by Louise Dawn
“Ten!” Abby snorted.
“Well, there’s chocolate, red velvet, Black Forest, Boston, carrot cake—”
“You lost me at carrot cake.” Abby wrinkled her nose.
“What the hell is wrong with carrot cake?”
“Yuk! Buy yourself a ready-made version because I ain’t making it, buddy. Oh, and if you want me to bake you ten whole cakes, then get ready for me to put your lardy ass to work in my yard because it’ll take months to shift all that sugar.”
“You’re a funny girl.”
“A funny girl who hates carrot cake,” she shot back.
Max’s broad smile made Abby feel all warm and gooey inside—those dimples were way too sexy. It felt good to laugh with someone. Abby hadn’t done that in a long, long while.
Chapter Eight
After unlocking the sliding door, Abby turned to Max who fiddled with the ornery latch on her front gate. It was rusty and needed oiling.
“I can fix this for you,” Max called out. “Do you have any aerosol oil?”
“Nope, I can buy some tomorrow.”
“Leave it to me. I’ll grab you some.” He jiggled the latch back and forth.
Her hands slipped into the deep pockets of his jacket, male scent surrounding her. Was she really doing this dating thing? Butterflies fluttered when she thought of him coming in for a coffee. Forget coffee, she wanted to shove him up against the wall and…wait. Abby’s fingers closed around a small metal disc, which she pulled out to examine. A weird round battery thing with a built-in speaker. Where had she seen that before? Abby racked her brains. At Lizzy’s home, a few months before, they’d watched an episode of “Dates from Hell.” It showcased a stalker who’d placed something very similar in his victim’s apartment. Abby’s heart somersaulted, and she thrust the sinister device back where she’d found it.
Son of a bitch. Trapped in her yard as Max dusted off his jeans. Was he a psycho serial killer or had she finally been discovered? Why would he need a listening device? Ambling up the path, Max shot her a sexy grin as a crazy mix of terror and anger flooded her veins.
He paused. “What’s wrong?”
Not again. Never again. The patio table near Abby held a bowl of fruit. Instinct pushed her to grab an apple and launch it like a professional pitcher. The hard fruit found its mark, slamming into his left eye. Max swore, staggering back and then moved with incredible speed, throwing himself forward.
Abby hurled herself inside, trying to slide the door shut. Out of time, she chose a deadlier alternative. Max scrambled, grabbing her through the half-closed door, before shoving through. With practiced ease, she dove across the floor, flipped to her side, slid to a stop and snatched the firearm out from under the sofa.
◊ ◊ ◊
Shit, damn, shit. When had Abby made him? Max had faced scarier criminals—hardened terrorists—and was about to be offed by Snow White who, by the way, handled the gun like a pro. If Max survived this, the boys would be ribbing him for years. He’d underestimated her in every way. Easing down to his knees, Max raised his hands. Abby had no idea how close she was to having her last breath; his men would take her out.
“Put the gun down. Now. I fucking mean it.” He spoke carefully. “My sniper has eyes on you. Your pretty head will explode like a melon.”
“Who are you?” Hands shook as she aimed the weapon at his chest, scaring the shit out of him.
“Easy on the trigger, sweetie. If you shoot me, you’re dead. I’ll say it again; I have men watching you.”
“The hell you do.”
The outside light flicked on and off.
“That’s my sniper…on your patio.”
Abby’s eyes glazed over in defeat. Max hoped that was surrender, but her sudden calmness scared him. “Do it then. Shoot me.”
Max gentled his tone. “We don’t want to hurt you, we just want to talk.”
“I won’t give you a thing.”
He doubted that, had heard many hardened men say the same thing. A few rounds with Max and they cracked like babes. Her next words shook him.
“I wanted you to be the good guy. You were a white knight even though there’s no such thing.”
Looking like a deflated doll, Abby lowered the gun and slid it over. Slater stepped inside, his unwavering weapon trained on her. Abby automatically rolled over and extended her hands, turning her head away. Why did Max feel like he’d just kicked a puppy? Screw her. She’d done this to herself.
Max’s legs felt like rubber, and his eye throbbed. “Search her for weapons or explosives. Check my jacket in case she slipped something in.”
“You mean aside from the creepy surveillance bug in your right pocket?” Abby muttered.
Shit. Rookie fucking move. He’d slipped the broken device into his pocket the previous night when he’d swapped it out…and forgotten to remove it. Now that really pissed him off—Max never made asshole mistakes.
Donnie entered and cautiously moved through the house looking for new surprises while drawing curtains against prying eyes.
Slater patted her down, and Max couldn’t resist engaging. “If you want to shut a man out of your home, sweetheart, move a little faster and don’t give the game away until you’re behind locked doors.”
“Still got the job done though, didn’t it?”
Abby ticked him off. “I’m not the one lying on the floor.”
She mumbled something that sounded remarkably like “greedy bastard” under her breath and Max stilled. “What was that?”
His team knew a still Max was a dangerous one. Slater sounded a warning. “Easy, brother.”
“Fuck you,” Abby said, her eyes drilling daggers into him.
As Slater swung her to her feet, Max got up in her face. “What. Was. That?”
“How much did he pay you?” she said through gritted teeth.
Was she referring to Khalid? “Johnny, get the equipment.”
Johnny stepped out the front door. Max turned to the dining area and searched under the furniture. All clear. He dragged the table to the side and arranged chairs in a semicircle facing a single one. The first round was about to begin.
◊ ◊ ◊
“Get the equipment.” Max had said that. What equipment? Would they torture her? Would these men abuse her in her own home? Max grabbed her arm as the other mercenary pushed her ahead. They removed Max’s jacket and shoved her into the chair. Abby folded her arms defensively over a still damp shirt. Don’t show fear. You’re braver than that.
Max stepped into the bathroom, presumably to check his eye. He was going to have a hell of a bruiser and Abby did an internal victory dance.
Who were these rough men? Max apparently wasn’t a garden-variety stalker, and his gang had done this before. John – the little worm – was part of their deceitful A-team. It had been an elaborate set-up. Little Lizzy had no idea that her new boyfriend was a lethal gun-for-hire. The man called Slater stood before her, a good-looking bastard, too pretty for the likes of her. Compact, tanned with a slight cleft marring his perfect chin. An etched dimple completed the picture as his eyes settled on her feet.
Abby bristled. “What are you damn well smiling at?”
“That awkward moment when you’re wearing Nikes…and you can’t just do it.”
Abby’s mouth fell open as she glanced at her sneakers. He joked at a time like this? Righteous anger surged. “You think this is funny. I am so going to kick your ass along with your moronic mercenary friends.”
“Yeah?” he answered, still grinning. “Then just do it.”
John walked past ignoring Abby’s hate-filled gaze. “Quit it. Max will geek out if you keep that up.”
“I can’t have a little fun?” the playboy asked.
John set up a tripod for the digital camera lying on the table. “Max almost got his head blown off by Catwoman, and now you wanna ass around?”
Funny Boy sobered and went over to help her friend’s cockroach boyfriend. Max stepped back in the ro
om. The eye was starting to swell. Nice.
“Who are you? Mercenaries for hire?” she asked.
Max looked disgusted with himself that a slim woman almost bested him. Pinning her with a cold stare, he casually took the seat opposite, yet there was nothing relaxed about the man. All his movements were measured as he weighed her up. Bile rose, and the probability of projectile vomiting all over his stony face seemed imminent.
“We could ask you the same question.”
This ruthless man scared her. Gone was Mr. Charming Pants.
“You’re a deceitful rat. You made me believe that you cared!”
◊ ◊ ◊
Max schooled his expression. Abby seemed genuinely affronted, like a bossy teacher. Her courage was admirable, but if Miss Prissy didn’t come clean, she’d be shitting her pants.
Abby folded her arms. “I’m not giving you anything.”
His heart flipped at that small statement, confirming what he secretly feared, that Abby had something to give. It looked like she was a card-carrying, vest-wearing terrorist wannabe. What a fucking waste. Johnny gave a thumbs-up; the video was rolling. Max placed a second recording device on the table.
He’d start the interview with an initial rug pull. “Here’s what we know about you…Josephine Abigail Evans.”
Her eyes widened a fraction.
“Do you prefer Josephine or Joey?”
“I prefer Abby.”
“You went by your given name—Josephine—up until three years ago when you dropped off the map.”
Abby didn’t respond.
“Born in New York to Jimmy and Priscilla Evans. Your parents moved to Colorado when you were five and then a few years later relocated to Northern Idaho.
“Your family did missionary work in Africa. You lived in Botswana during your tenth year and resided in South Africa from ages eleven to sixteen, receiving dual citizenship. Your family returned to the States. You left home, worked odd jobs and eventually moved to the United Arab Emirates to work in the airline industry.”
“Nothing new there. I told you most of that,” Abby said.
“We confirmed your story twenty-four months ago through your family and friends.”
“You spoke to my father?”
“Not me personally. Now let’s get to the meat and bones of this interview. Khalid Al Juhani.”
Abby’s already blanched face drained of all color.
“Khalid made contact on numerous occasions. We have a list of dates and times for all of your meetings. A lunch date at the Shangri-La Hotel. A get-together at the Dubai Yacht Club. You also met Khalid at a café in Paris. An agent following Khalid observed the sit-down. Your last encounter was at a party at his home in Sharjah, and it led to your disappearance. You spoke with Khalid in his gardens before entering his home. Surprise, surprise, you conveniently dropped out of sight. Shortly afterwards, Khalid went underground. Escaped to Somalia.”
Abby sat, hands folded like she was hosting guests for afternoon tea. Max wanted to shake that serene attitude out of her.
“Here’s your predicament. You’re hunkered down in the middle of a radical hurricane that will tear you to pieces. Now, you may be squatting there voluntarily, wanting to contribute to the destruction, or you were yanked into the melee, seeking an escape.”
“I have no clue as to what you’re referring.” The look in her eyes said differently.
“We’ll see about that. You’ll be relocated to a US holding facility, where I doubt you’ll see the light of day for a very long time.”
Abby sat back. “You’re with a government agency.”
Silence met her remark. Max pulled out a folder and handed over the first photograph. A pretty brunette with freckles scattered across her nose, posing for a selfie, strawberry lips pouting.
“Jane Williams. Born in Glasgow.” Max handed Abby another image of destroyed bodies in a courtyard, making her flinch. “She walked into a food market in Istanbul three years ago wearing a suicide vest. Thirteen people killed. Fifty injured.”
Abby stared at the carnage. Max pushed the third photograph into her hands, of a beautiful blonde holding a camera while backpacking. Sparkling eyes stood out on a tanned face as she laughed at whoever took the shot.
“Clara Jensen. She was Danish and targeted the Three Kings Parade, a religious festival in Madrid.”
Abby stared at the macabre image of death and destruction—festival decor stained with blood, buildings blown to smithereens. Max paused before handing Abby the first of the final pair of images. The tension in the room ratcheted up. This was personal for MIT2. The infamous woman in the picture responsible for the worst bombing in American history.
“Do you recognize her?”
“The Black Friday bombing.” Abby’s voice sounded rough with emotion.
“Sharon Nasari strapped a suicide vest to her child, and this was the result.” Max placed the last photograph in Abby’s cold hands. He’d specifically chosen that image to gauge her reaction.
“Oh God.” Abby rocked forward, her eyes glued to the horror.
The press never received this gruesome CSI image of dead children that haunted his nights, primarily because Max had been there; so had Slater. Both men had left their respective Special Forces careers, had just completed their MIT Training and were assigned to support the Joint Terrorism Task Force in tracking links to the Sandpiper. Until their first deployment, they’d worked with Sully’s team as well as the FBI. Slater had watched their six that day, trailing behind the rest of the team. He’d avoided injury and was the one to apply a tourniquet to Max’s quadriceps after shrapnel sliced up Max’s thigh. Slater still dealt with PTSD from the incident. Cradling dying children in a mall bombing would trigger a tsunami of trauma for years to come.
Max exchanged a glance with the man who’d saved his life as emotions threatened to flood the room. “A kid’s playroom was situated beneath the food court where Sharon Nasari was sitting. The explosion not only destroyed families on the upper level but collapsed on the children beneath.”
The tear rolling down Abby’s cheek did nothing for Max, she could be playing them. Max searched for other tics.
“Sixty-three people dead. Twenty-two of them all under the age of ten. Slater and I were on a combined task force who’d just arrived when the bomb went off. One of my colleagues—his name was Sully—died in the blast.
“I’m so sorry,” Abby broke in. Max watched her carefully.
“Another teammate was in the direct blast zone across the way; the explosion blew his arm off.”
“Did he survive?” Abby asked, concern burning her gaze.
Stone’s life would never be the same, but his kick-ass attitude demonstrated courageous balls of steel. “He’s a tough bastard. What do you know about the Black Friday bombing?”
Abby looked confused. “Just what was shown on the news. Sharon and her husband—I forget what his name was—were part of ISIS.”
Max corrected her. “ISIS claimed responsibility, but Abdul Nasari worked for Khalid, who sells terror services to the highest bidder regardless of their religious beliefs or agendas. Capturing Abdul would’ve led us to Khalid, who also runs a suicide bomber network, recruiting foreign girls working in the Middle East. The syndicate lures them in by offering a lavish lifestyle. The side effect of the luxury is attending propaganda classes. The girls who come to rely on Khalid are married off to his fighters who physically and psychologically beat them into submission.”
Something flickered in her eyes, and Max narrowed in as he continued.
“Those who don’t conform are threatened or violently discarded. There’s been a rise in female suicide bombers forced to wear vests in key cities around the globe. Many women are from the West; it’s easier for them to blend into Western cities.”
“How does that relate to me?” Abby asked.
“Khalid recruited you the very same way. Just like the other women, you disappeared the very night you were recruited. Exc
ept you got a British agent killed and we’ve been hunting you ever since.”
“I’m not a murderer. I didn’t kill anyone.” Abby crossed her ankles. “Besides, I would think to have a successful convert, they’d target a woman with hidden insecurities and low self-confidence, desperately searching for a spiritual purpose in life. A natural submissive not familiar with indoctrination.”
Donnie pulled at his goatee. “And your point is?”
“That woman is not me.”
Max’s mind considered the information she’d laid out. On paper, Abigail Evans fitted the bomber profile, but her core personality was all wrong. There was a difference between being submissive and being reserved. What stood out was Abby’s quiet strength. Khalid liked working with damaged goods. Women who desperately sought a savior, as he ground them into nothing before rebuilding them into puppets of horror.
Abby had firsthand experience of a religious fanatic. Her father. It didn’t take a genius to see that she’d avoid other cult movements at all costs. Max had been coming at this all wrong. Her father’s punishments and constrictive rules hadn’t destroyed her psyche; they’d only made her stronger.
What was the truth behind that fateful night in Sharjah? He needed answers. The game had changed, but he couldn’t tip Abby off that he might just agree with her assessment.
His smile was cold. “You’re quite the expert then.”
She flushed. It was such a faint difference in skin tone that Max knew his men wouldn’t pick it up.
“Are you willing to bet your young life on that flimsy theory? We have open files on Khalid, and I’m wondering how you play into his life. Our government doesn’t look kindly on Americans who turn extremist.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. High stakes, Miss Evans.
“Abigail, tell me what happened in Dubai.”
Max purposely used her middle name. Reestablishing the relationship was vital. Max then remained silent. A state Abby usually thrived in. She uncrossed her legs, weighing the options.
Make the right choice, sweetheart, his mind screamed silently, come clean. Pulling the truth out of a target was a delicate operation that took patience and skill. Some folded quicker than others. So many factors played a role—the degree of integrity they had, what was at stake, and any personal losses that might occur through a confession.
