High Treason

by DiAnn Mills

  The customary breakfast with Fatima and Yasmine energized her while they chatted. In truth, her mind swarmed with scenarios of what could go wrong. She’d learned from the past how to survive, but every mission had its twists. Mentally she was ready. Physically, another few days of healing would have given her more confidence. Spiritually, she was learning to forgive herself and allowing God to work through her. A wrist mic, an earbud, and her weapon lay on her bed.

  Had she been cooped up too long, or was the nudging in her spirit a warning to be prepared for the worst?

  A different pair of limos were scheduled to leave at 3:45 with the prince and his entourage to ensure catering, preparations, and security had perfection stamped on them. From NRG Stadium’s layout online, Monica had memorized the private suite’s location and the nearest exits. She calculated how many steps to the men’s room, elevator, and stairway. Her car would arrive at 4:00, driven by FBI Agent Richardson.

  Prince Omar expected guests by 5:00, all ushered by HPD from the entrance to where the prince and the festivities awaited them.

  “I hope you enjoy the rodeo,” Fatima said. “You’re leaving with my brother?”

  “Actually I’m leaving in a separate car a few minutes later.”

  “Do you need help getting ready?”

  Monica took a sip of her coffee. “If I can’t shower and dress myself, then I need to stay here.”

  “Tell us all about the concert when you return,” Yasmine said.

  “You can watch a collection of Keith Urban music videos from right here. Great view.”

  “Not exactly the same,” Yasmine said.

  “I doubt I’ll have time to listen and watch anything except what’s going on around your brother and his guests.”

  “True.”

  The morning passed more quickly than Monica anticipated. A brief nap late morning added energy to her pitiful body. When the time came, she grabbed a tote bag from the closet and dumped the items on the bed—a short, wispy auburn wig, a pair of brown contacts, cinnamon-colored lipstick, ID for Kay Bronson, a navy-blue pantsuit, white silk blouse, gold stud earrings, and comfortable flats with good arch supports—in case she had to run. Jeans would have allowed her to blend in, but the prince wouldn’t have agreed to it for his guests. After dressing, she tucked her weapon in her back waistband and inserted the earbud, covering it in a mass of auburn hair.

  As she opened the door to the common area, Fatima’s eyes widened. “I don’t think the doctor will approve what you’re about to do. I thought you were going to enjoy the concert.”

  Monica smiled. “A girl can always use a different look.”

  A text informed her Agent Richardson waited outside.

  MONICA BELIEVED the mood of a Texas rodeo was as unique as the state. Food vendors dished up pickle fries, barbecue, bacon cotton candy, nachos smothered in cheese and jalapeños, macaroni-stuffed baked potatoes, and anything that could be deep-fried, including strawberry shortcake. The smells zoomed straight out of heaven.

  The amusement park section bustled with activity, and for a split second she gave the Ferris wheel and roller coaster a longing glance.

  The latest country-western hits blared from loudspeakers, and the sound of laughter from all ages proved just as entertaining. A crowd dressed in boots, jeans, and cowboy hats blended in a sea of Texas pride.

  If only she had the opportunity to explore the livestock ribbon winners, from cattle to chickens. But today was a workday.

  Monica hurried on to the stadium, where police officers hovered in front of the entrance. She presented her Kay Bronson ID, and an officer escorted her to the elevator and on to where Prince Omar awaited his guests. She sealed every person’s face to memory and counted the steps from various markers to ensure she’d been correct in her original estimation.

  Inside the huge private suite with its glass wall facing the arena, Kord greeted her. Ali gave her a double take, and Prince Omar laughed.

  “I warned the prince, but not Ali,” Kord said.

  “Shame on you.” She waved at Ali. Glancing at her watch, she figured guests would be arriving within ten minutes.

  “Do you live by your watch?”

  “It’s an OCD thing.”

  He chuckled. “I’ve noticed.”

  “Everything set?”

  “Appears so. FBI has cameras positioned inside and outside the building. HPD is in place.”

  She nodded. “If Jafar is here, he’ll be dodging security like his sister.”

  White-jacketed caterers loaded a serving table with buffet warming trays filled with food. A chef examined a station where he would slice prime rib according to each guest’s specifications. A designated area contained traditional Middle Eastern foods. Another table held cold dishes, and still another had additional hot Texas favorites and breads. Nonalcoholic drinks were on ice. The aroma of freshly ground coffee swirled about the room. Certainly more food than the twenty guests would eat. Two rectangular tables, each large enough to serve twelve people, were covered in white linen, crystal, china, and more silver alongside the plates than she owned.

  The elegance and wealth bothered her, especially when she’d seen starving nations. Shaking her head, she chose to dwell on the men enjoying every moment of the event. And keeping every person there safe.

  Consul General Nasser al-Fakeeh and two of his bodyguards arrived. She hadn’t been aware of their invitations. But not surprised.

  She joined Kord and Ali. “I’ll be in the background with you.” Premonition caused her to shiver. “I’m nervous.”

  “I haven’t seen you so . . . concentrated,” Ali said.

  His description made her smile. Like she’d been condensed into a frozen orange juice can. “I’m worried I might miss something. Meds aren’t my best friend when I’m working.”

  “You’re not alone,” Kord whispered. “None of us are once we accept God’s sacrifice.”

  “You’ve found Jesus?”

  “I have and will show you from this moment on.”

  The sincerity in his voice shoved aside her doubts about his new faith.

  Kord handed Ali an earbud. “This way the three of us can keep in touch on a separate network. I don’t trust anyone today.”

  Within minutes, guests arrived. Oil oozed from the handshakes of those greeting the prince, well-known figures in Houston hailed for their contributions in keeping Texas floating above the prosperity of many other states.

  Monica memorized every face. No one hostile or suspicious. Nothing spoken alerted her. Body language appeared appropriate. She’d maintain a watchful stance and do what she did best: look for a man—or a woman—who plotted murder.

  After the meal, Prince Omar rose to give a short speech before the rodeo portion of the entertainment began. He lifted his arms, a figure of wealth and power, and reiterated a few of his statements from the previous press conference. “By cooperating together, we are the future. By sharing knowledge and resources, our countries can flourish while creating job opportunities for all our people. Please enjoy tonight’s rodeo. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to be a part of this event.”

  The guests applauded, and she didn’t detect hostility. Prince Omar toured the tables and shook each man’s hand.

  The meal concluded, guests mingled and the rodeo readied to start before the concert. Perhaps the prince’s goodwill intentions would continue. The world’s ability to shrink brought races and cultures into close quarters. Peace for all stayed on her heart. Definitely her prayer life would stay busy.

  The rodeo began with cowboys riding broncs and bulls, marking up records and dollars, followed by a race of horses and wagons setting the stage for a glimpse of the Wild West. The next event brought schoolchildren into the arena along with several calves. Each child who caught a calf not only received the animal to raise but also secured an educational scholarship. All the while, her gaze darted about.

  Exhaustion soon hit. Prince Omar said something t
o Kord, then left the box with Ali and Wasi.

  Five minutes passed.

  Then five more.

  Monica joined Kord. “Where are Prince Omar, Ali, and Wasi?”

  JAFAR STARED UP at the Ferris wheel at the rodeo. He’d prepared himself mentally for revenge in the death of his sister. He understood Parvin’s reasons for wanting to kill Prince Omar. Like every good Iranian, he hated the Saudis. Parvin was drawn into the assassination plot by the love of money and sweet words of devotion from Malik al-Kazaz. Jafar held back, not sure he wanted to get involved when so much could go wrong. To encourage his sister, he’d continued her training once she was in the US. Few knew of his skills obtained inside Iran as a dark agent.

  Then Parvin was gunned down, and honor took over Jafar’s very being.

  Youssof Dagher contacted him within minutes of her death. Together they’d bring down the woman who’d pulled the trigger and her FBI partner, then finish what Parvin started.

  A smile tugged at his mouth. The US and Saudi Arabia were headed for historic disaster. Within a few short hours, Prince Omar would be dead. The Saudis would sever ties with the US. No longer would the US have an ally in the Middle East, and Jafar intended to inflict all the damage possible and, if necessary, die a hero.

  He and Youssof had designed a plan. The stupid Saudi had gotten caught up in his own ego and died. No matter. Jafar would now carry it out. Youssof had informed him of the prince’s rodeo event. They falsified gold volunteer badges, which made access to any part of the rodeo doable.

  This afternoon he wore loose jeans and an oversize shirt to store needed items and a vest with his volunteer badge. To anyone who glanced his way, he looked like a Hispanic who was volunteering for the rodeo.

  He even had two sets of security credentials.

  A baby Glock with a silencer.

  A bomb strapped under his shirt and vest.

  And a dead-man switch in his left hand.

  A foolproof plan was not easy, and his confidence had worn thin with past failures. For Parvin, he’d do this.

  Jafar entered the men’s room not far from Prince Omar’s private suite, knowing the prince would leave for the bathroom at some point with only two bodyguards. He picked the lock of a built-in janitors’ closet and found a few cleaning supplies.

  Within fifty minutes, the bodyguard Ali Dukali stepped into the men’s room. Jafar greeted him.

  “Sir, this area must be cleared immediately by order of the rodeo management and HPD,” Ali said. “I’m in the company of a Saudi prince who is under tight security.”

  Jafar stiffened his shoulders and swung into action. He added a limp to his stride, then pulled two signs that said Closed and placed them outside the entrances.

  The men using the restroom finished and exited. When the area had been vacated, Prince Omar entered with a phone in his hand. His features were drawn.

  “I’m sorry, Amir,” Ali said. “We were all hopeful of Princess Gharam’s recovery.”

  A second bodyguard offered condolences. The prince headed for the handicap stall. The others must not suit his royal blood.

  “Perdone, señor. No clean there.” Jafar moved behind Ali, closer to the prince, reached up, and shoved a syringe into the bodyguard’s neck. He let go of the syringe, then grabbed his gun with the same hand. Ali struggled to yank it out, but the needle did its job and the big man fell. The second guard pulled his weapon, but Jafar fired into the man’s shoulder and turned the gun on Prince Omar. “Step into the stall or you’re a dead man.”

  Jafar fumbled with his gun as he pulled out another syringe. He sent it into the second bodyguard’s neck.

  Prince Omar lifted an arm, but Jafar slammed the butt of his weapon into the side of the prince’s head, hard enough to draw blood. The prince stumbled inside the handicap stall.

  Jafar pulled the second volunteer badge, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a black T-shirt from inside his own shirt. “Your phone, now. Into these clothes and give me everything. One word, and it’s over.” Jafar showed his bomb strapped to his body and raised his left hand holding the dead-man switch. “I’m watching, Prince Omar.”

  In less than forty-five seconds, the prince was ready. Jafar stepped on the prince’s phone, smashed it, and dropped the pieces along with the prince’s Saudi clothes into the trash. He yanked out paper towels and covered them.

  “We’ll walk out together. You’ll not look at any law enforcement. One word, and the bomb goes off.”

  Prince Omar didn’t utter a word.

  KORD’S ATTENTION SWUNG UP and down the corridor. People walked by, but not the men he was looking for. He turned to Monica. “The prince received a phone call from the hospital and headed to the restroom. From there he’d find a private place to talk.” He touched his earbud. “Ali, everything okay?”

  No response.

  “Ali?” Kord broke into a run.

  He hurried toward the restroom and Monica followed. Signs at both entrances indicated the facility was closed. Correct procedure for Ali and Wasi to clear the area. He entered with Monica on his heels. Ali lay facedown on the floor. He moaned and lifted his head. Wasi had a bleeding upper shoulder wound, and he looked unconscious.

  “Find the prince,” Ali whispered.

  “Where is he?” Kord bent to his side while Monica called 911 and checked Wasi.

  “Don’t know. A man got me with a needle. I remember him pulling a weapon before I blacked out.”

  Ali should be glad he was alive. Must not have been a big enough dose for such a huge man. “Did you recognize him?”

  Ali rubbed the back of his neck. “From the size, could have been Jafar Turan. But he sounded like a Hispanic.”

  “Another disguise,” Kord said.

  Monica poked through the trash. “Prince Omar’s thobe and ghutra are here.”

  “Stay here,” Kord said. “I’m going after Prince Omar. You’re in no shape to help.”

  “Don’t think so.” She bolted out an entrance as though she weren’t recovering from pneumonia.

  Kord alerted the other bodyguards and HPD security. “Shut down all exits. At least one man, maybe more. Armed.” Saad and Inman entered the men’s room. “Help is coming. I’ve got to find the prince.”

  Ali stopped him before he could rush after Monica. “Prince Omar learned his mother died. I don’t think it has any bearing on Jafar taking him, but I wanted you to know.”

  Kord thanked him and raced from the building before speaking into his wrist mic to Monica. “Did you hear Prince Omar’s mother died?”

  “Very sad.”

  “Where are you? We’ll do this together.”

  “I’m not waiting on you.”

  His thoughts spun as he pushed forward. The prince had been wearing Western clothes under his Saudi garments, which meant he could mix in with the crowd and whoever had abducted him.

  How could they find Prince Omar in time?

  When Monica didn’t see the prince, she rushed outside NRG Stadium and scanned the crowd in every direction. Didn’t help that her five-foot-two frame left her shorter than most people. Adrenaline fueled her because her lungs ached.

  Stop.

  Focus.

  Think like a killer.

  Monica looked for a less crowded area and moved toward the pavilion housing the many animals. Two men caught her attention. One shorter than the other and wearing a volunteer badge. The second man wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. He was also a volunteer. She recognized the height and build of Prince Omar, and the slighter man resembled Jafar.

  She broke into a run, drawing her firearm while speaking into her mic. “Kord, I have eyes on the prince and Jafar. Southwest corner of the livestock building.”

  Jafar’s head jerked up—obviously he’d sensed her. He forced the prince into the building. By the time she made it to the entrance, the pair had blended into a large crowd.

  The smell of animals hit her nostrils while she moved through the many people. Children s
houted. Animals called out. No doubt Jafar would exit at the other side. Her chest ached, but she pushed on.

  Prince Omar would overpower his abductor if given the opportunity.

  Two familiar men emerged from an exit, and she elbowed toward them. Outside, a navy sky rolled in. A jagged slice of lightning in the distance followed by rumbling thunder added to the imminent danger.

  The two men hurried into the amusement ride section, Jafar walking beside the prince. Did Jafar have a gun stuck in the prince’s ribs? Where were they going?

  And where were Kord and the bodyguards? To her far left, she caught a glimpse of HPD officers. She saw Kord and other bodyguards gaining speed. All of them were faster than one puny girl, and they could overpower Jafar. In her condition she couldn’t take him out alone.

  Up ahead, the Ferris wheel unloaded passengers. The splattering rain and the darkening sky dictated the ride should cease operation. Jafar pulled his gun and spoke to the man assisting the passengers. Neither Monica nor Kord and the HPD officers got to the prince and Jafar before the two men slid into an empty gondola.

  “Mommy, that lady has a gun,” a nearby child said.

  “Whoa. Whatcha doin’ with a piece?” came from a teen.

  A woman screamed. “Call the police.”

  People moved aside, clearing a path to the Ferris wheel. The wheel jerked into action and took the gondola upward, coming to a halt when Jafar and the prince were at the twelve o’clock position.

  Monica hurried to the operator. “I’m FBI. Bring that gondola down.”

  The rough-whiskered man shook his head. “That guy’s wearing a bomb. And he had his left hand wrapped around what looked like a dead-man switch.”

  Thunder resounded.

  HPD officers urged the crowd to move back several yards.

  Kord joined her at the Ferris wheel. “We need a bomb specialist.”

  Agony in her chest caused her breathing to come in short, painful spurts. Why was she doing this?

  Clenching her fist, she turned and plodded to the far end of the 150-foot-tall Ferris wheel, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Let someone else take over.