by Karen Rock
“Then where will they strike next? Al-Nusra never abandons a mission.” Erica bit her lip, looking pensive, and he followed her eye to watch the Speaker stop to chat with former President Wilkerson. He’d been vice president for two terms and president for one before retiring to his ranchette outside of Dallas. Now, his youngest son resided in the White House.
“Erica?” he prompted.
Before she could answer, three gunshots blasted, deafening him momentarily.
The partygoers scrambled down the stairs and streamed into the streets, running, shoving, falling in their panic. Screams and hoarse shouts flooded the air.
Adrenaline shot through Ryan, all the way to his toes. Instinctively, he reached for Erica, but his hand met air. She was gone, racing full-out to the horror scene unfolding at the curb.
Secret Service agents bundled the Speaker of the House into his car and peeled out while others crowded around another figure crumpled on the ground.
“Call 911!” someone shouted.
Ryan flung himself down the stairs three at a time.
A man wearing a black suit spoke rapidly into his headset as Ryan reached the curb. “Wrangler is down. I repeat. Wrangler is down.”
A painful coldness swept through Ryan, leaving his skin prickly and everything painful.
He forced himself to swallow, then looked at Erica, whose face was lined with such horror and confusion she could almost be a mirror.
Because lying motionless on the sidewalk, a pool of blood spreading around his head, was former President Wilkerson. Had an assassination attempt on the Speaker missed its mark and hit the unsuspecting ex-president instead?
Once again, he and Erica had failed to see an imminent threat until it was too late. He mashed down his emotions and methodically assessed the crime scene. Erica nearly jerked him off his feet. “Come on!” she hollered, Glock in hand. “They’re getting away.” And with that she blasted in the direction of the shots, fearless as ever…but not alone. He wouldn’t waste a moment thinking when it was time to act.
He drew his gun and caught up to her.
Whatever went down, they were in this together.
Chapter 15
Erica blew through a small stand of trees and pulled up short as a familiar black SUV gunned by her. Her mouth dropped open and her head was about to spin Exorcist-style. Those fuckers had shot President Wilkerson and now they were escaping.
“Over here!”
At Ryan’s shout, she turned and spotted his bent back as he hot-wired a black Alfa 4C Spider convertible. She’d barely slid into the butter-soft leather seat before the engine roared to life. The thinly disguised race car peeled off the curb in a rush, zero to seventy-five in less than ten seconds.
“This is an upgrade,” she shouted around a mouthful of whipping hair.
Ryan nodded grimly but kept his eyes on the black SUV swerving onto a side street a block ahead. “Hold on,” he hollered before yanking the car in a tight stomach-churning turn. Up ahead, the SUV’s taillights flashed then disappeared as it headed onto the LBJ Freeway.
“We’re losing them!” She fumbled for her seat belt, but the rocketing car made her fingers slip off the metal. They veered around a slow-moving truck then cut in front of it, hitting the entrance ramp. Three cabs drove right ahead of them and a whole slew of cars merged onto the interstate despite the hour.
Ryan gunned the engine, and the needle vibrated at ninety-five as he expertly weaved in and out of traffic. Leaning forward in her seat, Erica shoved back her blinding tangle of hair and peered out the windshield. Her heart tripped. The SUV was within range. She raised her Glock and angled slightly out the window, sighting its tires.
“Hold your fire,” Ryan shouted. “Wait until we’re clear of traffic.”
Words of objection bulged her cheeks, and her gun shook slightly at the end of her arm. Ryan and his waiting games! Just then, a toddler waving a teddy bear caught her eye. His curly head bobbed in the rear window of a station wagon cruising beside the SUV. Never mind that the child shouldn’t be up at this hour. Or out of his car seat restraint. The blood drained from her face, and she lowered her Glock. Ryan wanted her to think before she acted; if she’d gone ahead and fired, the van might have careened into the station wagon and killed the little boy.
“They’re going to exit!” She pointed to the upcoming ramp the SUV rocketed toward.
Ryan wrenched the steering wheel right. A horn blared. Tires squealed. He slammed on the brakes, whipping her sideways as he narrowly avoided clipping the back of a delivery truck. A series of quick maneuvers later, only two cars remained between them and the terrorists.
“Call the dispatcher,” Ryan ordered.
She swapped her gun for her cell, dialed the number, and relayed their coordinates, ending with, “We’re in hot pursuit and requesting backup.”
“Roger that. We’ve got eyes in the sky and several units are responding,” the operator assured her.
A second later, they were on the exit ramp, flying down the road. The Spider fishtailed as Ryan hung a quick left, and she shrieked, grabbing the door handle to keep from being ejected. Ryan shot her a quick concerned look before facing forward again, his expression fierce. Then the sleek vehicle bulleted forward as he rammed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. They hit a narrow two-lane stretch of private road at breakneck speed.
In that instant, she knew, knew down deep, Ryan would catch these bastards. That he’d do whatever it took, break whatever law necessary, shred every protocol in his rule book to catch them. He didn’t appear to be thinking at all; in fact, he was responding to the SUV’s every move with blink-fast reactions she doubted she could execute. Unchained, Ryan was a sight to behold. A dark, avenging angel breathing hellfire.
Without warning, the SUV jogged into the left lane, slowed, and opened fire when the Spider drew abreast. Her heart leapt as she ducked, bullets raining down on them. They were fish in a fucking barrel. A scream built in her throat. Her muscles tensed, her body preparing for massive injury or worse.
Like a pro, Ryan cranked the wheel and smashed into the side of the SUV with a head-snapping jolt. The shooter’s gun tumbled from his fingers on impact and spun onto the asphalt. She could have kissed calm, cool, level-headed Ryan right there…if there was time. Which there most definitely wasn’t.
Her eyes met Ryan’s, and in that second, she glimpsed every emotion, every feeling she’d wanted him to speak. He loved her. What were words when a man looked at you the way Ryan did, as if you were all that mattered in the world?
Taking advantage of the brief reprieve—surely the terrorists had more than one weapon—Erica rose up in her seat. She braced her swaying body with one hand wrapped around the top of the windshield while firing with the other. The SUV’s front tire blew, and it swerved. Two wheels went off the road, crunching over dirt, as it careened into a utility pole and flipped.
The impact was deafening.
Metal crumpled and gave way to an explosion of glass shards. Erica and Ryan vaulted from the Spider as soon as Ryan jerked it to a halt, racing to the now upside-down SUV. A blast of heat smacked her in the face. Flames began curling from the hood. Dread licked an icy tongue along her spine, making her shiver despite the scorching air.
“We need to get them out of there and see who it is,” she panted.
“Grab the driver. I’ve got the shooter.” Ryan ducked and peered inside the smoke-filled vehicle. Gasping and choking, Erica reached through the shattered window on the opposite side, felt someone’s arm and yanked with all her might. She managed to drag the limp body halfway outside. Fire roared in her ears, and the heat felt hot enough to peel the flesh from her face.
“Back off!” Ryan shouted. “It’s going to explode!”
Spots appeared on the edges of Erica’s vision, and the world spun in a cloud of dense black fog. The acrid smell c
annoned her straight back to Amman, to her failures, her grief, her guilt. Her grip tightened on her target. No. She was not backing off.
Marshaling her last bit of strength, she dug her heels into the dirt and pulled. An anguished scream ripped from her throat. Tears evaporated from her lashes before they could fall.
The body lurched free, the momentum sending them both flying onto her back. Flames fully engulfed the car. Through them, she spied Ryan dragging another body away, and sweet relief burst over her like a dam. Clasping the man to her chest, she scooched backward on her butt, not trusting her legs, not stopping until she was far enough away for the air to grow cooler and clear.
Finally, she heaved the soot-covered body off her, rolled it on its back and checked for a pulse. It fluttered feebly against her fingers. Good. Alive.
Now…who are you…?
Hands trembling, she wiped away the black soot until features emerged. Features she recognized. A face that had tormented her for years on posters, in pictures, in her nightmares… One she loathed with every atom of her being. In the distance, a cavalcade of sirens wailed.
Lids lifted slowly to reveal deep-set brown eyes that widened when they met her gaze, sharpening with recognition. A mile-wide grin split her face. Exultation powered through her, a sense of weightlessness giving her body buoyancy, as if she’d lifted off the ground and hovered above herself, watching.
She leaned close to the man’s cracked lips, enjoying the way he jerked away from her, and whispered, “Welcome to America, Al Monitor.”
Chapter 16
“Doctor!” Erica bolted from her plastic seat, her back creaking in protest, the instant a petite woman wearing a white coat emerged from Al Monitor’s hospital room. After sitting for ten hours alongside Ryan, waiting to question the terrorist leader and his accomplice, her bones were thirty-two going on a hundred. “Can you update us on Khalid’s condition?”
The physician’s gaze hopped from Erica to Ryan. “You’re with the CIA?”
Ryan flashed his credentials. “We both are.”
Erica’s mouth parted in surprise. Technically she was with the CIA, since she was with Ryan, but still…. What had happened to Mr. Protocol-Follower? Had he finally stopped thinking of her as a disgraced, reckless renegade?
“Mr. al-Harbi should be discharged in two to three days.” The doctor tucked a file under her arm. Blue monogrammed script on her coat spelled out Dr. Snow. “He has a concussion, broken ribs, and a bruised larynx with resultant vocal cord paralysis.”
Wheels rattled on the linoleum floor as a hospital aide pushed an empty gurney past them. Erica stepped back and folded her arms across her chest. “He can’t speak?”
Dr. Snow nodded. “I haven’t seen it often, but it can accompany a throat injury.”
“Well, that’s convenient,” Erica muttered beneath her breath. She ground her lower jaw.
Dr. Snow adjusted the slipping stethoscope around her neck. “Excuse me?”
“How long before he’ll be able to talk?” Ryan deflected smoothly. Erica eyed him. Wasn’t his patience wearing thin? Like her, he had dark circles pouched beneath his eyes, his clothes were a rumpled, dirt-streaked mess, and his hair stuck up at all angles from shoving his fingers through it.
Dr. Snow shrugged. “Everyone heals at a different pace, but I’d say, given the amount of smoke inhalation and injury, anywhere from a couple days to a week.”
Erica’s muscles cramped in frustration. Time for answers. Why target Speaker Hatcher? Where were the weapons traffickers? What role, if any, did Emir Fahad al Saud play in the terrorist plot? His plane had never landed in Saudi Arabia, leaving her uneasy and his panicked family searching for a crash site.
“How about his cognitive functions?” Stubble shadowed Ryan’s tight jaw. “Can Khalid provide us with written answers?”
Dr. Snow shook her head. “He’s been in and out of consciousness. I’d give him another day at least.”
“What about Mahdi Terzi?” Erica asked, referencing the al-Nusra sniper they’d ID’d. She laced her fingers behind her back and rocked up and down on her toes.
“We’ve wired his broken jaw shut.” A cell phone rang in Dr. Snow’s pocket. She glanced at it briefly, then shoved it back. “He can vocalize, but with his injury so new, it’d be extraordinarily painful.”
The PA system blasted a call for Dr. Snow, and the physician shot them an apologetic smile. “I have to go. Ask the nurses to ring me if you have any further questions.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and hurried away.
Erica dropped into her seat and pressed her burning forehead to her knees. “Are we cursed?”
Ryan’s strong hand twined with hers. “All things considered, I’d say the opposite.”
The sincerity in his voice pulled her head up, and her gaze swung to his earnest eyes. They stole her breath. “Why?”
“We got Khalid, thwarted a bombing attack, President Wilkerson made it through his operation and we”—he cleared his throat and ducked his head—“have each other.”
Overwhelmed, she lifted her face to his. “Ryan—”
“Code Blue in Room 203. Code Blue in Room 203,” announced a voice over the PA system. A flurry of scrub-clad professionals stampeded by, wheeling carts and medical equipment.
Ryan shot to his feet. “That’s President Wilkerson’s room.”
Erica’s stomach tumbled over itself as her worst fears materialized. Code Blue meant cardiac or respiratory arrest. President Wilkerson had coded twice on the way to the Baylor University Medical Center and had been listed in critical condition since emergency brain surgery.
She and Ryan flew down the hall, then yanked to a stop before a Secret Service agent. After verifying Ryan’s ID, she shooed them to a wall outside the room with a warning to stay out of the way. Through the glass window, Erica glimpsed a nurse attaching defibrillator pads to the former president’s chest while another injected medicine into his IV drip. A flatline heart signal pierced the air.
“Clear!” someone yelled, and the group stepped back. Half a second later, President Wilkerson’s chest arched from the table then fell.
Anxious gazes swerved to the monitor, where the flatline continued. A chill settled deep in Erica’s bones. The medical team charged the defibrillator and jolted the president twice more without success. At last, someone asked, “Do you want to call it?” and a doctor nodded. “Time. 11:17 a.m.”
Air punched out of Erica’s lungs.
A hush fell over the small group. They moved sluggishly, pulling leads off the deceased president, their faces white. A nurse dashed away tears as she drew the sheet over President Wilkerson’s head while another hurried by Erica and Ryan to a private waiting area.
A wail howled from the small room crowded with Secret Service and family members. The former first lady stumbled into the hall, holding on to the rails, as she scrambled to reach her husband’s room. One of her daughters caught her around the waist, and they collapsed in each other’s arms, sobbing.
Ryan cupped Erica’s elbow and steered her down the corridor, giving the family their privacy.
“I can’t believe he’s gone.” Tears stung the back of Erica’s eyes. “He was so kind. Such a good man.”
Ryan tenderly brushed her damp lashes with his thumbs. “He served our country with distinction.”
“He didn’t deserve this.” Erica trudged alongside Ryan back to their seat.
“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Mahdi isn’t known for missing….” Erica stared down the hall at the sniper’s room, and anger blasted through her like a door being kicked open. She welcomed it because it was better than the damn hurt and the confusion and that…that empty feeling that she had failed and, once again, the terrorists had won.
“Where are you going?” Ryan called as she stormed to
ward Mahdi’s door. FBI agents, standing guard outside the room, eyed her sharply.
“To question the bastard.”
Ryan stepped in front of her. “The doctor said—”
“It’d be painful for him to speak. Good,” she spat.
Ryan’s phone rang. “Hey, Mom. I was going to—what?” Ryan’s face turned gray. “When?” His mouth shook, and Erica closed the distance to hold his ice-cold hand. “So he’s…?” After a pause, Ryan nodded. “Okay. I’ll be right there.”
“Is it your father?”
Ryan turned in a slow circle, looking for all the world like a lost boy in search of a missing parent. “The hospice nurse said we need say our goodbyes, that this…”
Erica rose on her toes to cup his face. “She says this is it?”
Ryan’s eyes squeezed closed, and he jerked his head up and down. “I’ve got to go.”
She glanced at the door to the sniper’s room. He could wait. He wasn’t going anywhere, but Ryan…right now Ryan needed her more. “Not without me.”
“No.” His thick lashes lifted, and golden eyes shimmered down into hers. “Not without you.”
* * * *
Ryan peered down at the shallow rise and fall of his father’s chest, his life force evaporating before Ryan’s eyes. His breath caught as a deep, unforgiving pain hit him. On a hospital bed set up in the den, his father, thinner than ever, lay motionless, his eyes closed, his skin a sickly gray.
“Honey.” Ryan’s mother squeezed his arm. “Your brothers and I are going to give you a moment alone with him. Do you want anything? Coffee?”
His father’s health? More time? Was that on the menu?
There was so much left to say…to hear…. Watching his father die was like a door slamming on a life, a relationship he’d never get the chance to have again.
