not the one who’s been after me and behind the attempts on my life . . .”
“Then who is?”
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
With tons of questions but no answers, Travis led Heather, Caden, and Gavin to Asher’s room, only to find him dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed.
Brooke’s eyes widened when she saw them. “We’re just getting ready to leave. What are you guys doing back here?”
“It’s a long story,” Heather said. “I’ll fill you in later.”
Asher’s gaze connected with Gavin’s. “Have you heard?”
Gavin frowned. “No, what?”
“Benny Silver committed suicide.”
“What? When? How?”
“Six weeks ago. Shot himself in his basement up in Michigan.”
Gavin pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Aw, man. And we’re just hearing about this now?”
“I know.”
“Who’s Benny Silver?” Travis asked.
“Wait a minute,” Heather said before anyone could answer Travis. “I remember him. He was the one involved in Gina’s husband’s friendly fire death, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
Heather glanced at Travis. “I treated him at the hospital for something before we left on our sandboarding trip. I do remember he was really down and asked one of the psychiatrists to come in and do an evaluation.”
“Apparently, he was battling depression over the friendly fire incident,” Asher said, his voice soft. He rubbed his eyes, then dropped his hands. “I can’t believe we’re just now hearing about this. Usually the grapevine is much quicker. My buddy Matthew Irwin called to check on me and told me he’d just found out from—” He waved a hand. “Well, it doesn’t matter. No one found him until last week. His neighbor said she’d noticed a smell coming from the house and at first didn’t think anything about it. Then said it eventually faded, but a flock of vultures kept coming into the yard. She went to investigate, looked in the basement window, and saw him.”
Travis shuddered. “How awful. Where did everyone think he was?”
“Still overseas. He never told his family he was coming home. His sister is beside herself, and Benny’s parents . . .” He shook his head. “It’s bad.”
“Oh my—”
“Does Gina know?” Travis asked.
“Sarah and one of her shadows are on their way to tell her now.”
“Any more sightings of the man they saw following them?” Heather asked.
“No, nothing yet.”
“Well, this day just keeps getting better and better,” Gavin muttered.
The sadness in Heather’s eyes cramped Travis’s heart. He gripped her hand briefly and she shot him a tight smile.
“All right,” he said, “I think it’s time for Heather and me to head back to my place. Anyone want to make sure we’re not followed?”
“I’ll help,” Asher said quickly. At Brooke’s ferocious glare, he ducked his head. “Or not,” he mumbled. “Maybe next time?”
Brooke looked at Heather. “If he was the only one available to help, it would be a no-brainer, but I think he needs to sit this one out.”
“Of course.” She lifted a hand to rub her eyes. “I’m sorry. I feel like such a burden.”
“What! No.” Brooke hurried to wrap her friend in a hug. “That’s one thing you’ll never be.” She pulled away and patted Heather’s shoulder. “It’s just the doctor was very specific about what Asher could and couldn’t do if he wanted to leave the hospital, and Asher promised. Didn’t you, sweetheart?”
“I did.”
“And Heather will be perfectly fine in the care of Travis, Gavin, and Caden, will she not?”
“She will,” Asher agreed. “Absolutely.” He lifted his head and met each man’s gaze. “But if you need me, Brooke will be fine with it.”
Gavin patted the man on the shoulder. “I think we’ve got this covered.”
Asher nodded, and Travis led the way out of the room toward the elevator. Travis’s phone rang the minute the doors swooshed open. “Hold up, it’s Ryker.” He swiped the screen. “Ryker? How are you doing?”
“Not good. My dad beat up the doc.”
The teen’s harsh words laced with panic slammed him. “Did you call 911?”
Three sets of eyes locked on Travis.
“Yes. He’s got a bad laceration on his head. Maybe a broken rib or two. I don’t know.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“I . . . I don’t know that either.” The teen coughed to cover up a sob, but Travis heard it loud and clear.
“Take a deep breath, Ryker,” he said. “Tell me the details.”
“I’d just gotten back from a run to the medical supply store. I entered through the back of the clinic and heard a yell, then a loud crash. When I ran into the doc’s office, my dad was beating on him.”
“Oh man . . .”
“I yelled at him to stop and he came after me.”
Travis closed his eyes, envisioning the scene playing out. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I pushed him off of me and out of the doc’s office. After I locked the door, I grabbed the phone and called 911. We’re at the hospital. I couldn’t get him to wake up, Travis. What if he dies because of me? What if—”
“Stop right there. This isn’t your fault. Tell me where you are.” He had to be in the same hospital.
“I’m in the ER. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Ryker muttered.
“What is it?”
“Child Services is here.” He let out a harsh laugh. “If they think I’m going with them to some strange home, they’re out of their minds.”
“Just tell them they can work on a placement for you, but you want to stay with the doc. I’ll come sit with you, okay?”
“It’s my fault,” he said, his voice low.
“It’s not.”
“My dad came looking for me and he—” Ryker broke off and Travis waited, his heart pounding an empathetic ache for the hurting teen. “Earlier, he’d told me to stay away from Dr. Colson, and I told him to mind his own business. He lost it when he saw my bike there. I’d driven the doc’s truck to get the supplies.”
Travis pressed the button on the elevator and the others followed him inside when the doors opened. “Hang tight. We’re coming down.”
“Coming down? Where are you?”
“Upstairs.”
A grunt. “Get away from me, man.”
“Sorry?”
“Some social worker is trying to tell me I need to go with him. I’m not going.”
“Tell him I’m coming. You can stay with me.”
Heather raised a brow at him, but a small smile curved her lips, and the look in her eyes said his impulsive offer had been the right thing to do.
The elevator opened, and Travis led the way down the hall, with Heather hurrying along beside him. Gavin and Caden stayed with them.
Travis pushed through the heavy door and stopped when he saw Ryker sitting in a chair, a young dark-headed guy not more than five years older than Ryker standing to the side.
“Hey, you okay?”
Ryker’s head snapped up. “Travis. You came.”
“I said I would.”
“Yeah, but . . . yeah.” His eyes moved to Heather, then Gavin and Caden. “Thanks.”
“I’m Mickey O’Reilly with CPS,” the young man said.
“Who called you?”
“The hospital. Apparently, they’re familiar with Ryker.”
Ryker’s glare should have incinerated the man. “I’m not going with you. I’m seventeen.”
O’Reilly held up a hand. “It’s not up to me. It’s the way the law works.”
“I’ll just run away, so why don’t we save us all the paperwork and trouble?”
O’Reilly frowned. “Look, I’m sorry, I don’t want to do this either, but it’s my job.”
“Look,” Travis said, “he hasn’t been removed from his home, so technically he’s not in the system right now. He can come stay with me and I can protect him.”
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