Dangerous Assignment (Aegis Group Book 4)

by Sidney Bristol

  All in all, fifteen minutes later—he was no longer Hassan.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Mr. Refai?”

  He flexed his neck, twisting it a bit until it popped. Ah, that was it.

  He was too old for this kind of work, which was why going into business for himself was the way to go.

  He crossed to the door and opened it, blinking at the hotel security.

  “What the hell is going on?” He frowned and glared at the uniformed man.

  “We’re very sorry, Mr. Refai, but we need to ask you to evacuate.”

  Over the man’s shoulder the stairwell doors opened and Omar Natsheh, escorted by more security, stormed down the hall.

  The evacuation plan was right on schedule…

  Luke pushed to his feet, shaking his head. The blast had his ears ringing so bad he couldn’t hear a thing.

  Furniture was overturned. A thick layer of dust lay over everything. People were on the floor. The dining table was on its side, in pieces.

  Abigail.

  He swung his head to his right.

  There.

  She lay on her side, her face pinched. He stumbled toward her, his knees a little rubbery. She opened her eyes and pushed up. A deep gash on her forehead trickled blood down over her brow. Chances were high she had a concussion. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear her. Not yet.

  She pushed up and was on her feet by the time he picked his way over the furniture toward her.

  Again, she spoke, her mouth working slowly, over-exaggerating her speech.

  E-th-an.

  Ethan.

  Shit.

  Luke turned, nearly tripping over a bit of rubble. The whole room seemed to dip and spin with him. He must have cracked his head a lot harder than he thought. He glanced up. The ceiling was fractured. Chunks of plaster had fallen off.

  He froze.

  The entire side of the suite was blown out. Where there’d been a nice set of floor-to-ceiling windows was…nothing.

  Fuck the Smiths.

  Where was Ethan?

  He’d been right behind the couple, holding Mrs. Smith’s chair.

  Luke scrambled over furniture, vaulted bits of the kitchen island that’d been blasted apart. The wounded and dying littered the suite. It was war-zone-carnage in a place it didn’t belong. He and Abigail had been just far enough away. Barely. A few feet closer, facing the wrong direction, and they could have been killed on detonation. Standing just around the corner had probably saved their lives.

  Could Ethan have moved? Escaped the blast?

  Luke began searching the bodies, turning them over, checking for a pulse. No one who’d sat at the table moved. Not a one of them were alive.

  Where Ethan should be, where the Smiths had sat…was gone. The floor, the wall, bits of the ceiling. Blown out the side of the hotel.

  Luke edged toward the drop off. The floor dipped, sloping precariously toward the ledge.

  Below, several cars were crunched, dusted in rubble. There were bodies. Battered and broken.

  And one of them was probably Ethan.

  Luke sucked in a breath, then another.

  Ethan was gone.

  He turned, stumbling away from the ledge. People began picking themselves up. He could hear muffled sounds. Their cries for help were whispers to his ringing ears.

  He grabbed the nearest body, turning it face up, but the eyes were lifeless. Dead. The next one…he didn’t bother with. The suit was all wrong, and the head wound was a clear indication the person was gone from this world. Of the dinner guests and staff closest to the explosion, there were six bodies left—and none of them were Ethan.

  He couldn’t have survived a drop like that, much less the blast.

  Ethan was gone.

  The thought raked claws over Luke’s insides, shredding him. But he didn’t have time to process that, to grieve. There were injured people to tend to. Possibly another attack. Until Luke knew what was going on, he couldn’t mourn his friend. He didn’t have that luxury.

  Luke knew he needed to help the wait staff, what survivors there were, but…Ethan. He’d been right there.

  They’d patted everyone down. Guests. Hotel staff. They hadn’t let a foot step inside the suite without a thorough screening. They’d searched pockets, bins, even the food—just in case. What had they missed? Where had he gone wrong? How would he tell Ethan’s wife? His son?

  This couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t.

  Someone grabbed him by the arm. Luke pivoted, fist up—

  The security guard held a gun on him.

  Luke uncurled his fist, hands up.

  He didn’t know the drill here, how the authorities would handle the situation. Jordan was a peaceful country that didn’t get mixed up in the turmoil of the Middle East.

  What did he do? Who did he call? Where was Abigail?

  More security moved between the survivors, helping some up, others had First Aid kits open, administering what care they could.

  The guard jerked his head toward the double doors and lowered his weapon.

  Luke nodded, though he could only barely hear and picked his way across the rubble. Was he under arrest? Did they consider him a suspect? He hadn’t liked the Smiths, but he’d done his job to the best of his ability.

  He paused at the doors, glancing into Abigail’s room. She stepped out, her jacket gone, a bit of the blood wiped away, but it still dripped down her cheek. A security guard followed her, his weapon trained on her, a bag in hand that Luke recognized. He’d carried it from the plane for her.

  Abigail didn’t look at him. Not once.

  Shit.

  After last night he was certain she was in intelligence or undercover work, something like that. But she couldn’t have set a bomb.

  Why was she being held at gunpoint?

  Why did security have her luggage?

  Did they know who she worked for?

  Was she okay?

  A hand shoved him forward, and this time he heard the Arabic barked at him.

  Luke followed Abigail and her armed guard out of the suite. He turned, catching the guard’s eye.

  “Ethan—the other American? I’m looking for him.” He could barely hear himself talk. His ears throbbed, and the ringing split his skull.

  Luke drew back the side of his jacket, offering up his firearm. This wasn’t America, and he had to play by their rules. Usually, when he did a job like this on foreign soil, he did his homework. The Smiths had taken that element of preparedness away from him and now he was floundering with no idea what came next.

  The guard edged forward and snatched the gun out of the holster.

  “I want to find my friend. Ethan,” he said again.

  The guard jerked his head.

  Luke could only assume he was supposed to follow in Abigail’s wake, that as the bodyguards, they’d be suspect. He quick-stepped to keep up with her. He’d lost Ethan, he couldn’t lose her, too. They had to stick together now.

  Christ, Ethan was gone.

  He tipped his chin up, staring at the lights overhead.

  The loss was too new. He couldn’t allow himself to grieve or even process it because they were not yet out of danger. Until he had confirmation Ethan was gone… He couldn’t go there.

  Abigail and Luke were escorted to the first floor and placed in a conference room with only one small window. From the looks of it, this was for staff use only. It lacked the opulence evident in the rest of the hotel.

  A guard remained in the room, his eyes focused on Abigail.

  “Abigail, what’s going on?” His voice sounded weird, but the temporary hearing loss was abating. He needed to know the whole story. Now. So they could make a plan. Figure out a cover story. Something.

  She didn’t look at him. She didn’t speak. She stared out of the small window onto the side street.

  Could she hear him?

  He was just barely beginning to hear again.

  Hell, she might as well
be a statue.

  Was she in shock? He couldn’t see her setting that bomb.

  “Abigail, look at me.” He grasped her by the elbow.

  She jerked her arm out of his hand, darting a quick glare his way. She was distancing herself from him. Why?

  “You’re hurt. Let me look at it.” He held up his hands.

  “Don’t,” she said, her tone sharp, her gaze back on the window. “Stay away from me.”

  She had to be in shock. He circled her, searching her face for the signs of concussion, but her eyes were clear and focused. She regarded him with none of the warm familiarity they’d found. In fact, she stared at him like he was the enemy.

  Did she think he was at fault? That he’d set the bomb? Or someone connected to his team was behind this?

  The door opened, and a man in uniform entered, flanked by guards, carrying Abigail’s duffle bag.

  The two officers circled the table, their assault rifles trained on them.

  “Wow, look guys, we were there. We’re victims, too.” Luke held up his hands.

  The officers shouldered him aside and grabbed Abigail, shoving her into a seat and handcuffing her to the chair.

  “Hey, we can find a solution,” Luke said, pitching his voice above that of the officers and the ringing still threatening to split his skull.

  The one in charge looked at him, pointed a finger, and barked an order.

  “I can be quiet, but hey, we’re Americans, remember?”

  Luke had no control. None. And no way out of this. His best bet was to remind them both Abigail and he were Americans, and hopefully get some help or representation from the embassy. Amman was a huge city. There had to be an American diplomat somewhere nearby.

  Jordan was more or less, a peaceful, safe country. This shouldn’t have happened. Maybe if they were somewhere else, but not here.

  “Mr. Briar, is it?” The officer in charge glanced at a piece of paper in hand. His voice sounded distant, as though a tunnel separated them.

  “Yes, that’s me. Luke Briar. I work for Aegis Group, it’s a security company. I’m a bodyguard—”

  “Mr. Briar,” the officer said over Luke. “I would suggest you make haste back to your country as soon as you are released.”

  “But Abigail…Ethan—Ethan’s body.” That word was hard to get out.

  “Abigail. Is that what she told you her name is?” The man spoke English too well to be a common officer. Who was he? What did he know about Abigail?

  “Abigail, you set that bomb to go off, didn’t you?” The officer pulled a broken hair dryer from her bag and set it on the counter.

  There was no mistaking the C4 packed inside for anything except what it was.

  Ethan stared at the hair dryer, and then Abigail.

  No. No, that couldn’t be right.

  She was being set up.

  That had to be it.

  Or this was an op gone wrong. She had to be CIA. It made sense in ways other explanations hadn’t. Yeah, he’d begun the line of questions as a joke, but in reality she was just too good to be a common bodyguard. So what was she? A government spy sent to eliminate a threat to national security?

  He’d believe it.

  What she’d said about the Smiths rang true. The little they’d dug up was not good.

  “You have already been identified as a Mossad spy. Israel will not save you. I will find out who you are.” The officer in charge nodded at his subordinates. “Take her.”

  “Wait—no.” Luke reached out, wrapping his hand around her wrist. This was crazy. Abigail was as American as he was. And if she was CIA or something, there was all the more reason to protect her. “You can’t just accuse her of that without evidence. She’s an American.”

  “This is not America, Mr. Briar. She doesn’t even deny it.”

  “I’m not a spy,” Abigail said coolly.

  A commotion outside broke the moment. The door cracked open, but he couldn’t make out more than a few words. Luke had never picked up more Arabic than it took to get where he was going. He didn’t have the knack for languages like some of the other guys. He spoke English and bad English. That was it.

  The officer in charge gestured at the three guards, issued a short command, and all four left, the door closing behind them.

  “Abigail—what’s going on?” he asked. He massaged his temples. He could more or less hear now, but the ringing wouldn’t go away.

  “By now they will have found the detonator,” she said.

  “What? Is that stuff—no. Don’t tell me.” Whatever spy deal she had going, the less he knew, the better. His gut said she was one of the good guys, and that meant they were in this together.

  “I didn’t do it. The explosion wasn’t mine.” She stared at the tabletop. Her inflection went up the tiniest bit.

  She was scared.

  He was willing to bet this wasn’t supposed to happen, and she was freaking out.

  Luke extracted a set of lock picks from his wallet. They were the kind of thing he kept on himself these days. Never knew when a client would forget their keys or to give him access to a place he needed to be. This time, well, he was breaking laws in the name of saving an innocent woman. A woman who would go down in place of whoever was really at fault. She didn’t set that bomb. She hadn’t been alone long enough to. But someone wanted to pin this on her, and that was the last thing he was going to let happen.

  “They probably caught wind of the culprit and are attempting to track them down. I…this wasn’t mine.” Her voice was higher, thinner now.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” Now. Before the noose tightened around Abigail, before they were both caught up in the net of whatever was going down.

  First and foremost, no one was left behind. That meant Abigail. And Ethan, if he was still breathing, though after the blast and a hundred-plus foot drop, chances were slim.

  He made quick work of Abigail’s cuffs, despite his fingers slipping due to sweat. They were universal, standard issue cuffs, nothing fancy about them.

  “What’d that guy say? You understood him.” Her face had changed. Her chin had tilted. He had no doubt she had a better grasp on what was happening than he did.

  “I did.” She sat there.

  “What did he say, Abigail?”

  “He wants me dead.”

  “Not going to happen today, sugar. Come on.” He hauled her out of the chair and shoved his wallet in his pocket. Right now, that was about the sum of their resources, and it wasn’t much. He had money, some cards, the picks and a knife. That was it.

  He crossed to the window and hauled it up. A set of iron bars were bolted to the side of the building.

  “It’s no use,” Abigail said.

  “The hell it is.”

  He leaned against the bars—there.

  They were on hinges, secured by another padlock.

  This one was tricky, but he’d excelled at lock picking back in high school, thanks to his good-for-nothing uncle taking sick joy in locking Luke and his mother out of the house.

  “Come on.” Luke grabbed Abigail and pushed her toward the window.

  There was no telling how much time they had.

  Night was falling.

  It was getting dark.

  It was their only chance.

  Abigail perched on the windowsill. Her maroon button-down was streaked with dust, and a few of the buttons had popped off. Blood stained one side of her collar.

  “You should stay here. Tell them I hit you,” she said.

  “You’re crazy. Move.” He shoved her off the ledge to get her going. Her feet hit the ground and she went down into a controlled crouch before quick-stepping out of his way.

  Luke’s landing was none too graceful. It jarred up his legs and his hip ached for an unknown reason. He’d probably hurt or twisted something he wasn’t feeling yet since the blast.

  “Staying with me will get you killed,” Abigail said.

  “Shut up and walk.” He grabbed
her arm and hauled her along with him.

  Whatever mind-fuck Abigail was mired in, he didn’t have time for it. First, they needed to get somewhere safe. Then they could address what she thought she’d done and what the hell was really going on. He checked his cell phone but the device was cracked, broken beyond repair.

  “We need to get somewhere we can hide out. American Embassy?” He glanced at Abigail. Whoever she was—whatever she was—she was more than she’d appeared. He’d known it, but hadn’t been able to place her. Still couldn’t unless she wanted to clue him in on it, but he’d been part of enough covert ops when he was still an active SEAL to know he couldn’t always get answers. He might never know who Abigail really was, and that would have to be fine by him.

  “We’ll never make it there.” She gestured and they jogged across the street, down an alley and cut across another couple of streets, winding their way farther and farther from the hotel.

  They went on for what felt like ages, keeping to shadows, using alleys a sane person wouldn’t go near. Night had fallen by the time Abigail stopped behind a dumpster, her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide, nostrils flared. Panic, pure and simple.

  “Don’t do that. Hey?” He crowded in, grasping her hip and turned her toward him.

  The blood had stopped oozing and she had quite a bit of it crusted on her face.

  She stared up at him, the moonlight illuminating her large eyes.

  “I don’t know this city. Do you know a place we can go?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” Luke stepped back and looked up at the buildings on either side.

  They needed somewhere, ideally, with a phone line. He could call Aegis. They’d get them out, with or without support from the government. It would work out. They just needed to keep their heads down.

  “What do those signs say?” He pointed at a building across the street.

  “For sale.”

  “Bingo. Come on.” He took her hand.

  Together they watched the street, waiting for a lull.

  No cars.

  No people.

  They sprinted across to the alley opposite their position. Luke boosted Abigail up the fire escape and waited while she jimmied a window and slipped inside. A few minutes later, she unlocked a side door and let him into some sort of shop space.