by Karen Rock
“I’ll say so.” He dipped his head to hers, and his breath danced over her lips.
An “I love you” swelled her throat, but she choked it down and stepped back.
Ryan slid an arm around her shoulders. “Are you going to question Mahdi again?”
Erica peered through the observation glass at Al Monitor and nodded. “I’ll leave Khalid on ice a little longer. I gave him something to think about while I take another crack at Mahdi.”
She’d started with the easier target earlier in hopes he’d give her something to use against Khalid. Mahdi, however, had refused to cooperate. Time to apply more pressure on the seasoned terrorist.
“Mind if I tag along?” Ryan asked.
“The more the merrier.”
Mahdi jumped when she shoved open the door and strode in. Deep-set eyes in a bruised face flicked from her to Ryan and back. Between his thin lips, she spied the silver wiring holding his broken jaw together. His thick, dark eyebrows and beard belied his age. He’d turned sixty-one yesterday.
“Mahdi, this is Agent Arnell,” Erica began, adopting a formal, respectful tone commensurate with Mahdi’s age and position in Jabhat al-Nusra. Observing social niceties went a long way with some subjects. The chair beside her protested as Ryan settled into it. “He pulled you from the burning SUV.”
The sniper inclined his face slightly but otherwise remained silent, his arms folded over his narrow chest. Despite being cuffed, he’d managed to stack the empty sugar packets from his coffee precisely, aligning them so the edges met exactly.
Interesting.
A perfectionist.
Erica considered how she might exploit it. “You’ve been with al-Nusra quite a long time, haven’t you?”
Mahdi bobbed his head in acknowledgement.
“You were part of bin Laden’s personal guard.”
Mahdi regarded her placidly.
“That was over twenty years ago…. My, you’ve had a long, distinguished career,” she said, careful to keep her voice neutral, no bite or judgment to her tone.
Mahdi didn’t so much as blink, yet she noticed the slightest softening of his mouth. Her compliment pleased him. He liked being flattered, took pride in his work and wanted to be respected.
Good.
She could use that.
“For someone with your esteemed reputation, you’re not a very good shot.” She picked up a plastic stirring stick and twirled it between her fingers. When she dropped it, she made sure it landed on the empty sugar packets, messing up Mahdi’s neat stack. Anything to keep her subject unsettled. “I’ll admit, I expected better.”
“I’m an excellent shot,” Mahdi blurted, his speech garbled but discernible. He snapped his mouth shut and pressed a hand to his jaw.
Erica’s facial muscles strained to conceal her elation. Finally. A breakthrough. The first words were always the hardest to pull.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Ryan’s shrug. “You missed your target, though,” he drawled. “And you were only, what? A thousand or so meters away. My sister could have made that shot.”
Erica nudged Ryan’s foot beneath the table, communicating her approval. Comparing Mahdi’s skills to a woman’s, a fictitious sister, was a heavy insult.
Right on cue, Mahdi bristled. “I did not miss my target.”
“Yes, you did.” Erica feigned a yawn. “Look, I get it. You’re getting old. Past your prime. No shame in that.”
Mahdi banged his handcuffs on the table. “I hit the man I was ordered to hit.”
His admission turned her soul cold. Mahdi seemed sincere…which could only mean… “You weren’t targeting Speaker Hatcher?”
“If I had been, he would be dead,” Mahdi said flatly. He realigned the sugar packets.
“I don’t believe you.” Erica waved a dismissive hand, hiding her rising anxiety. The smile she fixed on her face felt brittle and probably looked half-crazed.
“Were you ordered to kill former President Wilkerson?” Ryan demanded.
“He won’t tell you the truth because the truth is his eyesight’s going, and he missed his shot. He failed.” She angled back to the sniper and made a sympathetic noise he’d detest. “Admit it, Mahdi.”
Red flooded Mahdi’s face, coloring the spaces in between his bruises. “No! I was ordered to kill the president.”
“Him and the Speaker?” Ryan clarified, voice tight.
Mahdi shook his head. “All three shots, into the president only. Al Monitor’s order.”
Erica took a deep breath but couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. “We’ll be back.”
Ryan caught up to her outside Khalid’s room.
“What the hell?” Erica twirled the ends of her hair. A twisty pang lit up her chest, a mixture of shock and panic—two emotions she was well acquainted with when it came to terrorism. “Why did they decide to target President Wilkerson after ditching their first plan when we found their explosive?”
Ryan scratched a hand through his hair. “If the plan was to kill Speaker Hatcher in the bombing, a bullet would have still done the job.”
Erica prowled the short corridor, up and back. “Killing a former president makes for bigger headlines.”
“Right…” Ryan twisted his wristwatch. “But that still doesn’t explain why they didn’t take out Hatcher, too. Mahdi fired three rounds. One of those could have been for Hatcher.”
“You believe Mahdi?”
Ryan nodded. “What’s your gut say?”
“Something’s off here.” Erica gripped the knob to Al Monitor’s room. The strange urgency that’d begun earlier dialed up a notch, so her body practically hummed with it.
“I have word about Behram,” she announced without preamble as she entered the room and slid into the seat nearest Al Monitor.
Khalid’s eyes rounded fractionally.
“I’m Agent Arnell,” Ryan said, joining them. “We’re prepared to fill you in about your son once you offer information in exchange. Deal?”
Khalid turned to her, and the taut line his jaw formed told her he was not happy. Her gaze dipped to his hands. His pinky twitched again. And his thumb. They were getting to him.
“Let’s start with an easy one.” Erica leaned close, stopping just inches away from Al Monitor’s face. “Were you targeting Speaker Hatcher at the consulate?”
Khalid’s gaze swung between a stone-faced Ryan and Erica. “He was the target. Yes.”
Erica didn’t so much as flicker an eyelash at the first sound of Khalid’s voice. It was higher than she imagined. Softer. A man used to getting his way without brute force. Somehow it was even more ominous. “That’s not what Mahdi says.”
The color drained from Khalid’s face. “What does he say?”
“Enough with the games, Khalid,” Ryan barked. “We know you were targeting President Wilkerson. Why?”
Khalid linked his fingers tightly together.
Erica pulled out a picture of Behram and slid it to Khalid. “Is he dead or just sleeping in this photo?”
Khalid’s hands shook as he picked up the photo. After a long moment he lowered it, his face stricken. “Dead.”
Erica hid her surprise. How had he known that, or was he just testing them to judge their reaction?
“Tell us why you targeted President Wilkerson, and I’ll tell you if you’re right about Behram.” Despite her best efforts, her voice emerged rushed, matching the speed of her heart. She felt like a lobster in a kettle, little by little the heat increasing until she practically danced out of her skin.
“What time is it?” Khalid deflected.
Erica fished in her suit jacket for her cell and came up empty. She must have left it outside. Given they’d been in the building for so long this morning, and the back rooms had no windows, she’d lost track of time. “What do
es it matter?”
“I’ll answer when I know the time.” A flicker of emotion tightened Khalid’s lips. “If you will tell me about my son.”
“Fine.” Ryan shoved up his sleeve and flashed his watch at Khalid before snapping the fabric back down over his wrist.
Al Monitor smiled like a pleased parent. “One thirty-three. You’re too late to stop our attack. Watching your pain as I describe our glorious mission will give me great pleasure.”
A shudder rolled through Erica as she met the blatant cruelty in Khalid’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
“The attack has already been carried out. Today. At your president’s funeral.” Khalid shot her a triumphant look.
A lick of pain lit up her chest as the facts fell into place. “President Wilkerson’s shooting was just a diversion.”
Khalid nodded.
“Your real plan was to lure everyone,” she said slowly, “including the president, vice president, and Speaker Hatcher to the funeral.”
Ryan shot her a pained look, then stalked out of the room.
Khalid chuckled. “You’re smarter than you look. Too bad it’s too late.”
“How’s it too late?” Ice drenched her veins. “We found the bomb. We have Al Monitor in custody.”
His lips, wide and expressive, twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. “Wrong two times. We planted a timed bomb at the church. It went off fifteen minutes ago, just as the president delivered a eulogy for his father. Now. It’s your turn. Honor your word. Tell me about Behram.”
Fear formed painful knots in her stomach. Was Khalid just playing her to get information about his son?
“I need more first. What about Speaker Hatcher, your original target?” She forced as much bravado into her voice as possible.
Khalid stared at her for a moment, then barked out a loud laugh. “Hatcher is one of the plot’s masterminds…. He’s next in line for the presidency and is probably being sworn in as we speak. He planned to ditch his Secret Service when he went to the restroom a moment before the bomb went off—escaping the building through a side door with only a minor injury.”
The more Khalid spoke, the bigger the knots of unease grew in her stomach, becoming balls of lead. He had to be lying…yet some part of her rejected the notion. The ringing in her ears grew to a full-on shriek. “Why would al-Nusra help Speaker Hatcher become president? He’s investigating you. Arming the Syrian government against you.”
Khalid’s handcuffs clinked as he waved a graceful hand. “Just a ruse. As president, Speaker Hatcher will create a back channel for arms sales to Jabhat al-Nusra, ensure Mahdi and I are taken to safety, and silence anyone with knowledge of this plot. In fact”—Khalid paused, drumming his neatly trimmed fingernails on the table—“you and Agent Arnell are in quite a bit of danger. The new president will execute you to cover up the plot. He’ll make it look as though I shot you before escaping.”
“Lies,” she insisted, despite the chill shivering along her spine. “Besides, every conversation here is taped—all the proof we need.”
“Naïve little lamb,” Khalid mocked. “President Hatcher will destroy the recordings, along with you and Agent Arnell. However, if you tell me about Behram, I may persuade him not to kill you.”
“You’re lying.” Erica slapped her hands on the table. “Tell the truth, Al Monitor, and I’ll tell you if your son is alive.”
He dropped an elbow to the table and leaned his cheek into it, his expression coolly amused. “I’m not Al Monitor.”
Erica tensed as a new anxiety burst through her. Surely he was deceiving her…. Hopefully Ryan had checked everything out and the church was in one piece, the funeral proceeding without event. “Yes, you are.”
“I’m the highest-ranking general and the face of Jabhat al-Nusra, but I’m not the group’s leader—not Al Monitor who ordered the attack on the US Embassy in Amman. For diplomatic reasons, Al Monitor has kept his identity a secret.”
“That’s a convenient story.” Despite her sneer, her confidence cracked beneath her like ice.
“Convenient, yes.” Khalid chuckled, smug. “Al Monitor has been colluding with a US politician, Speaker Hatcher, for his latest attack under the guise of political lobbying.”
Panic clawed up Erica’s throat as she recalled the al-Nusra terrorist she’d questioned in Amman. He’d divulged the organization was working with a US government worker, intel she’d been fired for obtaining illicitly. She’d assumed the contact was Greg Pullman when she’d spotted him with the weapons traffickers…but it was Richard Hatcher all along.
Bit by bit, her belief in Khalid’s story grew. It was like swallowing poison by the spoonful; if Khalid was being honest, then she and Ryan had, once again, failed to stop a massive, deadly bombing. Her eyes drifted to the closed door. What had Ryan learned about the attack? She swallowed her need to join him, compartmentalized, and focused on gaining invaluable intelligence while she had her subject talking. “What’s Al Monitor’s motive?”
“Behram…” Khalid’s nostrils flared.
“Not yet,” she ground out. “What’s Al Monitor’s motive?”
“To avenge his father’s death.” Khalid straightened and folded his hands in his lap, as if settling in for a good story. A good story for a shitty, despicable terrorist, she supposed. “Years ago, a US airstrike ordered by President Robert Wilkerson killed them. Al Monitor lost his family and his rightful spot as the head of his father’s oil business. His plan was to kill the former president, then lure the family to his funeral to kill them just like the former president killed his family. He’s been funding Jabhat al-Nusra through his LLC.”
Pedar Oil. Its owner was a rich orphan, someone who felt strongly enough about his parent to use the Arabic word to title the business. The truth bitch-slapped Erica across the face. Khalid wasn’t lying.
“Since Al Monitor was already acquainted with Speaker Hatcher, he was receptive to our offer of a pathway to the presidency. We communicated to him through his aide, Mr. Pullman. His Syrian wife’s cousins are Jabhat al-Nusra members.” Numbness settled into Erica’s bones as she stared at Khalid, listening closely as he continued. “Since this plot was personal, Al Monitor came to America to witness his long-awaited revenge and to spirit Speaker Hatcher away. He would have met Al Monitor outside just before the cathedral exploded.”
Ericafelt her heart stutter then drop to the pit of her stomach, as a wall of panic slammed into her. “Emir Fahad al Saud is Al Monitor.” The Saudi prince she’d danced for at the birthday party, the guy whose house she’d snuck into when hunting Pullman, was the leader of Jabhat al-Nusra. Not the man she interrogated. The emir’s plane had never landed in Riyadh because he’d remained in America, waiting to carry out his heinous revenge.
Khalid tipped his head to the side. “Like I said, you’re not as dumb as you look.”
“Is his family involved?”
“No. Those bastards stole Fahad’s birthright, his father’s company, when they made the emir’s uncle the crown prince.”
Erica’s breath was coming out too fast and in a strange pattern. One breath in. Two breaths out. “That’s why al-Nusra’s targeting their oil wells. Fahad’s sabotaging the company denied him.”
Khalid sighed. “Right. Now, tell me about my son and maybe I’ll put in a good word for you with President Hatcher.”
Ryan burst in the room just as Erica lunged across the table at Khalid. He slammed his watch down on the table then hustled her into the hall. A howl erupted through the wall-mounted speaker outside the interrogation room door.
Ryan gripped her hands. “I heard everything and alerted the FBI.”
She stared back at him, feeling choked from the inside out. “Then you know we’re too late.” A scalding tide of tears drenched the back of Erica’s throat.
“Not if we hurry.” He nearly jerked her off her feet
as he hustled her to the exit.
“What do you mean?” The ache in her chest rivaled what she’d felt when she’d seen the Amman embassy in ruins. It was cold and hot at the same time, burning and icing over her insides. A lump had formed in the back of her throat, and the dampness behind her eyes increased with every step. “And why did you leave your watch with Khalid?”
“I wanted him to see the time.” Ryan ushered her to the passenger seat, flung himself behind the wheel, and peeled out of the parking lot toward downtown Dallas.
“You showed it to him already.” She pressed her burning forehead against the window, imagining the carnage when they arrived on scene. It’d be just like Amman….
“Not the real time.” Tires squealed as Ryan cranked the wheel and jetted them onto the highway at breakneck speed. “I stopped my watch when my father died. That’s,”—Ryan pointed at the dash, where red numbers read one o’clock—“the real time.”
A wave of hope crashed into her, coming out of nowhere. The funeral was just underway. “How did you?” she breathed.
Ryan shrugged, jerking the car around slower vehicles. “I had a hunch he might reveal the plot if he believed it’d already happened, and I went with it. Someone taught me to go with my gut once in a while.”
She shot Ryan a tremulous smile, then slipped her gun from her holster as she mentally readied herself for a takedown.
For absolution.
For revenge.
Thousands of lives were at stake. They needed to reach the church in time, or the world’s deadliest terrorists would escape once more.
Chapter 19
Ryan’s breath whistled hard and fast between his teeth as he jerked his crap economy car to a stop just beyond the yellow concrete barricades blocking off Our Lady of Guadalupe Church. Funeral attendees streamed from the towering red brick structure. Black-suited Secret Service agents bundled dignitaries into SUVs while FBI and DHS officers pinwheeled their arms, urging the crowd to distance themselves faster from the timed bomb set to detonate in only ten minutes.
