Taking Fire

by Cindy Gerard

  He didn’t want to be on the attack with her anymore. He couldn’t continue to let his thoughts lead with anger. In this one thing, they must be united. They’d both lost something. And the only thing that mattered was getting Meir back.

  What would you have done? How could I bring a child into this world and introduce him to a man who hated his mother? And how could a child have possibly fit into your world?

  She’d been right to be afraid of what he would have done.

  But not any longer.

  “I don’t want to fight with you anymore,” he whispered into her hair, as her remembered words brought not only understanding but an aching need for peace between them.

  She made a sound, part sob, part relief, all gratitude. And she clung even tighter.

  23

  A white taxi with orange markings and the number 393 on the roof waited for them exactly where it should be and exactly on time. The driver was a local, and Bobby had expected to haggle over the price of the fare, but the man—Sanju, according to the placard mounted on the dash—said in English, “All is taken care of, sir. I have been provided with a list of places where you may wish to go.”

  “Thank you,” Bobby said. Sanju nodded and closed the glass divider between the front and rear seats, giving them privacy. He pulled away from the curb, headed toward the heart of the city, and not long after switched the radio station from Arabic pop to American pop.

  It made Bobby wonder just how much Sanju knew. He had no choice but to trust the man.

  “Sounds like Rhonda came through,” Talia whispered.

  “She always does.” Bobby turned toward her in the dark backseat. He’d been more than grateful that Rhonda had called just before they’d left the safe house, telling them the driver would know where to take them. He would drive them to hotels, clubs, and bars where a man like Amir al-Attar might go to satisfy his appetites for partying and women.

  “I take it you found the package,” he said, hearing the rustle of paper. The backseat was fairly dark, and there was only a sprinkling of streetlights in this part of the city, but he’d spotted the promised package when he’d gotten inside.

  “She seems to have thought of everything. I think this is for you.” She handed him a packet that could only be currency: Omani rial.

  He unwrapped the packet, gave it a quick count, then whistled low. Inside was a stack of notes worth fifty rial each. They shouldn’t run out of cash anytime soon. “Looks like my bonus came early this year.” He tucked the money into one of the dishdasha’s deep pockets, right next to the 9mm Beretta and an extra clip he’d taken from the floor safe. Then he glanced at Talia. “You have everything you need?”

  “Looks like more than enough.”

  She’d already hiked the dishdasha above her knees and was in the process of tugging off the white socks she’d worn in lieu of shoes for the six-block walk to the rendezvous point. Short of going barefoot again, it was the best she’d been able to come up with. In the dark, with little foot or car traffic in the neighborhood, if anyone had seen them, they’d assume they were a father and son out on the streets together.

  “Are those going to work?” he asked, as she slipped on low-heeled sandals with straps covered in gold beading.

  “Better than the socks.” She glanced his way as she started tugging the dishdasha up her thighs. “You might want to look to the left.”

  He whipped his head toward the passenger window as the sounds of crinkling paper, swishing silk, and delicately jangling glass beads filled the backseat. Then he tried to ignore the bouncing of the seat springs as she shifted and started to remove the dishdasha.

  Okay. He’d once been an altar boy—his mother had insisted—but he was no monk. And when a streetlight illuminated her reflection in the window glass, he couldn’t resist looking as she lifted the dishdasha over her head and bared all that golden skin. Her graceful neck. Her slim shoulders. Those incredible breasts, which he knew by touch and taste. Her dark brown nipples pebbled tight against the air-conditioned cold, the way they used to peak for him when he touched her.

  He closed his eyes too late; the picture would be burned into his mind forever. Just like memories of them together, skin on skin, remained branded in his psyche for what he was beginning to think would be forever.

  Despite the air-conditioned chill in the taxi, a line of perspiration beaded on his upper lip. He’d done his damnedest not to think about how good they’d been together. But here, in the shadowed intimacy of the taxi’s backseat, with only inches and a newly minted peace separating them, it wasn’t working.

  “How are you doing over there?” he made himself ask, because he needed to get grounded again.

  “Okay, I think. It’s not one size fits all, but the loose construction makes everything wearable.”

  When he turned to her, she was covered from neck to wrist to ankle in delicately embroidered and beaded silk. They’d reached a more central part of the city, which meant more streetlights and more light in the taxi.

  Rhonda had managed to acquire a woman’s dishdasha for Talia, made of multicolored silk in a swirling pattern of blues and greens and golds, coming just below her knees instead of to the floor.

  Beneath the dishdasha, she wore sarwal—­trousers—drawn snug and embroidered at her ankles, then loose to the waist.

  She’d wrapped a soft blue waqaya around her head and neck, and over that a scarf—a lahaf—fell like a shawl to her shoulders. With her complexion and dark eyes, no one would question whether she belonged here.

  She motioned toward her traditional clothes. “This could go either way tonight. These clothes will conceal our identity, but they may bring more attention if we end up being the only ones in the crowd dressed this way. A lot of the young people here wear Western clothes.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Bobby assured her. “Rhonda wouldn’t let us go out like this if she thought it would increase our profile.”

  The center window slid open, and Sanju caught Bobby’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Excuse me, please. We are about to arrive at your first destination.”

  Talia’s body tensed beside him. It was showtime, with no dress rehearsal. This could be an exercise in futility, or they could get lucky and find a lead. Either way, they were walking straight into the fire and stood a very good chance of getting burned.

  “You’re probably aware of this, but remember,” she said, looking across the seat at him, “we’re ‘locals,’ so we can’t slip up. Keep your left hand in your pocket. Don’t shake hands with it; don’t accept food with it. Use your right hand only. A tourist could be excused for making that blunder, but a local would immediately become highly suspect.”

  He knew the drill, but he let her talk. She was focused, and they both needed to be that way.

  “And no PDA, even if the situation seems to call for it. No holding hands, no hugging, no kissing. No public displays of affection of any kind. We’d draw the wrong kind of attention.”

  “Got it.” He watched her draw her Glock from the folds of the discarded men’s dishdasha and tuck it into a roomy pocket.

  He’d debated the wisdom of carrying tonight. If either of them was caught with concealed weapons, they’d be marched straight to jail, where they’d be no good to Meir. They’d lived through a bombing, a high-speed chase, and a forced car crash today, but they couldn’t depend on luck getting them out of another scrape. So they’d weaponed up.

  “You ready for this?” he asked.

  “Let’s go find him.” A renewed strength seemed to have come over her. Her short nap and the food and energy drinks must have helped recharge her batteries, but her tipping point had come afterward.

  I don’t want to fight with you anymore.

  Everything had changed for both of them in that moment. He’d felt a weight lift from his shoulders and from his soul. And she’d apparently felt so
mething similar.

  He leaned toward Sanju. “Wait for us.”

  “I will be right here, sir.”

  Armed with a single-minded purpose, they slipped out of the taxi and into the nightlife.

  24

  A few hours later, Taggart said, “We’ll hit it hard again tomorrow.”

  They hadn’t found Amir. So they hadn’t found Meir. They’d spent five hours pounding the pavement, checking out bars, flashing Amir’s and Hakeem’s photos, questioning bartenders, and approaching working girls to see if Amir had been a customer. And they’d turned up nothing.

  When they’d narrowly escaped a confrontation with the local police, they decided fatigue was making them careless and called it a night.

  Sanju had dropped them off where he’d picked them up, with the promise to meet them again in the morning. They’d hoofed it back to the safe house, and Taggart had collapsed on the sofa.

  Talia watched him from across the room as he removed the headwear, laid his Beretta and his phone on the coffee table, then slumped back, legs spread wide. He pinched his nose between his fingers.

  “We’ll get the break we need.” He looked exhausted and battered, and although he put on a brave front, Talia suspected he felt as disheartened as she did.

  It was nearing three in the morning. She was too weary even to talk; exhaustion had sunk into her bones like a deep ache. Her arm throbbed. Her feet burned. Her entire body felt like one big bruise. But nothing hurt as bad as her heart; fear for Meir had beaten her down to rock bottom.

  “Get some sleep,” Taggart said. Not bothering to undress, he stretched out on the sofa. “Sanju will be waiting for us at nine.”

  He appeared to be asleep already when she limped past him into the bedroom. Dejected and disappointed, she undressed, found a small men’s T-shirt, and pulled it on over the boxers.

  Then she pulled back the covers and fell into bed.

  The last thing she thought of before her sleep-deprived and wounded body demanded that she get some rest was her son, alone and afraid but, please, God, unharmed.

  * * *

  Bobby bolted straight up on the sofa. For a moment, he sat in the dark, sleep-dazed, wondering what had woken him. Both phones lay on the coffee table beside him. Talia’s was lit up, telling him it was four a.m. Barely an hour since he’d dropped like a stone. When it vibrated and rang, he wiped a hand over his face, then reached across the sofa and turned on a light. Figuring it was Nate or Rhonda, he picked up the phone and was about to answer when he saw the caller’s name.

  Jonathan.

  Shit!

  Someone was calling from Meir’s bodyguard’s phone. It could only be the kidnappers.

  He sprinted into the bedroom and flipped the switch for the overhead light.

  “Talia! Wake up.”

  She shot straight up in the bed, squinting against the sudden brightness. “Wha—what’s happening?”

  “It’s them.”

  She was still half asleep, but when he handed her the phone, and she saw Jonathan’s name on the screen, she woke up as if she’d been hit with ice water.

  “Put it on speaker,” he said before she punched the answer button. “Make sure they let you talk to Meir.”

  She shook her head to clear the cobwebs, turned on the speaker, and, after a slight hesitation, pushed answer. “What have you done with my son?” she demanded.

  “Excellent,” a man replied in English. “So you know why I am calling.”

  “I know that whoever stole this phone killed a good man to get it,” she said, her voice strong. “And I know you also stole my son.”

  Bobby lay a supportive hand on her shoulder.

  “Do you not wonder why I took him?”

  “Because you’re a coward.”

  A long, ominous silence followed.

  “Take care with your words, Talia Levine,” he warned. “It would not do to anger me or to forget who is in control here.”

  “Please,” she said, gripping the phone tightly, clearly struggling to maintain control. “Please tell me you haven’t hurt him.”

  “The boy is unharmed. For now. He is a brave little man. And yet sometimes I can see he wants to cry for his mother.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “What do you want?”

  “Surely you must know by now. I want retribution. My father is dead because of you. Now do you know precisely who you are dealing with?”

  “Hakeem al-Attar,” she said numbly.

  “Very good. Now tell me this. I lost my father. Should the boy not also lose his mother?”

  “Please, Hakeem,” she said quickly. “It’s me you want. He’s an innocent. Let him go and you can do whatever you want to me.”

  “Oh, I have many plans for you. You will wish you were dead long before I am through with you. And I may consider a trade for the boy. Your life, however, is no longer enough. The American who helped you kill four of my men must also die. Yes. I know about him. My men radioed me that you were not alone before they died. And I now also require money to avenge their deaths as well as my father’s life and blood.”

  What the hell? Bobby knew the way these guys thought. Revenge, exploitation, and death—those were terrorist motives. That’s why they wanted him as well as Talia. They didn’t give a shit about money. They had money. They’d added that for just one reason: to increase Talia’s torment.

  “Anything,” Talia said. “Just don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him.”

  “Your life for the boy’s then. Your life, the American’s life, and three million American dollars.”

  Bobby gripped her shoulders tighter when she gasped. “I . . . it will take some time to . . . to come up with that much money.”

  “For the boy’s sake, do not take too long.”

  “Let me talk to him. Please. I need to talk to him.”

  “He is sleeping. If I wake him, he may cry and rouse Zaire—which would not be good for your son.”

  “Oh, God.”

  She almost broke then but somehow pulled it back together. “Please. Don’t hurt him.”

  “Then do not make me wait.”

  Bobby lifted her face with a finger under her chin. It killed him to see the tears tracking down her cheeks. “You have to talk to Meir,” he whispered. “Hakeem knows this. Tell him no deal if you don’t talk to him.”

  “I need to talk to my son,” she told Hakeem firmly. “I need to know he’s alive or we don’t have a deal.”

  The line went silent before Hakeem came back. “Wait.”

  Bobby sat down on the bed beside her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her against him. “Stay strong,” he whispered into her hair.

  She drew a quivering breath, then pulled herself together.

  His heart slammed against his ribs as he waited, and waited, and then, for the first time in his life, he heard his son’s voice.

  “Momma?”

  “Oh, baby!” Talia cried, and Bobby hugged her tighter. “Yes. It’s Momma.”

  “I want to come h-home.”

  A knot of emotion crowded his chest, making it impossible to breathe.

  “I know, sweetheart. I know you do,” Talia said, working to keep her voice soothing. “And you’re going to come home real soon, okay?”

  “I want to come home now.”

  Bobby hung his head, pinching his eyes shut to stall the burn welling up behind his eyelids.

  “I know, baby. But you’re going to have to be brave for a little longer, okay? Momma’s doing everything she can to get you back home. Don’t cry, little man,” she pleaded. “You must be brave for me. You must do what the man says and not cry, and he’ll take care of you until I find you, okay? Everything’s going to be fine. I promise. You must believe me.” The line stayed silent.

  “Meir?” s
he cried.

  But it was Hakeem who answered. “As you can see, he is fine. You get the money, and he will stay that way.”

  Bobby had killed to defend himself. He’d killed to save his buddies. He’d killed for his country. But he’d never felt the urge to tear another human being to pieces with his bare hands. Now he understood bloodlust.

  “How . . . how long do I have?”

  Talia’s voice broke through the haze of a rage so black it shaded his vision.

  “I am not an unreasonable man,” the bastard said. “You have two days. Forty-eight hours. I will call again tomorrow to check on your progress.”

  25

  When the phone went dead, so did Talia’s eyes. “Promise me they won’t hurt him,” she begged.

  Bobby held her tighter, tucking her head beneath his chin. “They won’t hurt him,” he said, because she needed to hear it. And so did he. He needed to hear a voice other than Hakeem al-Attar’s. He needed to hear himself say they would not hurt the boy. And then he needed to believe it.

  The arrogant fucking pigs. They’d just pulled off the bombing of a U.S. embassy and kidnapped the child of a former Mossad agent. They should have beat feet and already been so far down a hidey-hole no one would have a clue where to look for them.

  So why weren’t they? Maybe it wasn’t a case of arrogance. Maybe it was flat-out stupidity that they were still within a thousand miles of Oman. Because if they really wanted to torture Talia, really wanted to make her pay, they’d have left her hanging. She’d die a thousand deaths, not knowing what they’d done to her son. To his son.

  For the first time in a long time, he second-guessed himself. Maybe he should have talked to them. Told them to cut the bullshit. Told them he knew what they really wanted. To kill Talia and kill him and the boy.

  Money? Hell. That didn’t fit. Hamas had money even God didn’t know about.

  So maybe the money wasn’t even for Hamas. Maybe Hakeem and dear old Uncle Amir were getting greedy and wanted it for themselves. Amir was a degenerate. Maybe Hakeem had decided to follow in his uncle’s footsteps.