High Treason

by DiAnn Mills

  “And by kissing me, you’ll get it too.”

  “I have a great immune system.”

  She bit into her lip, but he saw another smile.

  After she texted Lori about leaving the café, Monica reset the alarm, and they made their way to the front door. Rain fell in a splashing deluge. Kord noted movement to the right side of the storefront window.

  “Unlock the door. I saw someone out there,” he said, grasping his weapon.

  She quickly obliged. “I’m going with you.”

  Outside, he couldn’t hear a thing but water beating against the pavement. A bullet whizzed over his head and shattered the café’s glass window, sending the alarm into a screech. Gunfire erupted around them.

  KORD GRABBED MONICA and together they knelt back-to-back on the concrete and fired in the direction of the shooters—at least two from opposite directions.

  Sheets of rain distorted their vision, but it also was a disadvantage to whoever wanted them dead. A chain of expletives exploded in his mind. This was why he refused to believe in a God. They were the good guys. He yanked out his phone and called for backup.

  Monica took out a streetlight, then another, in the fog-like rain.

  One tiny lady with lots of guts. “We’ve got to get out of here.” Kord twisted and destroyed a light inside the café.

  They moved toward a parked car hugging the curb and crouched behind the wheels. Bullets flew around them.

  “Backup can’t get here soon enough,” she said in the mass of nature’s noise and gunfire.

  “We can take these guys.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.”

  Sirens grew closer. Gunfire exploded against their car cover. The sound of a vehicle peeling out met his ears before HPD arrived. She crept around the car. Another spray of bullets indicated a shooter still had them in his sights.

  “Stay down, Monica. A hero’s plaque on the CIA’s Memorial Wall doesn’t do you any good. Nor will I get any more kisses.”

  Three HPD cars whirled onto the street, and when the shooting stopped and a second vehicle sped off, one of the squad cars took off after it.

  “We’re not letting that guy get away.” She raced to Kord’s Charger.

  He bolted to the car first and had the engine roaring before she slammed her door.

  Kord trailed behind the HPD vehicle down Franklin, the wheels sloshing through the flooded streets. The suspect’s car faced the same slow progress and then picked up speed when it turned and hit the on-ramp for Highway 59 north.

  The suspect raced ahead on the highway where the road lay slick. “The last thing we need is for him to kill himself.”

  “No answers from a dead man,” she said. “I want names.”

  “Sure would hate to make you mad.”

  “That goes both ways.”

  He chuckled despite the situation and passed the HPD vehicle with its glaring lights and siren. “He’s traveling 90 miles an hour.”

  The suspect’s car hit a patch of water and hydroplaned. Flipped twice, landed upside down in the middle of the road. Exploded. Burst into flames.

  In the diluted haze of lights and destruction, Kord and Monica assisted two HPD officers in freeing the man trapped inside the burning car. They battled hot, rising flames, shielding their faces while moments ticked by on the life of the man pinned inside. His screams in Arabic pierced through their attempts to free him. Kord ripped off his shirt to protect his hands from the hot metal. Monica did the same with her jacket. They struggled together with the officers to yank open the searing driver’s door. Kord reached across the man to release his seat belt.

  “Monica, you won’t believe this, but it’s Youssof Dagher,” he said, knowing only she would comprehend the significance.

  Kord pulled him by his shoulders from the burning wreckage. The officers helped move him onto the side of the highway. Dagher’s body was twisted in a mass of raw flesh, his cries pushing him to unconsciousness. In the distance the call of an ambulance sounded closer.

  Monica bent to the man’s side, the rain increasing in intensity. “Youssof, I can’t imagine your pain. But help is coming. Hold on. Be strong.”

  At that moment, Kord saw a woman who cared more about a criminal’s physical pain than his lousy choices. Kord accepted his growing feelings for her, not knowing where it might take him.

  Paramedics lifted Dagher onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. The four stood wordlessly watching the vehicle disappear in the same haze of light that had brought them here.

  “Choices,” she said.

  He turned to her.

  “They define us.” She swiped beneath her eyes, but he couldn’t tell if it was the rain or a tear.

  “We have questions,” one of the officers said.

  “We’re FBI on assignment.”

  “Figured so. What do you say about getting into our car and out of this rain?”

  Kord and Monica obliged and dripped water over the rear seat of the police vehicle. They displayed their FBI creds.

  The officer who’d spoken to them sat on the front passenger side. He handed their IDs to the driver before giving Kord and Monica his attention. “What happened?”

  “I suggest you contact SAC Thomas at the FBI office.” He gave his supervisor’s cell phone number. The call wouldn’t be a surprise.

  “Got to verify you two first.”

  Kord couldn’t blame the men. HPD’s role in protecting the city meant confirming information. The idea of Youssof Dagher dying before answering questions played on his mind.

  Monica coughed, raspy, rattling.

  “You running a fever?” Her lips had been a bit too warm when he kissed her.

  “I’m never sick.”

  Within five minutes, the police officer and Kord had talked to SAC Thomas and the two were free and ordered to return to the Saud home. They hurried to his Charger and back into town. On the way, he phoned Ali and relayed the details of the shooting.

  Monica coughed again.

  “Is that her?” Ali said.

  “Yep. Claims she never gets sick, but she’s been trained in the art of deceit.”

  “From now on, remind her to take better care of herself.”

  “I imagine she’ll remember on her own.” Kord rubbed his face. “I’ll notify Jeff. You’ll update Prince Omar?”

  “On my way to wake him. See you in a few minutes.”

  Kord reached over and touched her forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  “And since when is an FBI agent a medical authority?”

  “Don’t need fancy letters after my name to see a doctor is in your future.” The woman beside him, the CIA operative who worked harder than any man, required help that he couldn’t provide.

  “A glass of orange juice and a couple of Tylenol, and I’ll be fine. Both are at the Saud home.”

  IN KORD’S CAR, Monica fought sleep when normally adrenaline raced sky-high. In the shadows, she felt her forehead. Rats. She did have a fever, and the throb in her head, along with the sore throat and pain when she breathed, indicated a cold on steroids. She’d tried to push aside the symptoms for nearly a week.

  “Can’t we follow up on Dagher at the hospital?” she said. “Forget what SAC Thomas said?”

  “Our role is protection. One look at you, and the nurses would have a bed ready.”

  She moaned, couldn’t help herself. The cloud in her head messed up her thinking.

  “Shall we visit the ER?” Kord said.

  “Now you’re talking. I want to talk to—”

  “Not Youssof Dagher, but you.”

  “I’m not sick.”

  “Right. I’ll see about an FBI doctor meeting us at the Saud home.”

  “There’s no cure for the common cold.”

  “Let the doctor decide that.”

  Best change the subject. “I hate what happened to Lori’s shop.”

  “She has insurance, right?”

  “Yes. But she’s going to lose busine
ss for a few days. I’ll make sure she receives a cash deposit into her bank account.”

  “You’re such a clandestine operative.”

  Closing her eyes for just a moment, she drifted off to sleep.

  Kord requested a doctor for Monica and alerted Ali to what he feared was bronchitis or worse. “Her whole body shakes when she coughs.”

  “Should she be in the hospital?”

  “She’d shoot both of us.”

  He rumbled his laughter. “I’ll be on the lookout for the doctor and meet you at the back.”

  Kord and Ali had it bad for the same woman. Nearing the mansion, he received a call from HPD with an update on the first vehicle that had left the scene.

  “A security cam picked up license plates of a car leaving the area shortly before officers arrived,” the HPD officer said. “We’re on it now.”

  When Kord turned off the engine at the rear of the home, she didn’t move. Ali hurried from the garage with an umbrella and met him on the passenger side of the car. Kord opened the door. “Monica, we’re here.”

  Not a sound.

  He scooped up her body, feeling the heat radiating through her wet clothes. Ali held the umbrella over her, and they rushed inside.

  “What are you doing?” she mumbled.

  “Putting you to bed,” Kord said.

  “Bad pickup line.”

  “Miss Alden,” Ali said, “the prince has informed his sisters of your arrival.”

  She didn’t seem to hear.

  Kord carried her through the rear of the home and up the stairs to her room. Blonde hair lay across his arms, tickling him. He wanted to stare into her face but chose against it considering Ali walked with him. When he thought about how the two had nearly been killed tonight, how they were perfect targets inside the lit café, yet neither of them had been wounded . . . what a coincidence.

  Could it have been God? But He hadn’t helped her see Liam’s deception.

  At the door leading into the women’s quarters, Ali knocked and the prince opened it. Fatima and Yasmine were nowhere to be seen, most likely in their rooms until the men left.

  Prince Omar pointed to a room where Kord laid her on a bed.

  “My sisters will sit with her,” the prince said.

  “Good.” They left the room and learned FBI medical help had arrived.

  While the doctor tended to Monica, Ali and Kord sat with Prince Omar in his office.

  “Before we discuss what happened tonight,” the prince said, “I’m thinking about sending my sisters home. This is far too dangerous for them.”

  Kord inwardly sighed relief. “Good.”

  “I’ll not make arrangements until I think this through and we have more details. My father has assured me he’ll protect them. It’s telling our mother that concerns me. I’m afraid she’ll give up.” He paused before speaking again. “Tell me what you found at the coffee shop and about the attack.”

  Kord shared what they’d seen on the Coffee Gone Dark footage and what happened when Youssof Dagher opened fire on them outside the café. He also relayed what he had learned about how Dagher had entered the US. “The FBI is digging into how he gained access here, possibly through Mexico or under an assumed name.”

  “Do you want to know how Saudi Arabia would handle a border problem?”

  “I already know.”

  “Is Dagher alive?” the prince said.

  “Critical. He suffered third-degree burns over 50 percent of his body. I’ll be notified of any changes in his condition.”

  “He didn’t suffer enough. Rashid Dagher is in custody and being questioned. Do you know where he was staying?”

  “No, Amir. We haven’t learned that yet.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “A few hours. We want answers too, and my patience is wearing thin.”

  Prince Omar released a deep sigh. “This has all of us short-tempered.”

  “In addition to the Dagher men’s family ties to Malik, Monica and I are working on a separate link tying them all to Parvin Shah. Intel is scouring for footage all over the world as well as reaching out to informants while monitoring online presences.”

  “Earlier, I sent word to have Malik questioned again. The people around me always meet with rigid security, but that doesn’t mean one or more of them isn’t an enemy.”

  Kord received a call from the FBI doctor and tapped Speaker.

  “Agent Davidson, Miss Alden has double pneumonia. She claimed to have had cold-like symptoms for the last week, and being exposed to the recent weather hasn’t helped. I recommended hospitalization, but she opposed it. I’ve prescribed antibiotics. With Prince Omar’s permission, I’d like to have some IV equipment and meds delivered with instructions on how to change the bag. ASAP.”

  “Fatima could do this,” the prince said.

  “I’ll need to report her condition to SAC Thomas.”

  The prince held up his hand to signal Kord. “She stays here, and she doesn’t need to be replaced.”

  “If she doesn’t get any worse, I can check on her here,” the doctor said. “Can I meet you in the foyer with further instructions?”

  AT 11:15 A.M., Kord received a call from the hospital that Youssof Dagher had regained consciousness. Still critical and receiving care for his injuries, but alive. Kord informed Prince Omar and Ali, but he wouldn’t waken Monica. She’d not be happy to learn Youssof had been questioned without her. Yet she’d understand the nature of what they were doing. Their mission came first. He arranged for an agent to take his place at the mansion and wrote her a note before driving to the burn center at Memorial Hermann.

  During the alone time, his thoughts turned to Monica. Last night he’d kissed her, and he’d welcome the chance to do it again. He laughed at recalling her reactions to being diagnosed with double pneumonia. She was one upset lady. No way would anyone hold her back from working a case. What would a future be like with a CIA operative?

  Gorgeous. Skilled. Intelligent. Committed to her job.

  Christian.

  The God-Jesus thing had him rethinking his agnostic views. For too long he’d been searching for purpose and an answer for how this world came to be. He didn’t believe he was a sack of chemicals, a being whose thoughts were merely electrical impulses. Was he a product of a big bang? The result of a huge fireball? Who or what set the standards for right and wrong? He’d read the Bible from cover to cover—twice. Also read the Quran twice. The Bible and archaeological proof had leverage. It was the grace thing that didn’t fit into the human personality . . . or was grace what each person needed?

  While Monica’s family believed she was finding her way in the career world, she put her life on the line to keep them safe. But she didn’t appear bitter about her family’s view of her. Instead, she claimed they loved each other unconditionally. The strange part of her faith came in her conviction—totally out there, and nothing he’d ever experienced before.

  Was it God who gave her courage? With her outstanding record, she had superior intelligence, and he’d always heard Christians were ignorant, needed a crutch. A professor from a prestigious university told him once that most Christians lived in the South, products of ignorance. Even as a college student, Kord had rejected those words.

  Where did he fit in this universe? And why was the answer important to him?

  Snatching his personal iPhone from the console, he spoke to Siri and requested connection to his mother’s cell phone. Strange urge to reach out.

  Kord waited. Uneasy. He hadn’t talked to either parent since his obligatory Christmas call. Hadn’t seen them in over two years.

  “Hello.” His mother’s smooth voice brought back memories of her impeccable hair, dress, and makeup, when she wasn’t—“Whatcha want?”

  She’d been drinking.

  “This is Kord. Just called to say hi and see how you and Dad are doing.” He had questions, but little good they’d do him now when she was wasted.

  “We’re par
tying. On a cruise somewhere. You know the Jamaican rum.” She slurred every word.

  “And Dad?”

  “Passed out on the chair beside me. The older he gets, the less he can hold his liquor. How’s the law business?”

  “This is Kord.”

  “Oh, the cop wannabe.”

  What a mistake. “We can talk another time.”

  “No rush. We have lots of trips and little time for chitchat.” She ended the call.

  Some things never changed. His parents hadn’t started out as drunks who couldn’t wait until their two sons left home. When Kord was five and his brother eight, Mom and Dad seemed normal. They did family things: vacations, taking his brother to soccer and baseball. Whatever his parents had experienced that turned them into alcoholics had left Kord questioning the purpose of life and if a God existed who cared about humans.

  This was why he’d steered clear of relationships. How could he father a child when he had no clue what being a good parent meant? He’d been scarred and recognized it. Why subject a wife or child to his confusion? But since meeting Monica, he wanted to try, make a difference.

  What had blasted his parents’ lives? The only person who might have an idea was his brother. Kord spoke into his iPhone for Siri to call Blake’s private number at his law firm, and his brother answered on the second ring.

  “This is Kord. Got a minute?”

  “Fire away. Welcome the interruption from research.”

  “Tried to have a conversation with Mom, but she thought I was you. Peculiar question here, but what caused our parents to dive into the bottle?”

  “Thought you knew.”

  “I was five.”

  “Right. You were five when Mom got pregnant. Twin girls. She and Dad were happy. Mom lost them and the doctor told her she couldn’t have any more children. She had a nervous breakdown. Dad started drinking, and Mom climbed in there with him.”

  “That’s how it all started?”

  “Yep. Neither of them ever recovered.”

  “Sad,” Kord said. “No purpose in life but the next drink.”

  “Sure says good things about how they felt about you and me. Smartest thing they ever did was give us the high road.”