Taking Fire

by Cindy Gerard

  And he was still capable of whimsy and of stealing kisses.

  He had more than enough reasons to be bitter, jaded, and angry at life. Yet he wasn’t.

  He would be, she reminded herself, breaking the spell. When she was through with him, he would be all of those things.

  She was thankful when they reached the restaurant before she had more time to anguish over her assignment. And after spending several enjoyable hours in a place where the walls were covered with beautiful Afghan carpets and the doors were magnificently carved works of art, where they’d relaxed on colorful cushions and eaten a delicious meal from low tables, they walked hand in hand again back to her hotel.

  This time, when she took him to her bed, she took him there with a single-minded purpose that had nothing to do with deceit and missions and calculation. She took him to bed to please him. To be with him. To enjoy the wonder he brought to her body and to her heart, which had been numb for so long.

  Afterward, when he slept, she lay awake listening to him breathe, absorbing the heat radiating from his body, wishing they could lock themselves away here and never leave.

  But there could never be more than this between them. It was idiotic even to dream that somehow, some way, there could be more. Because after she got what she needed, she would leave him—and what was left of her heart would be numb once more.

  7

  An irritating buzz woke Bobby from a deep sleep. The next buzz had him shooting straight up in bed. He’d left his phone on the bedside table, and the screen alerted him to an incoming text.

  Talia stirred sleepily beside him. “What—”

  “Shh,” he whispered, silencing the phone. “Go back to sleep.”

  Then he slipped out of bed and walked to the window, hoping to catch a little night air to wake him up. He checked the time—2:17 a.m.—before pressing the key to accept the text.

  “Game on. Fifteen minutes.” The text went on to name two cross streets as his destination.

  Al-Attar’s coded message told Bobby that he wanted to meet. Finally. This was it. The bastard liked to play games, but Bobby had a gut feeling that this was the real event. It was significant that al-Attar had called a zero-dark-thirty meeting out of nowhere. And if he was at the location suggested by the cross streets, ­al-Attar had been under his nose all along. What a kick in the ass.

  He deleted the text and set his mind to what would happen next. They were finally going to nab this bastard and his thugs and put him out of business. Bobby just hoped he wasn’t heading into a trap.

  He glanced at Talia, her black hair spilling across the pillow. No matter what happened, he would make it back to the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  The thought hit him like a tank. Then it backed up and rolled over him again.

  The best thing that had ever happened to him.

  Shit. He dragged a hand over his head, wanting to deny it. But there it was. Unfiltered and as real as daylight.

  When in holy hell had that happened? How had it happened? He’d only spent seven days with her—most of them involving wild, delirious sex—and he was already thinking long term?

  He went into the bathroom, turned on the cold-water faucet, and splashed the sleep from his eyes. Then he faced himself in the mirror.

  This was so not happening. Falling in lust was one thing, but falling in love? In a week? No freakin’ way.

  But with the initial shock ebbing, after he’d gathered his clothes from the floor and dressed in the dark, the idea didn’t feel as unbelievable.

  In fact, he kind of liked the way it fit. Maybe it was time he had something good in his life. Something like a woman who entertained him with her wit, engaged him intellectually, and made him remember a part of himself he thought he’d lost in the murky fog of year after year of war.

  “Come back to bed,” Talia whispered, in that husky I’ll do anything you want voice. And he damn near dived back in with her.

  “I’ve got to go out for a while,” he said softly, hating that he had to leave her. Hating it a lot.

  “But it’s the middle of the night,” she said sleepily.

  “It’s important, or I wouldn’t be going.”

  With a soft groan, she rolled over and checked the time on her phone. “Good God.” She turned back to look at him. “So important it can’t wait until morning?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s something I’ve been trying to tie up and get out from under for a long time.”

  Her brow furrowed, and she started to rise, but he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, then smoothed her hair away from her face.

  “Don’t get up, babe. Just go back to sleep. Everything’s okay.”

  God, she was beautiful, her eyes now clear and focused on him, her gaze filled with concern, with worry for him. Best thing that had ever happened to him.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” he reassured her again.

  “Bobby . . . I . . . Bobby—” Her voice caught on a short breath, and she reached out and cupped the back of his head, drawing him into a sweet, desperate kiss. Her mouth opened over his, her other hand coming up to hold him close, as if she couldn’t get enough, as if she’d never get enough.

  “Hey. Hey,” he whispered, breaking off the kiss when he touched her face and felt tears. “What’s this? What’s going on?”

  She shook her head and got herself back under control. “I don’t know. I don’t wake up well, I guess.”

  When she smiled for him, he kissed her again and felt a deep, urgent need to get back to her as fast as he could. “I’ll be back before sunrise. Save my place, okay?”

  This time, she managed some sass. “Well, I was expecting Habib around five . . .”

  A mental picture of the ancient Afghan man who hung around the bar and bummed smokes made him chuckle. “Tell him hello for me. And make sure he drags his bony ass out of here before I get back.”

  “Be safe,” she said, her eyes imploring.

  “I always am,” he promised, and after stuffing his phone into his pocket, he took off.

  * * *

  Talia fought back tears as the knot in her stomach became a wrenching ache. This was the moment she’d waited for. And the moment she’d begun to dread.

  God, she’d almost compromised the operation. She’d almost told him who she was and what would happen tonight.

  Treason echoed through her mind like a death knell.

  She was not a traitor. But she’d hoped so much to have more time with him.

  Tonight all came down to one choice. Betray her country or betray Taggart.

  She stared at the ceiling and made herself focus. This was what she’d worked for. The success of the mission had come down to the RFID tag she’d planted in his phone and her ability to get close enough to her target to read between the lines—which was exactly what she’d done.

  Yeah. It’s something I’ve been trying to tie up and get out from under for a long time.

  She’d known what was going down the moment he’d said those words. Only one thing could provoke him to go out into the dark streets at this time of night. Mohammed al-Attar.

  She forced herself to sit up, lowered her head to her hands, and reached deep for the strength to make the call. Finally, she stood, dragged her hair away from her face, and walked to the wardrobe.

  The SAT phone felt ominously heavy in her hand as she dialed.

  “Talia,” her commander said before she could speak. “We see that he’s on the move.”

  “Yes.” She knew they’d been tracking his movements since she’d hidden the tag seven nights ago. “I believe this is the opportunity we have been waiting for.”

  “Believe? You are not certain?”

  “As certain as I can be, yes.”

  “Good work,” her commander said, then hesitated. “Tali
a . . . you are all right?”

  She pinched her eyes to force away the tears. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I’ll alert the team. They are ready for this. You know what to do now.”

  “Yes. I know what to do.”

  But first, she did something that shamed her, something that went against the service she’d pledged her life to uphold. She asked her commander something she had no right to ask. Something that would jeopardize everything that made her who she was.

  * * *

  Bobby shoved his hands into his pockets and walked at a fast clip down the darkened Kabul streets. He was oblivious to the beggar asleep in a pile of rags on the walkway. Didn’t register the day-old scents of garbage and exhaust and unwashed bodies spilling out of windows and doors.

  He focused on two things only: staying alive and finally getting access to al-Attar’s secret den. The terrorist had had his uses, and those had kept him alive and free. But now al-Attar and his band had accommodations waiting for them at Gitmo, compliments of Fargis and Uncle Sam.

  Bobby could have picked him up the last time they’d met. He hadn’t done so because Uncle wanted to capture not only him and his minions but also his computers and files, all rich with intel. The only way to accomplish that was for Bobby to enter al-Attar’s base of operations, which he’d never been able to do before. But the time had finally arrived.

  “Should there not be trust between us, after all of the commerce we have successfully executed together?” Bobby had asked at their last meeting. “I grow weary of this game of hide-and-seek. It insults me. I can always take my money somewhere else.”

  Apparently, the veiled threat of losing his main source of revenue had made al-Attar reconsider, because he’d assured Bobby that their next meeting would take place at his headquarters.

  Not even a stray dog moved on the street as Bobby approached the rendezvous spot. It made him a little itchy. Going into a meet with al-Attar unarmed went against all of his instincts. But those were al-Attar’s rules, so, as always, he had nothing on him but his phone. Adrenaline pumped through his system, revving him up like a muscle car running on high-­octane fuel. He wasn’t Captain America, however, and he wasn’t a cowboy. He would keep his head, and he wasn’t going in completely alone. Before he’d hit the streets, he’d texted a coded message to his team leader, letting him know that the meet was finally on and giving him the street names so they could find him.

  Apparently, he’d walked a little faster than he’d thought, because when he arrived at the spot, no one from al-Attar’s camp was there. That was fine. It would give his team more time to arrive and get into position. They’d had a plan in place for the day this big meet finally came. Still, this was where blind faith came into play. Even when the boys got here to provide backup, he wouldn’t see them. No one would, until they wanted to be seen. But it was good to know they’d soon be here, guarding his back.

  He moved into the shadows and leaned against the corner of a spice store, wondering which of the nearby buildings housed al-Attar’s HQ. A little wind gust sent a plastic bag skittering down the street, but otherwise, all was quiet. Then an old Toyota Hilux pickup careened around the corner and braked abruptly in front of him.

  The Hilux was the go-to vehicle in Afghanistan. This one was beaten and battered, but Bobby suspected some tweaks had been made under the hood. These guys were going to make certain they could always get away—fast.

  The few working streetlights were dim, but Bobby recognized the man riding shotgun from previous meets as Ghulam, one of al-Attar’s top lieutenants.

  Four more men were similarly dressed like locals in white khats and wearing pakuls on their heads. One was the driver. The other three carried AK-47s like Ghulam and each one sat in his own corner in the truck box. The fourth corner was empty, and Bobby suddenly had a very bad feeling about this.

  “Get in,” Ghulam ordered. Yep—the last corner was reserved for him.

  “Get in? We’re not meeting near here?”

  “Get in,” the man repeated.

  Shit. This was not good. He’d expected to be led to a building nearby, where al-Attar would be waiting.

  “Where’s your boss?” Bobby asked.

  “We will take you to him.”

  Not good at all.

  And unless he came up with a believable stall tactic, he could kiss his backup good-bye. Fargis’s home base was around twenty minutes from his current location. Even if the team had assembled immediately after he’d alerted them, they were still three to four minutes away. If he didn’t come up with something fast, they weren’t going to get here in time to help him. The Hilux—with him in it—would be long gone.

  “Get in now, or we leave, and the meet is off.”

  He gave a millisecond of thought to letting them drive off without him, but he’d worked too long and too hard on this op to blow his chance of pinning down al-Attar’s nest now. Somehow, he’d get a message to the guys, and they’d find him. Or maybe—if these goons weren’t smart enough to block ­transmission—the team could track his phone via GPS. Even then, by the time they figured out exactly where he was, it could be all over but the eulogy.

  With a resigned breath, Bobby walked around to the back of the truck, then hiked himself up inside. He’d barely sat down, with his back to the tailgate and his eyes on the boys with the guns, when the Toyota took off.

  They traveled several blocks through a city that was in turns decrepit and crumbling and newly modern. He was hot as hell from the adrenaline buzz, and the dusty wind generated by the speeding truck didn’t make it easy for him to find the zone.

  The Hilux suddenly braked, and he figured they’d arrived.

  No such luck. Thug One tossed a black hood at his chest. “Put it on.”

  Bobby caught it and narrowed his eyes. “What the fu—”

  “Put it on!” the guy yelled, and three Russian rifles rose, all pointing at his head.

  “No need to get testy, boys,” he mumbled, and put on the hood. Then tried to keep from gagging. It smelled like goat shit.

  The Hilux tore off again. He was as good as blind, with no backup plan or team in place. This was going south fast, and he could very well be dead tomorrow.

  And the thought that bit harder than anything else was the possibility of never seeing Talia again.

  8

  As the old Toyota roared down the cratered streets, turning, braking, slowing, then racing several times, Bobby could no longer get a feel for what direction they were going. It felt like a good half hour before the driver finally stopped, but they could be miles or mere blocks from where he’d been picked up.

  The engine died with a cough; two truck doors opened and then slammed closed. Someone jerked the hood off his head. It took a few seconds to get his eyes to focus, and when he did, the tailgate was already down, and he was the only one left in the truck.

  He took it as a good sign that they’d gotten rid of the hood and hadn’t bound his wrists, but he was a long way from confident that he’d live to see the sunrise. When you played games with men like al-Attar, if you got too confident, you soon got dead.

  He sucked in the fresh air, said, “My compliments to the driver,” then jumped out of the truck and tried to get his bearings. It was still dark, and very few streetlights burned in this neighborhood. He took in everything he could see as fast as he could and spotted a blue banner hanging from a wall outside the entrance to a market. What market, he had no clue.

  “Follow,” Thug One ordered. To make certain that he did, he tapped him none too gently with the business end of the AK. They walked only a couple of blocks, then ducked into a narrow alley before stopping at a walled adobe compound. One of the gunmen pounded on the door. Not long after, a peephole opened. An exchange of words in Arabic followed, before a man opened the door and they all trooped inside.

  The
new guy led them into the house and a central receiving area that was spacious and well lit, with wide-open windows and several worn but comfortable-looking chairs. Wood bookshelves ran along one wall and overflowed with books and antiques. The Hamas leader clearly liked his creature comforts.

  “Spread,” the gunman ordered.

  Knowing the drill, Bobby planted his feet wide and held his hands in the air while the man searched him and then held out his hand.

  “Phone.”

  Having no choice, Bobby handed over his one and only lifeline.

  A hand gripped his shoulder and pushed. “Sit.”

  Bobby sank into the nearest chair.

  And then al-Attar entered the room, welcomed him as though he were a long-lost friend, and, playing the gracious host, served him tea.

  Bobby smiled and fought the urge to spit in his eye.

  * * *

  His only play was to punt and hope the team could somehow find him. But the odds of that happening were zilch, and it was looking as if al-Attar and his men were not going to be taken into custody tonight. That was the bad news. That and the fact that he’d finally gotten into the den, but he had no idea where it was located.

  The good news was, it didn’t appear he was going to die tonight.

  He drank the strong, bitter tea and made nice while twenty of al-Attar’s top lieutenants gathered in the receiving room, listening quietly as al-Attar and Bobby discussed a deal for the new intel that the Hamas leader stated was his best information yet.

  After al-Attar named his price, Bobby said, “That’s a lot of money, my friend.”

  “Have I not always delivered what I promised?” Al-Attar lounged regally in his chair, a master accustomed to hard-core negotiating.

  “Just as I have always held up my end of the bargain,” Bobby said, maintaining his own casual façade. “And yet you found it necessary to have your men hijack me at gunpoint and hood me.”