Operation Sheba

by Evans, Misty

  A minute later, a man’s voice called to him from the top of the stairs. “Michael Stone.” A Middle Eastern accent laced the syllables of Michael’s name. “CIA Director of Operations. Am I correct?”

  Michael didn’t answer, his brain trying to figure out who had invaded his home and why.

  The man tried again. “We have much work to do tonight, Director. Please come upstairs.”

  Michael stayed quiet.

  The man disappeared. Michael wondered who the man was, what he was doing there and who was dead.

  “Director Stone.” The man was back. “I am holding a gun to your security agent’s head. If you do not show yourself in the next five seconds, I will kill him.”

  Feeling like Tom Clancy’s character Jack Ryan in Air Force One, Michael quickly and damnably considered his options. Stay hidden, which might be Titus and King’s only chance of surviving, but killing his security guard, or giving himself up and, in the process, screwing them all over.

  The logical answer was to stay hidden. Make the man at the head of the stairs come down to the dark basement and get him. But would the man stop at Brad? Were King and Allen already dead?

  Michael knew the man at the top of the stairs meant business. Three people, probably the security guards at the doors and Tad, were already dead and Michael assumed the man was taking the DCI, a well-known senator and himself hostage. The terrorist was not a person to challenge, and Brad’s life would not be the only life forfeited if Michael forced his hand.

  In good conscious, Michael could not let the security guard die for him. Not when there was a slim chance he could save them all.

  Ryan Smith was on his way. His unexpected arrival could give Michael and the others the slim chance they needed.

  “I’m coming out,” Michael announced clearly.

  “Turn on your generator first,” the man instructed.

  Michael flipped the switch and climbed the stairs with the flashlight stuck down his pants.

  ***

  The cut through the woods had been tedious, the forest more like a tropical jungle than a simple wooded acre or two. But once Stone’s house came into view, Ryan had blocked out his soaked clothes, his muddy shoes and his scratched face. He’d laid down on his stomach and used his binoculars to watch the house and its occupants.

  A moment later, the house had gone completely dark. Then the lights had flashed on. There was movement by the bay window, a man running by it, and Ryan had felt an uncomfortable twinge between his shoulder blades. Before he drew another breath, he’d heard three gunshots fired inside the house and a second later, like a door slamming shut, the house had gone dark again.

  Ryan had instinctively jerked himself off the ground and backed farther into the tree line. The house was lit again but the sound of gunshots echoed in his mind. Digging out his cell phone, he wiped his wet fingers on his wet pants and swore as they slipped over the keypad. Conrad’s phone rang on the other end.

  And rang. “Come on. Come on,” Ryan whispered. Finally, he heard Conrad’s voice, but it wasn’t live. He’d gotten Conrad’s voice mail.

  Swearing under his breath, he kept the binoculars trained on the house. Con’s phone might be out of range, or it might be turned off or it could have fallen into someone else’s hands. It didn’t matter. Out of paranoia, Ryan wouldn’t give specific names or details. Instead he kept his message short and to the point. “Big problem, Solomon. Call me as soon as you receive this message.”

  He sat tight and waited.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Arlington Rule number one: Don’t make eye contact.

  Michael walked up the basement stairs, ignoring the first rule of being a hostage. His attention locked on the man holding a gun to Brad’s head, noting his height, weight and dress. The terrorist was in green camouflage from head to toe and his face was smeared with grease paint, but he was clean-shaven and, Michael made another note, totally calm.

  The man pulled Brad backwards as he made room for Michael to enter the hall. Brad glanced to Michael’s left and, instinctively, he ducked, but a heavy object clocked him above his left ear and he went down on his knees, grabbing for the door, only to bounce off of it and drop face down on the floor. As he turned his head to the left to see who or what was attacking him, the butt of a gun smashed into his head and the room went black.

  Safe house

  She was running for her life. But as is the case with dreams, invisible quicksand sucked at her feet, rendering her legs sluggish and slow.

  Julia fought her way through the crowd of people, searching for a familiar face, panic rising in her chest. She wanted to yell for help, but her voice was mute, stuck in her throat, so she just kept pushing past the people blocking her. The man was close behind her and she had to get away from him.

  How could there be so many people in one place? She pushed herself through the throng, absently noting the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round. A carnival. The hawkers called out to her, their laughter echoing in her ears as she continued to try and move forward.

  She broke free and kicked her legs into high gear. It was dark and she was running down an alley. Where was she? Paris? Berlin? Arlington? She couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember why the man was chasing her. Only that he had a gun and he wanted her dead.

  She hit a door and it swung open and she continued to run, heavy footsteps reverberating down the long hall. Hers or his?

  Up the stairs. Another door, a hallway, the last door at the end.

  Poor choice, she saw at once, blood pounding in her ears. Nothing more than a restroom. A dead-end with only one way out. She whirled to find the man was now there, blocking her exit.

  Sliding down the wall, she sat on the cold, grimy tile floor. I’m going to die all alone, she thought, and she raised her gaze to look into the black hole that would kill her. She felt nothing as she saw the man’s finger pull the trigger, but raised her focus another notch to see his face.

  Dark eyes under soft eyebrows met hers. She screamed.

  Julia’s body jerked upright, lifting her out of the dream with a pounding heart, her ears acutely aware of her fading scream. Was the noise real or only in her head?

  She rubbed her face with a trembling hand and tried to get her bearings in the unfamiliar surroundings. Where am I?

  A warm hand on her back made her flinch and she jerked around to see who was beside her in the early morning light.

  Dark eyes under soft eyebrows met hers. “What is it, Julia?”

  Conrad’s sleep-roughened voice muffled the scream still echoing in her head, dulling the sharp edges of the nightmare. But suspicion lingered in her brain, the seed planted by her subconscious.

  She shook her head and looked away from him, focusing on the hundred-year-old dresser across the room. She took a couple of deep breaths and ran her hands through her hair. Why would she dream Con was trying to kill her?

  There’s been too much betrayal, she thought, pulling her hair over her left shoulder. She asked him in a shaky voice, “Have you ever thought about killing me?”

  He moved, raising himself to sit beside her, their shoulders touching as he draped both arms over his bent knees. “I missed the left turn you just took there, Jules.”

  “What if when we were case officers in the field I had gone bad and you were instructed to bring me in, dead or alive. Would you have killed me if necessary?”

  “How much whiskey did you drink?” He pulled her hair back from her face. She could feel more than see his frown. “If you’d have gone bad, I would have gone with you.”

  “What would we have done?”

  He pushed some of her hair behind her ear. “Oh, I don’t know. You’d have thought of something.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re the brains of this operation, remember? I get us into deep shit, and you get us out. All great partnerships are that way. Tom and Huck, Bonnie and Clyde, Butch and Sundance…”

  “Juveniles and outlaws. Perfect
. We fit right in. You’re a juvenile and I’m an outlaw.”

  “So what are we going to do, Bonnie?”

  She punched him on the arm. Comfortable silence hung around them for several minutes. Julia’s heartbeat returned to normal.

  Or almost normal. The nearness of Conrad’s body was doing funny things to her. Funny, familiar things to her stomach and her heart that messed up her equilibrium.

  Julia turned her head to look at Conrad and her equilibrium swung in a one-eighty. There was heat and desire in his eyes and she felt her body respond just like it had every other time he’d looked at her that way. He made her feel wild and reckless because he was, but in a weird grounded sort of way. In the back of her mind, she knew if she grew too wild, too reckless, he would catch her when she fell.

  Her attention fell to Con’s lips, almost close enough to kiss. “You’re incredibly good at making me feel safe.” She leaned into his mouth. His lips were warm and his hands pulled her close.

  “Damn.” He broke the kiss. “Sometimes patience is a virtue.”

  “Since when have you exercised patience?” she asked and laughed low in her throat as Con’s teeth bit softly into her bottom lip.

  Arlington

  Michael Stone gritted his teeth to fight off the throbbing pain in his head. A phone was ringing, its shrill cry piercing the room.

  Someone answer the damn phone.

  Fighting the fog around his brain, he tried to grope for the offending instrument, but found his arm wouldn’t obey. After a second of concentration, he realized his arms and legs were tied to the chair he was sitting in. Grimacing, he fought a wave of nausea as he raised his head and tried to focus his vision. The room seemed to rise and fall as though he was drunk. He shut his eyes against the vertigo.

  The phone stopped, the ringing replaced by the tick-tocking of a clock. Better, but…where am I? Struggling to remember what happened, he became aware of other people in the room, sensing their stares on him. Blinking several times, he tried again to bring something into focus.

  Cold, detached eyes met his. The terrorist sat at his desk, blending in comfortably, Michael thought as recognition of his surroundings cleared his brain a little, with the dark wood and black leather chair. Michael registered a familiarity about the man staring back at him, but could not cultivate it into a definitive identity.

  “Director Stone.” The man stroked the butt of a gun. “Did you really think I would not notice your flashlight?”

  Rule number two: Don’t call attention to yourself. Not hard to do since he couldn’t move. The synapses in Michael’s brain began to fire through the pounding. He kept still, not liking the message they were sending.

  The man smiled benignly. “You and your friends are part of my plan, Director.” He moved his arm in a tight gesture to the right. Michael let his gaze follow, seeing Senator King and Titus similarly bound on a couch nearby. Brad as well. “My comrades and I came to the West on a simple but important mission, and you are a key player. Allah is great. We have accepted our calling from Allah.”

  Allah, my ass. Michael tallied information as fast as his fuzzy brain would allow. Terrorist, Middle East, probably one of bin Laden’s, possibly Hezbollah, but which one? His brain twisted and a memory of Julia’s legs swam in front of him.

  Jesus, Stone, focus here. A religious fanatic is holding you and a group of important people hostage. Now is not the time to…

  Religious fanatic. Tight jeans and high heels. Julia’s voice. “I think Fayez Raissi is up to no good.”

  Michael zeroed in on the man’s face, the white scar now standing out like a neon sign. His top analyst was dead-on again.

  Michael knew all about terrorists. There were those who martyred for a social agenda and those who acted for personal gain. In each category there were smart terrorists and dumb ones. The smart ones were highly trained and planned their missions with skill and intelligence. The dumb ones might be well trained but usually lacked leadership and effective intel.

  With peripheral vision, he surveyed the other terrorist in the room. Clean-shaven and dressed in white Armani shirts and tan pants, the young man sitting at the video monitor did not look like the brand of terrorist the world was used to seeing on CNN. Except for the semi-automatic rifle he held in one hand, this man looked more like Harvard grad student than a terrorist.

  Fayez Raissi stood and walked around the desk toward him. “I now have in my possession a prestigious senator of the Democratic Party and the Director of CIA Operations.” Raissi leaned against the desk, crossing his ankles. “Along with the Director of Central Intelligence, that makes a powerful group, would you not agree?”

  “If he’s traveling and recruiting again, he’s up to something bad, probably involving a target that gets him some attention…”

  A powerful group indeed. Raissi was holding the United States of America by the balls. All he had to do was give a yank and he would have everyone’s attention.

  Frustration burned inside Michael as he kept his face stoic. For all his and Titus’s security, a terrorist had still managed to get through. And terrorist stereotypes be damned, these were radical Islamic fundamentalists. Any person willing to come after the Director of Central Intelligence of the United States of America was a soldiering martyr. Prepared to kill. Prepared to die.

  The benign smile of the terrorist turned more genuine. “I am told you are a leader, Michael Stone.”

  Raissi wanted to make nice. Okay, two could play that game. It pained him to do it, but for now, Michael would play along. He thought of Julia smiling at him, purposely, to give his return smile some warmth. The terrorist seemed pleased.

  “You and I,” Raissi said, leaning toward him, but still maintaining a safe distance from the larger man, “we are warriors with passion in our bellies.” He clasped his stomach to emphasize the point. Then his hand moved to his head. “But Allah called us to be leaders too. To control our passion with intelligence and move our peoples away from adversity and toward a better future. We each seek justice and peace for our countrymen but we accept that violence is the only proven method to achieve this. Yes?”

  Michael couldn’t sustain his smile, and he withheld comment. Raissi continued. “Yes, I think so. We are on opposite sides of this war, Michael Stone, but deep in my gut, I recognize you as a fellow leader, a brother. Because of that, Allah has chosen you to help me with my plan.”

  All the pistons were firing now in Michael’s brain. The situation had all the makings of a Schwarzenegger movie, only with real bullets and an unhappy ending. Ignoring the sharp pain radiating down the left side of his head, he turned again and gave Titus and King another glance.

  He turned his attention back to the terrorist leader while his peripheral vision logged two terrorists moving past the door of the study. They were carrying standard firearms, including AK-47s. There had to be more than four total, but how many and where were they? There had to be at least two on surveillance. What other weapons did they have?

  “…Raissi is an expert in explosives…”

  For the first time, Michael became aware of something strapped to his chest. He looked down and felt his worst nightmare pale with what he saw taped to his body. He twisted his hands, testing the cord for slack. There was none. Welcome to Survival 101.

  The Director of Operations knew he had one thing on his side—time. The longer he kept Raissi talking, the better the hostages’ chances of survival were. Ryan Smith would show and hopefully have enough sense to raise an alarm. Within minutes, a predetermined action plan would be put in place. A Hostage Rescue Team would be called in to evaluate the situation and a group of Special Forces commandos would no doubt be asked by the FBI to assist them. Negotiations would begin to buy them more time while the SEALs and the HRT decided how to eliminate the terrorists.

  And maybe, just maybe, some of the people in the house would leave it alive.

  Rule number three: Do whatever it takes to stay alive.

 
Michael addressed the terrorist leader. “So, tell me how I fit into your plan.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Safe house Julia was in his lap, naked and warm in all the right places, and Conrad buried his face in the curve of her neck. Moving his mouth to the hollow of her shoulder, he felt her shudder as he licked her skin.

  Amazing. Even after the rain and the mud and the Dial soap she’d used to wash it all away, she still smelled faintly of lavender. His hand found her breast and she opened her mouth with a sharp gasp. Leaving her collarbone, he claimed her lips, living in the wet heat of her kiss and wanting more.

  Her hands were in his hair, her body pressing against his and he let her leverage him back in the bed, feeling faintly disappointed when her mouth broke free of his as she straddled him, and her upper body took her wonderful heat away.

  But he did enjoy the view.

  She slipped her tousled hair behind her ears. “Okay, here’s the deal. If we’re really going to work together again, we need to get the Rules of Partnership out on the table.”

  “Rules of what?”

  She blew out a deep breath. “Think of it as Rules of Engagement for war, only this is about our partnership.”

  Forcing himself to raise his gaze from Julia’s breasts, he looked in her eyes as she traced a finger over one of his eyebrows. Her expression was serious and he didn’t want to mess up by not paying attention. “Our partnership?” he repeated, trying to catch his breath and shift out of sexual overdrive, although that didn’t seem right. Was definitely not right.

  “Yes.” She flexed her legs, tilting her hips into him, and he strangled the moan in his throat. He was trying to concentrate on her voice, but it was hard. Everything was hard.

  He ran his hands up her thighs and moved his mouth up toward her, licking a taut nipple. “Can we talk about that later?” He squeezed her breasts together and buried his head in her cleavage.

  She pushed him back down with a hand. “Listen, this is important.”