She put an arm around Emir’s waist and smiled reassuringly at him.
“He thought he could live with Tara, who he saw as Mother, in the lifestyle to which he knew she enjoyed. That’s why he needed the money,” Emir said. “He was as twisted and broken as his kidnapping plot, and the others were just along for the ride and the money.”
“Definitely twisted,” Zafir agreed. “And the airport attackers were small-time crooks hired by Ed. They decided it might be easier to get their cash if they took you out, Em. I don’t think that was part of Ed’s plan.”
“Unbelievable,” Emir said with a shake of his head. “Ed couldn’t keep control of the scum he hired.”
“That’s why the woman from El Dewar remembered Ed, not just because of your name, but because he’d recently been there hiring help to take us out. Seems every place has their lowlife,” Kate said, remembering the shady man in El Dewar who had looked at her oddly and the bikers that had tried to gun them down, so soon after, in the desert.
Emir shrugged. “That pretty much sums it up.”
* * *
A HALF HOUR later they were settled in the helicopter and, with Zafir piloting, they began to lift off.
“It was a horrible thing—your parents’ accident, Tara’s kidnapping. I can’t imagine what Tara went through. At least it’s finally over.” She looked at Emir and her heart beat just a little harder, and despite everything that had happened, she didn’t want to leave and return to Wyoming. Not yet. Not without Emir at her side. She pushed back those thoughts. They were ridiculous, her life was there—his was here.
“Is it?” Emir asked. “There’s one piece of this whole ugly mess that I’m not so sure I want to be over.” His hand ran gently over her rapidly bruising jaw as his eyes met hers, and it was clear that it wasn’t Tara’s kidnapping he was talking about but the feelings that had grown between them. And despite the time and place—it seemed right, for everything they felt had begun in the heat of this crisis.
“What are you saying?” she asked.
His arm went around her shoulders in an oddly familiar way, as if they’d known each other for a very long time.
“What would you think of spending some time in Marrakech?”
“On assignment?”
“Sightseeing. I think you’ve earned a vacation,” he said as he turned her to face him. His intense eyes met hers and his full lips were... She couldn’t look away as he leaned over to claim her lips, his arms bringing her hard and fast against him. “I want you here where I can always see you, where I will never let you go.”
“Emir...”
“Later. For now let’s just say that I may love you.”
“Oh, for the love of Allah, Em. Tell the woman straight up.”
“Could we have a moment, Zaf?” Emir said. He turned to Kate and whispered in her ear, “I love you.”
And as he bent to kiss her, she met the kiss with all the passion in her heart. “Given some time, I may feel the same,” she said, but her heart pounded and seemed to tell her that time wouldn’t change anything. She loved him now.
“Then that’s all we need,” he said as he pulled her tighter against him.
And in the towns and villages of Morocco as he kissed her one more time, the call to prayer was beginning as if the entire country approved of a love that was definitely in the air.
* * * * *
Look for more books in Ryshia Kennie’s
DESERT JUSTICE in 2017.
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Pursuing sadistic killers is what former
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AFTER THE DARK,
part of New York Times bestselling author
Cynthia Eden’s miniseries
KILLER INSTINCT
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After the Dark
by Cynthia Eden
THE SCENE WAS all wrong.
The killer—the balding man in his late thirties—the man who stood there with sweat dripping down his face, a gun held in his trembling hand and a dead girl at his feet...he was wrong.
FBI Special Agent Samantha Dark raised her weapon even as she shook her head. She’d profiled this killer, studied every detail of his crime spree. And...
This is wrong.
“Drop the gun!” That bellow came from her partner, Blake Gamble. He was at her side, his weapon drawn, too, and she knew all of his focus was locked on the killer.
They’d come to this house just to ask Allan March some follow-up questions. He’d been one of the custodians at Georgetown University, a university that had recently become the hunting grounds for a killer.
At Blake’s shout, Allan jerked. And when he jerked, his finger squeezed the trigger of the gun he held. The shot went wide, missing both Samantha and Blake. She didn’t return fire. Allan doesn’t fit the profile. This is all wrong—
Blake returned fire. The bullet slammed into Allan’s right shoulder. Not a killing wound, not even close. Blood bloomed from the spot, soaking the stark white shirt that Allan wore. Allan should have dropped his gun in response to that hit, but he didn’t. He screamed. Tears trickled down his cheeks, and he aimed that gun—
Not at Blake, but at me.
“Has to be you...” Allan whispered. “Said...has to be you...”
She didn’t let any fear show, even as the emotion nearly suffocated her. “Allan, put down the gun.” Blake’s order had been bellowed, but hers was given softly. Almost sadly. Put the gun down, Allan. I don’t want to shoot you. This isn’t the way I want things to end.
The FBI had been searching for the Georgetown University killer for months. Following the trail left by the bastard—a trail of blood and bodies. But the trail shouldn’t have led here.
Allan March was a widower. His wife had passed away two years ago, slowly dying of cancer. He’d been at her bedside every single moment. All of the data that the FBI had collected on Allan indicated that he was a dedicated family man, a caregiver. Not—
A serial killer.
“I’m sorry,” Allan whispered.
And Samantha knew what he was going to do. Even as those tears poured down his cheeks, she knew.
“No!” Samantha screamed.
But it was too late. Allan pointed the gun right at his own face and pulled the trigger. The thunder of the gunfire echoed around them, and, a moment later, Allan’s body hit the floor, falling to land right next to the dead body of Amber Lyle, the twenty-two-year-old college student who’d been missing for three days.
“Fucking hell,” Blake muttered.
This is wrong.
Samantha rushed toward the downed man. Her weapon was still in her hand. Her eyes were on Allan. On what was left of his face. Dear God.
* * *
“THE PRESS IS ripping us apart, Samantha! Ripping us apart!” Her boss glared at her as they stood inside the small FBI office. “You were supposed to be the freaking superstar—a profiler who could do no wrong. But your profile was shit. You had us looking for a man who didn’t exist. Three women died while we were looking for the killer you said was out there!”
Samantha stood, her shoulders back and her spine straight, as Justin Bass berated her. Spittle was flying from her boss’s mouth. His blue gaze blazed with rage.
The executive assistant director was far more pissed than she’d ever seen him before. The guy had a temper, everyone knew that truth, but this time... There’s no going back.
Justin didn’t like to look bad. He liked to be the agent in charge, the man with the answers. The suit who handled the press and gloried in the attention he got when his team brought down the bad guy.
“Damn it, Samantha!” Justin snarled, a muscle twitching in his rounded jaw. “Do you have anything to say?”
Did she? Samantha swallowed. Did she dare tell him what she thought? When every single piece of evidence said just how wrong she’d been?
“Take it easy, Bass.” Blake spoke on her behalf. He was at her side, sending her a sympathetic glance. “What matters is that the Sorority Slasher has been stopped.”
The Sorority Slasher. Samantha hated that name. It sounded like something from a really bad horror flick. Leave it to the tabloids to glam up a grisly killer.
“We’re the fucking FBI,” Justin said, stopping to slap his hands down on his desk. “We can’t afford to make mistakes.”
Her temples were throbbing. She knew exactly who they were.
“Someone has to take the fall for this one. Three women died because you were wrong. You were wrong, Samantha. The superstar from Princeton. The woman who was supposed to change the face of profiling. FBI brass shoved you down my throat, and you were wrong.”
She made her jaw unclench.
“You’re taking the fall for this one.” Justin nodded curtly toward her. “Consider yourself on suspension.”
Samantha almost took a step back. Her lips parted—
Don’t take the job from me.
“What?” Blake was the one who’d given that shocked cry. It was Blake who sounded furious as he snapped, “You can’t do that! Samantha is the best—”
“Yeah, right, you think I don’t know about the hard-on you have for her, Agent Gamble?” Justin fired right back. “You two never should have been partners. So take some advice, buddy. Save your own ass. She’s a sinking ship, and you don’t want to go down with her.”
Her boss was a bastard. Lots of men she’d met in the FBI were arrogant assholes. Blake? No, he was a good guy, and that was why she respected him so much.
“Leave your weapon here,” Justin ordered her. “And your badge.”
She unsnapped her holster, walked slowly toward his desk.
My profile was right. I know it was.
She put her gun on his desk, but when she reached for her FBI badge and ID, Samantha hesitated.
“You know, we found pictures of all the victims at his place.” Justin’s voice was flat. “Souvenirs that he kept.”
“Trophies.” It was the first thing she’d said since coming into his office. “Not souvenirs, they’re trophies.” Serial killers often kept them so that they could relive their crimes.
“Shoved in the back of his closet, under the guy’s winter boots.” Justin shook his head. “Dropped like they didn’t matter, and you spent all that time telling us we were looking for a cold, methodical killer. One who wanted to push boundaries and study the pain of his victims. One who wanted to see just how well matched he’d be with authorities. A smart killer, a damn genius. Fuck me, Samantha, Allan March barely graduated high school!”
And that was just one of the many reasons why he was wrong.
Her fingers had clenched around her ID. “Did you ever think...” Her voice was too soft, but it was either speak softly or scream. “Did you consider that maybe Allan had been set up?”
Justin’s hands flew up into the air in a gesture of obvious frustration. “He shot himself! Killed his damn fool self when he blew off half his head! If that doesn’t say guilty, then what the hell does?”
Her drumming heartbeat was too loud. “He could have killed himself for a number of reasons.” Reasons that were nagging at her. He’d lost his life savings battling his wife’s cancer. Extreme financial hardship? Hell, yes, that could lead people to suicide. It could—
Justin yanked the ID from her hand. “Get the hell out, Samantha. You are done. I won’t have you talking this shit in my office—and you sure as hell better not plan on stopping to talk to the reporters outside.”
“Director Bass—” Blake began angrily.
“Don’t!” Justin threw right back at him. “Not another word, unless you want to be giving up your badge, too.”
No, Blake wouldn’t do that. The FBI was his life.
She kept her spine ramrod straight as she walked out of the office. When she reached the bull pen, she heard the whispers—from the other FBI agents there, from the cops who’d come to team up with them. Everyone was staring at her with confusion in their eyes.
She was wrong. She screwed up. She let those women die.
This was all going to be on her. Samantha clenched her hands into fists.
She made it to the elevator. One step at a time. Her spine was starting to hurt.
She slipped into the elevator. Pushed the button to go down to the parking garage. The doors were starting to close—
“Samantha.” Blake was there. Shoving his hand through the gap between the doors, trying to get to her.
She shook her head. “No.” Because she couldn’t deal with him right then. He pulled at her emotions, and she already felt too raw.
Blake. Handsome, strong Blake. Blake with his rugged good looks, his jet-black hair, his bright green eyes and that golden skin...sexy Blake.
Fierce Blake.
Off-limits Blake.
Because her bastard of a boss had been right about one thing. Blake did have a hard-on for her. She’d noticed his attraction. It would have been impossible to miss. An attraction that she more than felt, too. But he was her partner. You didn’t screw around with your partner. That was against the rules.
She’d always played by the rules.
And she’d still gotten screwed.
“This isn’t on you,” Blake gritted out.
Actually, it was. The dead man’s blood was still on her clothes because she’d run to him after he’d blown off half his face. His blood was on her—and the deaths of those three women? She knew her boss was going to push those her way, too. Before he was done, she’d be some rogue FBI agent who’d gone off the playbook—and he’d be the shining superstar who’d somehow managed to stop the Sorority Slasher.
Blake stepped into the elevator. Ignoring her request. The doors closed behind him, and his hands curled around her shoulders. “The profile was off. You’re not God. You can’t predict everything.”
“I don’t want
you touching me.” Her words came out stark and hard. Not at all the way she normally spoke to Blake.
He blinked, and, for an instant, she could have sworn that he looked hurt.
“Let me go.” She didn’t have time to choose her words carefully. She was about to break apart, and his touch was sending her closer and closer to the edge.
His hands fell away from her. He stepped back.
“I’m not dragging you down with me.” She licked her lips. “You still have a chance here. You just had the bad luck to get teamed up with me.”
“I don’t think it’s bad.”
“Trust me, it is.” Her heart was racing far too fast in her chest. “Just walk away.” What had Bass called her? A sinking ship?
The elevator dinged. Finally, she was at the parking garage. Maybe she’d be able to get out of there without the reporters catching her. She stepped toward the elevator’s now open doors, but Blake moved into her path.
Her head tipped back as she stared up at him.
“I want to help,” Blake said.
There he went being the good guy. “Then let me go.”
“Sam...”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” She wouldn’t, but, right then, she would have said anything to get away from him. Blake pushed her buttons. She’d always suspected he would have made for an amazing lover—and with her control being as shaky as it was at that particular moment, Samantha was afraid she would cross a line with him if she didn’t get out of there.
Once you cross some lines, there is no going back...
A muscle flexed in Blake’s square jaw, his green eyes gleamed, but he got out of her way.
She rushed past him. Nearly ran—and she didn’t stop, not until she reached her car.
* * *
WHEN IT CAME to drinking, Samantha had always had an extremely high tolerance for alcohol. That had come, she suspected, courtesy of her dad. A tough ex-cop, he’d been able to drink anyone under the table.
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