Reckless Deceptions

by Karen Rock

  Ryan filled the Speaker in on their investigation and suspicions regarding Greg Pullman.

  Hatcher’s face paled. “Greg’s been with me for years. Our children play soccer together.”

  Oh. Well. Soccer. That settled it. Greg must be innocent. Erica mentally rolled her eyes at the automatic faith well-connected people bestowed on each other. What next? They used the same wine sommelier…no way could Greg be masterminding a plot against someone who shared his weakness for California Beaujolais….

  Lord.

  “Is there any reason why Mr. Pullman would be meeting with weapons traffickers, ones known to supply Jabhat al-Nusra?” Erica laced her fingers to keep from fidgeting.

  The Speaker flicked on a sound soother, and the noise of a rushing waterfall filled the room. His gaze drifted over Erica’s shoulder. He appeared lost in thought. Or maybe just lost. Her heart went out to the guy.

  “Could they be providing evidence to help the Amman embassy bombing investigation?” Ryan prompted, casting Erica a quick, sidelong glance. Clearly, they’d caught the Speaker off guard. Civilians didn’t live in the CIA’s world of betrayal and brutality. They had faith in humanity, whereas intelligence agents dealt exclusively with the worst side of human nature.

  “N-not that I’m aware of, though Greg’s been assisting with the investigation. He might have reached out to the weapons suppliers.” The Speaker’s shoulders lowered. “Perhaps that’s the logical explanation.” Hatcher pressed a button on his phone. “Tom, have Greg report to my office, please.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Ryan’s foot served as a silent warning: Don’t react when Pullman arrives. She tapped his foot right back to send her own message: Get off my ass.

  While they waited, the Speaker twirled a pen. It tapped, staccato, against his blotter, leaving a trail of dark dots. Erica’s nails dug into her palms. When the door opened, Hatcher dropped the pen and sagged back in his chair. “Come in, Greg.”

  Tom stood there instead. He flipped longish bangs from his eyes and shifted his weight. “Mr. Pullman left an hour ago. Margaret said he had some kind of a family emergency. He’s going to take two weeks’ leave effective immediately.”

  The Speaker’s mouth dropped open. Ryan’s chest expanded in a quick intake of air.

  Holy shit. Had Greg Pullman gone underground? Was an al-Nusra attack imminent? Chills chased each other down Erica’s spine. “Did he say where he was headed?”

  “I can check.” Tom whipped out his cell. “Is Greg in some sort of trouble?”

  Erica caught Hatcher’s eye and mouthed, “Say no.”

  “Now that I think of it, Greg called earlier. Must have slipped my mind. Sorry for the confusion, Tom.” The Speaker’s affable grin was now firmly in place. With a wave, Tom departed, closing the door behind him.

  Hatcher’s smile whisked off his face. “What’s going on here?”

  Ryan leaned forward, his hand braced on his knees so his elbows stuck out slightly. “We believe there’s a plot going on and that you may be the target.”

  When the Speaker’s darting gaze landed on a family photo, Erica scooted to the edge of her chair. “We don’t believe it involves anyone else.”

  Hatcher blew out a breath. Resolve chased the fear off his face, and he met their stares head on. He’d gathered himself quickly. Not bad for a civilian. “Why do you believe I’m a target?”

  “Your Amman embassy bombing investigation,” Ryan supplied.

  “And revenge. Your bill armed the Syrian government with weapons to fight them,” Erica added.

  The Speaker traced the rim of his mug, a faraway look in his eyes. For a moment, a tense silence hung between them. “I’ll notify my Secret Service detail.”

  “The FBI’s already speaking to them,” Ryan said. “We also request you not attend the Saudi Consulate’s party.”

  The Speaker’s hand dropped. “What’s that have to do with al-Nusra?”

  “The weapons suppliers helped organize Emir Fahad al Saud’s birthday party a few nights ago. They may be working together.”

  “Fahad?” Hatcher flipped a photo around. In it, Hatcher and his wife posed with a Saudi bride and groom and their large, extended family. “Our families go way back. In fact, Fahad and I had dinner the other night.”

  Ryan nodded. “They plan to sell part of their company and need government approval for the buyer to supply the US.”

  Hatcher’s brow furrowed. “How did you—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “You’re CIA. Of course you know. I haven’t given Fahad any promises yet, but I plan to speak to my appropriations committee when Congress reconvenes.”

  “Did he mention the buyer?” Erica raked her fingers through the ends of her hair.

  “An LLC named Pedar Oil.” Hatcher cast his gaze about his desk, then grabbed a folder. “He messaged the information over this morning.”

  Pedar… The Arabic word for father. A coincidence?

  Ryan held out a hand. “We’ll take that.”

  “What are your suspicions?” Hatcher passed over the folder.

  “The LLC might be a cover for Jabhat al-Nusra. If they have access to our ports, it opens up avenues for potential attacks.”

  Hatcher ran his fingers throughhis hair. “Impossible. The al Sauds hate al-Nusra more than we do. They’ve committed millions, as well as arms and bodies, to fight terrorism.”

  Conviction rang in every syllable. It almost convinced Erica. “But you trusted Greg Pullman, too….”

  Hatcher seemed to deflate in his chair. “You believe Greg is conspiring with Jabhat al-Nusra to assassinate me as well as gain access to US ports?”

  Erica nodded while Ryan shifted in his seat.

  “If al-Nusra kills me, how can I persuade my committee to okay the sale?” the Speaker pointed out.

  This time it was Erica’s turn to blow out a breath.

  Crap. He had a point.

  Ryan stood. “This is a developing situation, and information is fluid. We have suspicions, leads we’re investigating to get you those answers. In the meantime, proceed with an abundance of caution and do not attend the consulate party.”

  Hatcher rose, as did Erica and Ryan, and strode to the door. “I appreciate this. But I trust Fahad. Not attending his party would be a personal insult. I’ll take extra security measures.”

  Erica and Ryan swapped concerned looks as Hatcher opened the door. “You’ll keep me apprised of the situation?”

  “As much as we can, sir.” Ryan shook hands with the Speaker, then stepped back for Erica to do the same.

  “We appreciate your time.” Erica jerked her lips into a brief smile, then turned on her heel and hurried to catch up to a rapidly striding Ryan. He held his cell to his mouth, issuing instructions to the FBI to track down Greg Pullman.

  The sun momentarily blinded her when they burst onto the outside stairs. She clutched the banister, giving her eyes a moment to adjust, then hollered, “Wait!” The day had gone from hot to blistering. The air was thick and muggy, the sky hazy. The sun prickled on exposed skin, and she lifted the hair off the back of her neck. “Where’s the fire?”

  Ryan jerked to a halt and whirled as she rushed to join him. “That’s what I want to know,” Ryan bit out. “Not that Hatcher would care if it were right under his desk.”

  Erica gripped his arm, slowing him. “You’re asking him to suspect family friends. Plus, it’s not like we’re even sure how much, if at all, Fahad is involved.”

  He peered at her through thick lashes she’d kill for. “What’s your gut say?”

  “Since when do you listen to my gut?” She lifted her sticking arms from her sides.

  “It’s proving to have a strong track record of late.” His full lips twisted, rueful.

  Ridiculously pleased, she bit back a smile. “Fahad’s in it
up to his eyeballs. He didn’t even tip my lap dance.”

  Ryan’s face cracked into a grin as they turned down an empty side street toward his car. “Terrorists are bad tippers?”

  Overhead, mature trees twined branches. Erica breathed a sigh of relief as they ambled beneath the canopy’s cool shade. “In my limited experience, I—”

  A gunshot cut her off.

  Chapter 10

  Air whizzed by her ear, and something pinged on the parking meter ahead of her. Her heart seized. A bullet! Erica and Ryan ducked behind a car and drew their weapons. Blood howled in her veins.

  A barrage of gunfire exploded, shattering the car’s windows, piercing its metallic sides. A blizzard of glass shards filled the sky. The moment it subsided, Erica poked her head around the bumper and spotted Jamal and one of the weapons traffickers beside the black SUV, AR-15s in hand.

  It was as if the earth suddenly stopped rotating. There was a moment of feeling off-balance, and then everything snapped into focus. This motherfucker was not escaping again. There was no bravado in the statement. She was in the grip of cold, hard, gut-cramping fury. How the hell had Jamal found them here?

  Cursing herself for not being more observant and for walking into this trap, she returned fire, ignoring the pain in her stitched arm. The men blasted another round a heartbeat after Ryan yanked her back. “Stay down!”

  She jerked free. “But I—”

  Ryan pointed a finger at an approaching ice cream truck. It lumbered along blasting a tinny tune followed by a horse whinny. “Wait.” The moment it drew level with them, he lunged from cover, crouch-running alongside it. As it passed the SUV, Ryan dove behind a red convertible parked ahead of it.

  Their gazes met across the street. Bullets tore the air over Erica’s head. At Ryan’s nod, her heart double-timed. She knew the play. They’d executed it enough times…although usually while wearing Kevlar vests.

  Don’t wuss out.

  She peeked around the car, aimed her Glock, then pretended to fire. With her finger immobile on the trigger, she banged it against the bumper, as if her weapon had jammed.

  The men’s voices grew louder as they approached, firing, drawn out by her ploy. Any minute now Ryan would blast their unsuspecting asses from his new location.

  Only nothing happened. And in less than a heartbeat, the men were upon her.

  Holy shit. Something had happened to Ryan or his weapon. Her molars ground together. She was on her own.

  She popped up and shot Jamal square in the chest. He howled in pain and rage, reeling into the street with his hands to his gushing wound. The howling metamorphosed to choking and gasping, and he went down on all fours.

  Meanwhile, she spotted Ryan tackling the weapons trafficker from behind. They rolled in the street, locked in a deadly embrace, fists flying. A bus rounded a bend and barreled toward them. Her stomach dipped as horror punched straight through it. One of them had to let go or they’d both be run over.

  “Ryan!” she screamed. He looked up and followed her pointed finger. Enormous wheels bore down on them. At the last minute, Ryan released the man and threw himself to the side.

  The bus rolled by in a belch of exhaust, and the black SUV peeled out a half-second behind it.

  “Shit!” Ryan sprinted down the street giving chase, then pulled up and jogged back. “Gun jammed.”

  “Call 911.” Erica kneeled next to a heavily bleeding Jamal. Blood bubbled on his lips and soaked his shirt. “Help’s on the way.” She tore off her suit jacket and held it to his wound to staunch the flow.

  “Ridam behet.” Jamal half-spat, half choked. Arabic for fuck you. Then he lifted his hand slightly and waved it, a maestro conducting the last strains of his life.

  “What is al-Nusra planning?” Blood soaked through her jacket and dripped down her fingers. “Is Al Monitor here?”

  Jamal’s bloody lips twisted in a gruesome smile. “Yesssssss.”

  Her heart stopped in her chest. The shock was numbing. He was here. Breathing the same air. Walking the same streets. Her muscles clenched. “What are you planning?”

  “Fire. Death.” Jamal stared at her, blank eyes half-slit. An odd echo of sadness and remorse reverberated inside her. She recognized the expression. Had seen it too many times to count. It whisked her back to Amman. She’d cradled an elderly woman missing an arm, the embassy a smoking ruin behind them. “My children,” whimpered the woman. She’d died with the plea on her lips.

  A final gasp of air rattled in Jamal’s throat, yanking Erica back to the present. The woman had died because of Jamal…and al-Nusra…and especially because of the plot’s mastermind, that fucker Khalid. He now had —another plan to kill more innocent civilians—right here in Dallas.

  Why here…of all places? The Speaker had to be at the center of it.

  Erica dropped her soiled jacket and sat back on her haunches, staring at a lifeless Jamal. She rubbed her stitched arm. Now that the adrenaline was slacking out, exhaustion and pain crept in. Her arm ached, and her pulse rate felt like it had dropped to twelve. Jabhat al-Nusra would not spill another drop of American blood, she vowed.

  Al Monitor was on her turf now.

  And he would not slip through her fingers again.

  * * * *

  Ryan helped Erica to her feet. “Are you okay?”

  Her eyes strayed to a motionless Jamal, her expression blank. It rattled Ryan. Was she in shock? In the distance, a siren wailed. He pulled her stiff body close and smoothed his hands along her back. He wanted her to be more controlled, disciplined, but Erica without her fire was a stranger. A shell of herself. “Erica. Say something.”

  “Al Monitor’s here.” She released the long breath she’d been holding and stepped away.

  He immediately mourned the loss of contact. Then her words sank in, and every muscle in his body clenched. “How…?”

  “Jamal confirmed it before he…” Her gaze strayed to the lifeless terrorist, then flashed to Ryan. “He said fire. Blood.”

  “An attack.” Ryan waved over the approaching paramedics and officers, scowling. “They’re planning something in Dallas.”

  Erica grabbed his hand and nearly jerked him off his feet. “We’ve got to go back to the apartment. Khalid could be there.”

  Ryan nodded, his pulse throbbing in his temple. “Alert the surveillance team. Tell them we need SWAT.”

  While Ryan filled in the first responders, he kept an eye on Erica. She paced as she held the phone to her ear, frowned, then pulled it away to dial again.

  “We can take it from here,” an officer assured him a moment later. “Ms. Keely can give her statement later.”

  Ryan nodded. She’d acted in self-defense, her actions covered under Texas’s Stand Your Ground law. Still, she’d need to submit to questioning later on. Right now, they had more pressing matters. He strode to Erica. “What’s going on?”

  She shoved her phone in her pocket. “Surveillance team’s not responding. SWAT’s on their way.”

  “And so are we.” They raced to his piece of shit rental car. He contemplated pushing the damn thing to the apartment. They’d probably get there faster.

  He opened Erica’s door before jumping behind the wheel and tearing off down the road. “Seat belt.”

  She snapped it in place. “How fast can this thing go?”

  “In theory or in practice?” He shoved down the pedal, and the car shuddered as they crept past forty-five.

  “Why do I get the feeling we’re going to go full-on Fred Flintstone any second?” She leaned forward, her knees jiggling.

  Despite the tense moment, that pulled a crack of laughter from him. “We might get there faster if we just run.”

  “Turn here!” Erica pointed at a familiar sign a few minutes later, and he cranked the wheel, pulling up behind an armored SWAT vehicle.

  T
hey jumped out into organized chaos. Officers wearing full body armor poured from the van. A man in a navy windbreaker with yellow FBI lettering huddled on the side of the road speaking into a walkie-talkie. “Officer down. Officer down.”

  Ryan froze. Erica gasped. Beyond the SWAT vehicle, EMTs performed CPR on one of the undercover surveillance officers. A red-stained sheet covered a motionless body on a gurney.

  “What happened?” Ryan flashed his credentials at a passing uniformed officer.

  The red-faced cop scrubbed a hand over his perspiring face. “Ambush. Responded to a 911 call and found them fifteen minutes ago. Then all hell broke loose. SWAT. FBI.” His deep-set eyes darted to Ryan’s credentials. “Guess you’re the one who’s supposed to give the forced entry order?”

  Ryan nodded, then turned to Erica. “Wait here.”

  “But—” The forming stack of black-clad SWAT team members drew her eye. Her mouth tugged into a frown. “Right. I’m not an agent anymore.”

  Beneath her offhand tone ran an undercurrent of bitterness and betrayal. He watched her face. He saw the shadow in her eyes and the way her throat moved as she swallowed. The injustice behind her statement pierced him. She should be an agent, dammit, and what he’d done—or more precisely, hadn’t done—to defend her during her hearing burned inside.

  He cupped her chin. “I’d rather have you by my side than any of these guys.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide, then jerked away. “I’d rather be there than any of those guys.” Her voice was thick.

  “I’ll be back.”

  She crossed her arms and arched a brow. “You’d better. Otherwise, rules or not, I’m busting in and saving your ass.”

  Her vow sent a potent rush of pleasure through him, like a jolt of electricity. And he couldn’t help but wonder, if he ever did have a committed relationship, if he’d ever have half the challenger, the partner, the equal, Erica was to him now.