Siren in the Wind

by Louise Dawn

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Max Andersen couldn’t take his eyes off the graceful swimmer. She swam alone. Seven o’clock on a wintery Sunday night meant the gymnasium was virtually empty, making his job harder to blend in. The upper level overlooked the Olympic-sized pool, and Max chose the treadmill in the darkest corner.

  The pool’s length spread out below. His hoodie was pulled down. That, combined with the scruff on his face, should keep him safe from prying eyes. Abigail Evans swam her fifty laps on a daily basis. She was a good swimmer and made it look easy, slicing cleanly through the water. Her long, lean strokes were hypnotizing.

  Routine was dangerous, and Max knew her routine well; he’d been trailing her for the past three weeks. Soon they’d meet, and Abigail’s world would change forever. Steadying his pace, Max fell into a comfortable run.

  Johnny’s voice rang in his ear. “We’re set. Evans will meet her friends at that Italian joint, called La Coraggio, tomorrow at 1900 hours.”

  “The one at the strip mall near Edengate?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Max smiled wolfishly. “I’ll be ready.”

  Game on. Lap forty-two.

  “Hey, you!”

  Max lost a step and glanced at a pert blonde bouncing onto the machine next to him. Jesus. The woman just wouldn’t quit. This was the third day in the row that she’d approached him. Politely turning her down wasn’t working, now she was a nuisance. Ordinarily, Max wasn’t rude and back in the States this babe would probably be his type, but he was working, and his prey was the long-limbed brunette swimming below.

  “Would you mind pacing me?”

  Max gave her his best “Fuck off” glare and told her bluntly. “You wouldn’t keep up.”

  She ran a glittery talon down his arm. “God, I love your accent. It’s like so different, and your eyes are so damn cool. Scary but sexy gorge.”

  Lap forty-three. Where was Evans? Max paused the treadmill and subtly leaned over the front, checking if she was situated below. She was no longer in the pool, eight lengths shy of the usual fifty, probably headed to the change room. Damn. Max’s teammate, Donnie, climbed off a bike and moved towards the exit. As Max stepped off, Miss Pink Spandex stepped up. The girl was persistent; he had to give her that.

  “Don’t be so rude. I’ve been nothing but super nice to you.” Her huge lips glistened. A heady combination of self-tan, cloying perfume and berry lip-gloss assailed his senses.

  Max ran a hand through dirty blond hair. “Sweet cheeks, I like my gym buddies a little rough around the edges. Lose the fake nails, the lip gloss, and those ratty extensions, and maybe then we can talk.”

  Her mouth fell open. Max gave her a wink and slipped past.

  “You’re an asshole!”

  Max ignored her shriek of rage; he was on the clock. Abigail never fussed in the change room, always leaving within five minutes of her swim, with damp hair, old sweatpants, and a worn cotton shirt.

  Max muttered quietly. “Donnie, are you in position?”

  “Confirmed. I’m not the one cuddling gym bunnies.”

  “Screw you. I’ll follow Evans home. Grab us some supplies at the store.”

  Max barely had enough time to make it to his truck before she exited the gym. He couldn’t lose track of Evans for one minute. The stakes were too high.

  After getting the all clear, Max slipped into the apartment complex two minutes after Abigail. In order to fly under the radar and to maintain cover, one of the guards at the gate—Timothy—was on Max’s payroll.

  The condos, set out in rows, were small but comfortable. Many South Africans chose to live or rent in a complex for security reasons, surrounded by electric fencing; guards manning the gates and regular patrols reduced the fear of hijackings or burglaries.

  Abigail lived in a ground unit that led out to a small garden. She worked from home with a freelance graphic design business and did quite well for herself. Max’s team chose an apartment opposite hers on the upper level to use as their base. Their place was sparsely furnished, stuffed with just enough random crap to keep them under the radar. It smelled slightly of stale fast food and musty socks. The shuttered windows hid the equipment clicking and beeping in a corner.

  They were a four-man black ops unit, part of a larger task force called Mobile Intelligence Team. Divided into six (four-man) teams assigned to hot spots around the globe, operating under Joint Special Operations Command. A tier one taskforce, so newly elite that they were described as the ghosts of JSOC. Their main objective was precision targeting of high-value targets. To gather intel, track down, find and kill extremist leaders in high-risk nations. Officially Max’s deep reconnaissance hunting pack was referred to as Mobile Intelligence Team: Two (MIT2) and their focus was the Central and East African region. This didn’t rule out the unique flexibility of their teams. When on the hunt, they moved into neighboring regions, relying on fellow MIT teams and indigenous allies for support.

  Erik “Maximus” Andersen was the team leader and loved his job. After twelve years of service, Max was a military lifer, first serving as former US Marine MARSOC and then enhancing covert skills for MIT2 as an interrogation and language specialist.

  His given call sign was Maximus, known for pushing limits and using his intellect to the “max.” The current mission would solicit all his skills. MIT2 had been pulled down into Southern Africa, chasing down a target that could lead to one of the biggest takedowns in East African extremist history—capturing Khalid Al Juhani, also known as the Sandpiper.

  Max toed off his sweaty sneakers at the front door. “This place stinks. Where’s Slater?”

  James “Johnny” Cane scribbled in the surveillance log. “In the shower.”

  “He’s always in the damn shower. That peacock smells better than Kim fucking Kay.” Max headed towards the monitoring station. “Text Donnie to get some extra cleaning shit while he’s out, like some good old-fashioned bleach. This place needs a soaking.”

  Slater sauntered into the room. “Are you in OCD mode again?”

  “Don’t start with me, you’re the untidiest asshole of the bunch.”

  “Yeah? I just used your razor to shave my dick. My gift to you.”

  Max chuckled as he shoved Slater out of the way, bending to pick up a discarded newspaper. “Well there goes that then.”

  “Sharing is caring,” Slater said while pulling on his socks.

  Max rolled his eyes. “You’re going to be sharing my boot when it’s up your ass if you don’t wash those filthy dishes marinating in the sink.”

  “Go sit in the dark and think about herrings,” Slater quipped, alluding to Max’s Finnish ancestral roots.

  “I’ll beat your ass with a herring if I don’t see a clean kitchen.”

  Sighing dramatically, Slater moved towards the sink. “Another fine day, ruined by responsibility.”

  Slater was a former Green Beret, a sniper and the force protection specialist on MIT2, responsible for their safety logistics and assessing environment. He was the funny dude in the bunch, the king of one-liners. He was also just as laid-back as Johnny, a former Ranger and the team medic. Leave the two of them together for the afternoon, and it looked like a nuke had gone off in the apartment.

  After a quick tidy, Max moved towards the station. “It’s my turn, take a break.”

  Johnny glanced over his shoulder and griped, “By the way, Evans is goddamned baking again!”

  Max grinned. Since arriving in the country, Johnny had been assigned to befriend Lizette Steyn, a close friend of Abigail Evans. His laid-back demeanor and special ops ASOT training gave Johnny the skills to not only easily befriend assets but also convert potential targets to assets in the field.

  MIT2 needed to infiltrate Abby’s tiny circle of friends, but so far it hadn’t worked. Johnny kept moaning that he was moving slower than pond water, eventually upping his game with Lizzy through seductive flirting. He’d almost met Evans once at a birthday bash, but she’d pulled out
at the last minute. The rest of the time Johnny was dragged to Lizzy’s family barbecues—called braais in South Africa—where he’d stuffed down plenty of good food. Johnny packed on a few pounds and the former Ranger knew it, placing himself on a high protein diet. He was now one grouchy son of a bitch.

  “Who does that, exercises like a demon possessed and then comes home to bake?”

  Max shoved Johnny aside, which was no small feat—the man was built like a boulder. “The cake is probably for her client coming in tomorrow morning. Move your tree trunk ass out of my way and take a break. Go. Eat a carrot.” Max settled in, adjusting the monitors. Thanks to their equipment, MIT2 had a clear view of Evans’s entire apartment. Surveillance covered every inch of her place. They could hear a mouse pee if they wanted to. Not that Abigail Evans had mice, her home was immaculate.

  Many could get drawn in by her classic beauty, the light olive skin and glossy brown hair were a throwback to her Italian roots. Her nose was aquiline straight and her lips naturally full. Max wasn’t affected by beauty. He’d known many model-esque girls in his younger days.

  The last few assignments all involved beautiful women who betrayed their countries. Sometimes that brittle outer shell was just that, but Evans was shaping up to be a Rubik’s cube. Her energy and those direct eyes unsettled him. This type of surveillance was a drip, drip, drip information operation, and learning the target’s tells and giveaways took patience.

  Max had a talent for reading people—one of the reasons he worked for MIT. Many called him a walking lie detector but no one could be a human lie detector. In Max’s eyes, anyone who bragged that they could do that was stupidly arrogant. The human psyche was layered and complex, and detecting deception was challenging.

  Max had studied human psychology, and had also touched on anthropology, anatomy, physiology, communications, zoology, linguistics, language, and grammar as just starting points in examining how Homo sapiens behaved under pressure. Establishing a baseline of how the target behaved naturally in their environment, without duress, was the first step, observing tells that might come up on a daily basis.

  For the past thirty days, he’d focused his energy on the cool lady currently lining a loaf tin a hundred meters away. It was a viable possibility from all the intel that Abigail Evans was a sleeper in an international terrorist cell. Her name had been flagged a couple of times through extremist networks, linking her to suspicious activity in the Middle East.

  The intel clashed with some of his readings, but her profile still matched that of a sleeper. Isolating herself, no family ties. Working from home, allowing herself the freedom to plan her work schedule. She was also damn guarded, wary of strangers.

  He had no sympathy for an American who betrayed their country and hiding in Africa wouldn’t save her. Max would be the first one to shove her on a plane destined for Washington. Being a female wouldn’t earn her brownie points either; he knew plenty of women who sold out their loved ones for money or infamy. He was a cynical bastard, but it got the job done.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Abby pottered around the kitchen, feeling lighter after her swim, loving the buzz she got from exercise, plus the added benefit of keeping trim. It meant she could happily bake without indulgence guilt looming. Not that she exercised for appearance reasons, she craved the spiritual aspect, taking her mind off the constant worry and prepping herself for whatever lay ahead.

  She hummed while peeling bananas for the loaf mix. She wasn’t the best baker but learned as she went along. A British roommate taught her the basics a few years ago. Her mom had never taught her. Growing up, they were always traveling, working in remote villages in distant countries, and there was never any time to bake cakes; her parents had enough time, though, to beat her until she bled. She vowed she would never go back to that life.

  She’d run away at sixteen, happy to work at fast food spots while attending art classes. Finding her way to a life filled with light was the goal, and she’d become a nomad. Until that terrible night… Abby knew she hadn’t been the first. She wasn’t a fool. How many women had come before her? How many were out there now, waiting?

  In the early hours of the morning when she woke from the terror-swamped nightmares, Abby wondered who could save her. But whenever she woke, she knew her path was the righteous one. The key was remaining in control, and jittery hands were unacceptable. Instead of sieving the dry ingredients, Abby set the flour aside and tidied up the small mess trailing the counter. Some might call her a perfectionist, but since escaping her chaotic childhood she’d always strived for order. As a teenager, she’d foolishly convinced herself that she controlled her destiny, but she now knew better.

  The waiting was the worst. They’d make contact soon. Six weeks ago, Abby had received an anonymous tipoff that terrified her. She wasn’t sure how or where it would happen, but she was as ready as she’d ever been.

  The cell phone on the counter rang.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Chime music filled the room.

  “Incoming!” Max barked, and Johnny took the seat next to him.

  Max observed Evans as she looked at the readout, taking a deep breath.

  “Hi, Kris.”

  Adrenaline flickered. Slater moved towards the monitors. “Who is it?”

  Max’s answer was to the point. “I’m guessing it’s the boy scout. Kris Muller, her childhood buddy.”

  “Holy hell. That’s a surprise. Things are about to get real interesting.”

  Chapter Two

  Johnny and Donnie left to trail Evans to her rendezvous with Muller. Once Abigail Evans stepped out, Max snapped up the opportunity to switch out a microphone in her bedroom that had fuzzy sound quality. Max slipped through Evans’s gate into the immaculate garden. Delicate paving ran along the neat flower beds. Rose bushes lined the wall. He’d watched her many times fussing around among her plants. The result was charming.

  Her dark porch made breaking in easier. It was late, and he was also glad she’d drawn the curtains before she left. Nothing like a nosy neighbor spotting him through the windows once he was inside.

  South Africa posed more challenges when it came to breaking and entering, so Donnie had acquired a copy of her keys from her bag in the gym locker. In Johannesburg, windows as an entry point were ruled out due to the hefty security bars crisscrossing them. Max clicked open the door mechanism before opening her sliding security gate.

  The smell of banana bread cooling on the kitchen counter assailed Max’s senses, and his stomach growled in response. Martha freaking Stewart, he thought as he stared hungrily at the homely loaf. Johnny was right, this assignment sucked ass. Except for Johnny Cane, his team currently lived on takeout. Max couldn’t remember what a home-cooked meal, never mind a freaking home-baked cake, would taste like. His job was his life and most of it was spent maintaining a low profile in small villages and arid mountain regions in East Africa, eating MREs or local food. Max stuck to a healthy diet whenever possible, but his bachelor lifestyle back in the States wasn’t exactly conducive to domestic bliss. It usually consisted of kicking back with work buddies—most of whom were single.

  “Perkele.” It felt good to swear in Finnish. Even though he was born and schooled in America and spoke with a Midwest accent, Max still spoke Finnish on occasion with his first-generation immigrant parents.

  Leaning against the counter, he massaged his forehead. The guys were finding this assignment a little more psychologically challenging and it was up to Max to keep them on track. This series of investigations involved sleeper cells made up of young women. It wasn’t as if they weren’t used to dealing with suspects who were women. Over the years they had taken out or detained female bombers, extremist bodyguards—hell, coerced wives and mothers clutching AK47s. But the team had never been faced though with the possibility of moving in on an “All American girl” who’d betrayed her country.

  As far as Max was concerned, a terrorist was a terrorist; there were no gray areas. You were
either with or against them. His men wouldn’t hesitate to take out any threat when it came down to it. Max felt a measure of unease but not for the same reasons. Nothing added up. The energy was off—something was missing.

  He had no idea how deeply Evans was involved but red flags littered her profile. Just glancing around her place, there were no obvious links to any loved ones. No family photos or albums. She’d cut ties with anything or anyone that mattered, that was what scared him the most. Evans might be readying herself.

  Max took his time prowling through her perfectly put-together home, going over every detail. He’d been here twice before when they set up surveillance but always took his time getting a handle on her core energy.

  Personal space spoke volumes when profiling a suspect; self-image left a footprint in the suspect’s home. A well-ordered color palette of pale greens, blues and creams rolled through her apartment and complemented the white walls and clean tiles of the space. The pale blue Persian rug that dominated the dining space looked expensive, and her lounge was lined with a beige sofa set decorated with pastel green throws. A subtle scent of vanilla hung in the air.

  He confirmed that Evan’s piece was still strapped under the sofa. Donnie had found the weapon on their initial search. It wasn’t unusual for a woman living alone in South Africa to keep a gun for protection. Max always kept a close eye however for any additional weapons that might have found their way in, possibly through her suspected network. So far it was just that one small Glock 19.

  Next was her art studio. She had converted the first bedroom, on the left, into a workspace combining an artsy area with an office. Max stared in reverence at her latest canvas of a dense forest. He’d watched it gradually take form through the surveillance but standing in front of it rocked him slightly with rising anger. The woman had raw talent—why in God’s name would she throw such potential away and blacken her soul by collaborating with terrorists?

  Max sat at her desk and ran through recent activity on her laptop. Nada. A MIT2 camera faced her laptop so Max wasn’t surprised. All she’d been working on over the past few weeks were design materials for her business. If she communicated with her cell, there was another channel. Again, no evidence of personal photographs or social networking links, not even a personal email account. It was all business. After studying her sketchpads and scrapbooks, Max pressed his earpiece.