High Treason

by DiAnn Mills

  “The man is like a brother to me. When have you ever seen me use poor judgment, emotion or not?”

  “Our careers are finished if the plot is successful. More innocent Americans may be at risk. The conservatives in Saudi Arabia are dragging us to the gallows with the death of one of their own citizens.”

  Kord swallowed his ire. “I am well aware of the potential repercussions. The consul general’s security is also a concern. What’s being done there?”

  SAC Thomas drew in a breath. “Everything possible. Heavily guarded. Surveillance teams.”

  “Doesn’t mean he won’t be a target.”

  “We’ll work our end. You work yours.” He looked at his watch. “When will Prince Omar and his bodyguards be done with prayers?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  “I’m due in a meeting, which means I’ll miss them. Give my regards and contact me later. You want to prove Malik’s knee-deep in this? You have forty-eight hours. We all have the same amount of time. No one wants this settled more than I do. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  SAC Thomas frowned and left the room. Kord understood the pressure the FBI and the CIA were under to keep the prince alive. But neither of the men had more at stake than Kord. Nothing in his growing-up years slid close to the level of commitment he had with Prince Omar.

  He texted Monica.

  Holding Malik 48 hrs.

  If he’d lure Yasmine 2 lie & break culture, he can’t b trusted. What about trip 2 Iraq?

  Same story as yours. Anything on ur end?

  Youssof Dagher returned 2 Iraq.

  Why?

  Don’t know. Working on finding him.

  News from princesses?

  No. I don’t trust Malik.

  Jury’s out here.

  Why had Youssof returned to Iraq? The other matter that wouldn’t leave Kord alone was Nasim. Why hadn’t he called?

  SHORTLY AFTER 1 P.M., the FBI arranged transportation for Prince Omar, Ali, and Kord to the Saud home. The rain had ceased and receding waters made driving easier.

  “Ali, contact the men at the house. I want all of you to hear this,” Prince Omar said once in the vehicle. When the three bodyguards were in listening mode, the prince began again. Obviously not concerned about the FBI agent driving the car hearing every word. “Authorities have enough cause to keep Malik in custody forty-eight hours while they investigate his story and a possible connection to the assassination plot. According to US law, they need evidence to incarcerate him any longer. In my opinion, he’s not being held long enough to verify his statements. But if released, he will be sent home for us to deal with. He’s lucky to have his life.”

  No mention of Yasmine.

  “Do any of you have reason—and proof—to distrust Malik?” His voice was shrouded in anger.

  None of them expressed doubts.

  If a thirty-two-year-old man had been sneaking around seeing Kord’s teenage sister, which he didn’t have, Malik might have a few broken bones. The one consolation was Ali acting as press secretary. A fine man in Kord’s opinion. Hot-tempered and highly intelligent. Although Monica distrusted him. Kord could be closer to Ali and the prince, a strong team. And if Malik was at fault, his treachery ended now.

  The vehicle pulled up to the gate, but it was open.

  “Why is the gate unlocked?” Kord strained to see any vehicles.

  “Food delivery.” Ali rubbed his face, no doubt worn-out like the rest of them. “The driver is prompt every afternoon.”

  “Who do you use?”

  “A service on Wilcrest.”

  Working without sleep had hit Kord hard this morning, and at times it clouded his judgment. He blinked and studied the van parked in the rear. The food delivery service had an impeccable reputation, but something wasn’t sitting right with him.

  “Ali, once we’ve parked, let’s talk to the driver,” he said.

  “I’ve met him, and he’s trustworthy. I made sure he passed security clearance.”

  “The one you’ve spoken to could be a great guy, but I’d like to talk—”

  “Makes sense.”

  Once Prince Omar was escorted inside the home, Ali and Kord made their way to the kitchen pantry, where fresh food was being stacked on a counter.

  “You’re a different driver from yesterday,” Ali said in Arabic.

  A short, round man with olive skin and dark hair sized up Ali before responding. “This is his day off.” He answered in English, his voice holding no hint of an accent.

  “I’d like to see your identification.” Ali’s size alone spoke of intimidation. Possible face-off? Kord might recruit him for the FBI.

  “I left it in the van.” He added a small box of bananas to the counter, and the cook examined them.

  Ali glared down his nose at the driver. “We’ll retrieve it together.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  Ali crossed his arms over his massive chest. “We’re doing our job for Prince Omar. Ensuring his family’s safety is our priority.”

  “I’ll join you,” Kord said. Ali nodded and he followed.

  Outside, the spring weather held a hefty breeze. Typical March. The closer they walked to the white food-service van, the more the driver sped up his pace.

  “Are you new to the food industry?” Kord kept stride beside him.

  “I’ve been driving this van for eight years.”

  Kord touched his Glock inside his jacket. “The owners have been in business for six years.”

  The man chuckled. “Seems like eight.” He opened the driver’s side of the van. “I thought I’d left my wallet on the rear seat.”

  Kord and Ali waited.

  “Maybe I dropped it.” He entered the van and the door slid shut. The lock clicked.

  Kord reached for the driver’s door at the same time Ali grabbed the passenger door. Both locked.

  The engine roared to life. The driver slammed the van into reverse, knocking Kord and Ali backward. The tires squealed in protest, and the van whirled around, heading straight for the gate. The driver lowered his window and fired their direction.

  “The gate controls.” Ali rushed toward the manual panel in the garage with his phone to his ear.

  Kord fired repeatedly at the moving target while racing after it. Bullets flew through a passenger side window. The van swerved as though Kord had hit the target. Bullets soared into the metal and one hit a tire. The van pushed through the gate on three wheels.

  Yanking his phone from his jacket, Kord pressed in the secure line that fed to HPD, giving the driver and van description along with license plate numbers. Second call went to SAC Thomas while Kord hurried back to Ali.

  “Are you all right?” Ali said.

  Kord nodded. “Made the calls. I got his license plate, and the security camera at the gate will have it too.” He pointed to the rear entrance leading to the pantry. “The food’s probably poisoned.” Alarm jarred his senses.

  While bolting through the door, he remembered the four boxes of fresh produce and the ability to hide an explosive device.

  “Get those boxes out of the house.” Kord’s arm stung, and a quick look showed blood had seeped through his left jacket sleeve. Ali’s question made sense. Grabbing two boxes, he pushed through the pain to carry them to the far corner of the property. Ali was right behind him with the other two. Near the rear west corner, they carefully laid them on the water-soaked grass.

  “Get on back to the house,” Kord said. “If a bomb’s here, you’ll be blown with it. Don’t think you’d do well as vegetable soup.” He lifted produce from a box, listening and looking.

  Ali did the same. “My loyalty is to the amir.” He snorted. “Here it is. Five minutes and counting. Have you ever disarmed a bomb?”

  “Only a trip-wired device in your neck of the woods. Anything else is . . . Monica. She can do it.”

  Ali tore across the grounds to the house, his phone in hand. Kord cal
led her. Didn’t matter who got to her first.

  When she answered, he said, “Bomb on west side of grounds.” He pressed End and dropped the phone on the grass.

  Staring at the bomb, he noted, in addition to the timer, a cell phone was attached and could also serve as a trigger for the explosive device. Anyone with that phone’s number could initiate a remote detonation at any moment.

  The sophistication of the bomb was a long way from a wire across a dirt road in a third-world country. Seconds ticked away as he kept one eye on the timer and the other on the rear of the house, as if his concentration could hurry her or delay the driver from remotely triggering the explosive.

  Monica raced toward him.

  Three minutes, eleven seconds.

  Not sure how those short legs pumped her body so fast. Ali hurried behind her carrying what looked like a small tool belt. Smart man. She’d need it. Once she was beside Kord, she knelt with her focus on the device. “The last time I did this was in the downtown underground tunnels,” she whispered, not once looking his way. “Then I had a coverage suit, Kevlar vest, a mask, and a pair of Nomex gloves. But I can work without them. First off, I need wire clippers before some jerk detonates this baby.”

  Ali handed her the tool.

  Kord didn’t respond. From experience, he understood she needed to concentrate on each step, and talking must put her in the right zone.

  Two minutes, forty-seven seconds.

  In the distance, sirens grew closer. His phone vibrated.

  “Answer it, Kord,” she said with the voice of an angel. “I have this.”

  “It can wait.”

  “Unless you’re praying, you aren’t a help.”

  One minute, fifty-one seconds. He turned his phone off.

  She explored the device.

  One minute, eleven seconds.

  If her God was watching, they all could use the help.

  Fifty-eight seconds.

  Monica peered at the wires and clipped. “Not yet,” she said. “There’s another wire.”

  Twenty-three seconds.

  “Where are you?” She smiled and clipped a second wire. “We’re good.”

  Seven seconds remaining.

  MONICA PICKED UP a box of veggies and walked toward an FBI SUV. The agents would transfer the food to a lab for testing. Perspiration beaded her face while adrenaline continued to flow. Inside, she trembled like a leaf blown by the wind.

  Thank You. Every inch of me shivered. You know I’d never seen that type of bomb before.

  “You can have my back anytime.” Kord attempted to take the box from her arms.

  She hadn’t noted him approaching her. Where were her operative skills? “I still have this. You’re bleeding, by the way, and I’m not a nurse.”

  “I can plaster on a Band-Aid.”

  Ali took the load with the toolbox in the other hand, and she laughed. “Thanks.”

  “Miss Alden. I have never seen a woman with your skills. I’m impressed.”

  “I grew up in a family of boys, climbed trees, fished, played baseball, and hunted instead of learning girl things.”

  “You don’t cook?”

  She laughed again, one way she relieved stress. “I can roast and brew a mean cup of coffee, and I can bake, but not cook.” She noted Kord’s blood-soaked jacket sleeve. “You need that tended to ASAP. Infection can set in real fast.”

  “I requested an ambulance,” Ali said. The man had spoken more in the last thirty minutes than the entire time she’d been there. “Kord has a reputation for not seeking medical attention.”

  “Do you have firsthand knowledge of some of his exploits?”

  “Zain told me plenty.”

  She softened her tone. “I’d like to hear them.”

  “Ask Kord. I’m sure he’d play the hero.”

  “I’m right beside you,” Kord said. “My hearing’s just fine.”

  “I remember you running barefoot after a man who attempted to assault the prince,” Ali said.

  “In Saudi?” she said. “Why was he barefoot?”

  “Actually, he’d just stepped out of the—”

  “Never mind, Ali. Monica doesn’t need to hear that story. Are you getting all Western on us?”

  “I think so.”

  The bantering between the two men relieved the apprehension she’d once had for Ali’s reasons for protecting the prince. Ali’s staying close while she disarmed the bomb had garnered a huge load of respect for him.

  “Kord, who called you when we were back there?”

  “SAC Thomas. Left a voice mail.”

  Curiosity about Special Agent Kord Davidson swirled warm through her. The more she discovered about him, the more she admired. At the outset, he’d been against her as his partner. And when she learned he and Prince Omar were friends, she understood he felt responsible for what had happened, although it wasn’t his negligence but the work of a killer. Yet he’d demonstrated courage and wisdom with his priority as a federal agent in a case that had the potential of serious implications. A twinge of undeniable attraction had crept into her heart. Memories of Liam slammed into her brain, and she swept personal thoughts about Kord under a rug called “detonated dreams.”

  A paramedic treated his left arm. Thankfully, the bullet had taken a hunk of flesh but not embedded. He refused a ride to the hospital and requested they bandage him up.

  “He needs a tetanus shot,” she said. His type usually let precaution slide. She should know.

  “You’re in luck. We have one.” A young paramedic turned to Kord. “When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Kord?” Monica felt as though she were talking to one of her burly brothers. “I saved your rear. Take the shot.”

  And he did.

  After the boxes of food were loaded and the agents drove away, Prince Omar approached them on the terrace with Saad, Wasi, and four police officers. Even with a bomb nearly sending him to pieces, the prince walked proudly. Sort of reminding her of a lion. Kord explained what happened and his role of alerting law enforcement and contacting the security company that allowed the van to enter and exit the property.

  Kord nodded at the officers. “Has the driver been arrested?”

  “HPD and the FBI have men on it,” an officer said. “The original driver was found unconscious by a Dumpster at the food distribution center, and the van had been abandoned in a downtown alley. The FBI has sent a team to sweep it.”

  Monica bit her tongue. The intricately designed scheme had well-plotted stamped on it—and Middle Eastern money, in her opinion.

  “The driver spoke English when Ali questioned him in Arabic,” Kord said.

  Reality swirled in her stomach. Today had come dangerously close to the enemy claiming victory. The driver had failed but for certain he had plans B and C with every detail covered.

  “How was the original driver injured? A blow to the head?” she said.

  “No, ma’am. I’ve been told a medically induced coma.”

  “Probably a barbiturate.” She’d contact Jeff at the next possible moment. Her handler had a way of pulling facts from thin air.

  Ali interrupted her thoughts with his announcement of her heroism. “Miss Alden disarmed the bomb or we’d all be dead.”

  She sensed Prince Omar’s gaze. Dare she be Western and give him eye contact, or should she avoid those dark pools of power and age-old culture? She chose the latter, feeling God wanted her testimony to be respectful.

  “Miss Alden, I sincerely appreciate your contribution to saving lives today. My family is indebted to you,” he said. “Later, we should discuss other matters.”

  A nudging in her spirit told her two things—she’d succeeded in gaining his favor, and he’d overheard the earlier conversation with Fatima and Yasmine. The prince would have questions, and she hoped none of them dealt with Liam.

  Within the hour, Monica had identified the coma-inducing drug used against the
food-service driver—injected pentobarbital. The original driver was a naturalized Iranian, been in the US for sixteen years. No priors or ties to terrorists. She wanted to talk to him, but her duties stayed intact at the Saud home.

  Jeff offered to patch her and Kord into an FBI interview with the driver at the hospital. She connected to the video feed while Kord watched the interview with Prince Omar in the prince’s office.

  “While I was leaving the warehouse parking lot, a car pulled in front of me so I couldn’t move. A short, round man wearing a ball cap and sunglasses exited and approached me. Beard too. He smiled and waved. He said he needed directions and had a hearing problem. That’s when I saw his car, a Honda.”

  “Did he speak English?”

  “Farsi.”

  Was the man they were seeking Iranian?

  “Did you see the license plate?”

  “No, sir. But I do remember a huge dent on the passenger side of his car.” He paused as though trying to recall any details. “I got out of my van. It happened so fast. He stuck a needle into my neck. That’s all I remember until I woke up here.”

  “Had you seen the man before?” a female FBI agent said.

  “No, ma’am.” Tight facial muscles.

  “Can you give us more of a description?”

  “He was Iranian like me.”

  “Could you identify the man in a lineup?”

  “Not sure. But I’d try. Don’t you have people who can draw a picture of what I remember?”

  “We do, and we value your help.”

  When the interview ended, Monica closed her eyes. She’d not seen the potential bomber to recall his identity, her one trait that had raised her status for this mission. The Iranian driver could have been victim number four. Her phone rang, and as she expected, it was Kord.

  “Not much to go on, but the assailant’s description is similar to the man who posed as the consul general’s limo driver outside MD Anderson.”

  “Kord, the two men have different body shapes, but I agree he can’t conceal his height unless he wears platform shoes. Is the driver alive because of his nationality or is he lying?”

  “I requested a surveillance team.”

  “And I’ll see if there’s anything hiding in his background.” She saw the hour approached 3:30. “I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes. Has SAC Thomas questioned Malik about the bomb?”