Hunt for Evil (ICE Book 1)

by Amy Jarecki

  “Why hasn’t he been arrested?” asked Olivia.

  “His role was unproven—though he has been seen in the company of militants,” said Garth.

  “Does he have any ties to Taaha Khan?” asked Logan.

  The CO leaned closer to the camera. “That’s something you need to find out.”

  “Roger that.” Logan pointed. “Any other pictures come back with dirt?”

  “Not yet,” said Asa.

  Garth shifted his attention to Olivia. “How are things at the park?”

  “Nothing new.” She shook her head. “There are a few regulars I’ve started waving to. The school’s quiet so far.”

  “It’s not enough.” Garth slammed his fist on the table. “Dig deeper. The trail’s getting colder and, meanwhile, no one has a clue why a suspected terrorist was seen with a girl who apparently has no ties with al Qaeda or ISIS. For all we know Mathilde Petit could be dead by now.”

  Logan crossed his arms. “Or in Baghdad.”

  “Any news on the DNA from the hair?” Olivia asked.

  Asa shook her head. “Nope. It hasn’t quite been two weeks yet.”

  “Two weeks is a frigging eternity,” Garth barked.

  “All right,” Logan said. They weren’t getting anywhere and it was no use making the boss testier. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled for Kadir Hakim.”

  Olivia nodded. “I’ll start up conversations with an elderly lady I’ve seen every day in the park. She probably sees everything.”

  Garth leaned in. “Why have you waited?”

  “You’re an American.” She shorted. “The fastest way to make one of the locals suspicious is to appear overly anxious to befriend them.”

  “Yeah, and in the meantime the world’s greatest threat is plotting to kill us all.”

  Logan shifted his hand to the touch pad and moved the pointer to the end-call button. “Same time tomorrow?”

  “Sooner if you hear anything,” said Garth.

  “Over and out.”

  Beside him, Olivia sat back and heaved a sigh. “I’m starved.”

  “Do we have anything to eat?”

  She gave him a pointed look. “I don’t cook, remember?”

  “You like Chinese?”

  “Love it.”

  He stood and stretched. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  ***

  Just as Logan was about to reach for the door to the restaurant, Kadir Hakim pushed past him carrying a bag of food.

  Nothing like a shot of instant adrenaline.

  Hunger forgotten, Logan followed, keeping to the shadows. The garlic wafting from the man’s Chinese was enough to turn him into a bloodhound.

  Hakim didn’t even glance over his shoulder as he made his way down to the Rhône where river cruise ships were moored. Along the waterfront were park benches and workout bars like the beaches in California. Unfortunately, the place was lit up like a football field during the Super Bowl, adding an extra challenge to the need to remain stealth.

  The suspected terrorist met up with a group of men who were sitting at a picnic table, beckoning him with boisterous shouts. Whatever they were up to, they didn’t seem to mind drawing attention to themselves.

  Logan pulled his cellphone from his pocket and opened the sound recorder. Then he jogged past and set it in the shadows of a garbage can near Hakim. Once he was sure the device was recording, he ran straight for the workout area, snapped a few pictures with his e-cigarette and started doing pullups. While they dug in, the banter continued, but the tone grew serious. Logan was too far away to make out what they were saying, but at least was confident his phone was picking up everything. Continuing with his exercise, he moved to a pair of parallel bars. Too bad there wasn’t a set of weights, he could really waste some time.

  He did sit ups, jogged down the wharf and back, more pullups, pushups. If the men didn’t head for home soon, he’d be too sore to move come morning.

  But they finally left, leaving their garbage behind. After waiting a good five minutes, Logan retrieved his phone. He pushed the button and the damned thing was dead.

  “Shit,” he whispered, shoving it in his pocket.

  “Ne bougez pas,” a gravelly voice told him not to move while something hard pressed against Logan’s kidney—the muzzle of a gun.

  Ready to make a countermove, he regarded his assailant out of the corner of his eye.

  Hakim.

  “As salaam alaykum,” peace be unto you, Logan flawlessly uttered the Islamic greeting.

  “You speak Arabic?” Hakim asked in French, blatantly ignoring the expected reply.

  “No, just a loyalist.” Logan transferred his weight to his front foot, bracing for a quick escape.

  “Were you following me?”

  “Why should I follow you?”

  Hakim shoved the gun harder against Logan’s kidney. “I saw you when I was leaving the restaurant.”

  “I was out for a run.”

  “I don’t believe you. What did you put in your pocket?”

  “My phone. I set it down to work the bars.”

  “Take it out, nice and slow.”

  “Lower your weapon first.”

  Hakim jammed the muzzle of the pistol harder against Logan’s back. “Do it now or I’ll put a hole through your kidney!”

  Logan did as instructed, holding the phone up in his palm where Hakim could see it from behind.

  “Now turn it on.”

  “I can’t. It’s dead.”

  “You lie.”

  Logan demonstrated, then looked over his shoulder as he covertly slid his other hand to his back where his fingers brushed cold steel, preparing for a counter move. “See? Nothing.”

  The man twisted his mouth as if he were thinking. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “David Mason.”

  “I’m going to ask one more time. Why were you following me?”

  Might as well go for broke. If the bastard got any friendlier with the gun, he’d be forced to break the shithead’s arm. “All right, I’ll come clean. You were recommended to me by a friend.”

  “Recommended? By who?”

  “Someone who knew you’d want what I’ve got.” He slipped the phone back in his pocket.

  “What’s that?” Hakim growled in Logan’s ear.

  The jihadi wanted to have a good old talk? Well, they could continue this conversation on friendlier terms. Snatching the gun’s muzzle, in a single move Logan whipped around as he disarmed the thug in a nanosecond. He stood nose to nose, looking down into the black eyes of his new best friend. “Sorry, mate, but I can talk a lot better when there’s not a gun in my back.”

  The man’s panicked gaze slipped to his Beretta. “What the—?”

  “If I wanted you dead, your blood would be washing the pavement.” Logan ejected the magazine and the bullet from the chamber. Once sure it was clean, he returned the weapon. “I’ll say this once. I’m new to Lyon, and I’m looking for buyers.”

  “What are you selling?”

  “Let’s just say I acquired some of the clients from Jamal Abdullah Khalil.”

  The chump’s eyes widened.

  “I could make you a popular man, my friend.” Logan grinned. “Why don’t you come to my shop for a coffee tomorrow? No hard feelings?”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Moved here from England.”

  “Why?”

  “My wife wanted to get away from the rain, and…” Logan glanced over his opposite shoulder.

  “And?”

  “I wanted to be closer to the action in Europe. I’ve grown angry with westerners wielding their power like tyrants.”

  “Hmm.” Hakim holstered his weapon inside his jacket. “I don’t trust the English.”

  “Me, neither.” Grinning, Logan slipped him a card. “Check out my website. It’s encrypted. The password is Umari with a capital U.”

  “All right.” The thug crossed his arms.

  “You can find me at my shop
.” Logan pointed. “Address is on the card.”

  Hakim turned it over. “I still don’t trust you.”

  Logan brushed past. “Didn’t think you would.” Splaying his fingers, he headed up the stairs to the street. He didn’t look back either. He knew Hakim was standing there watching, and if he hadn’t removed the magazine, Logan would probably have taken a bullet by now.

  A rush of vim pulsed through his blood.

  Finally.

  This was what he’d been trained for, both as a SEAL and as a spy. He was about action, not surveillance. Leave the waiting and watching to the cops. Logan wanted to be fed intel so he could act. His country needed him? They needed him to take action, not to sit around like a dupe.

  Once he entered his apartment building, Logan took two steps at a time before he unlocked the door, then headed straight for the phone charger.

  “What took you so long?” Olivia asked from the bedroom.

  “Kadir Hakim.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  After plugging in, Logan powered on the phone. “He was leaving the restaurant just as I was going in. I followed. He met up with a bunch of guys down on the Rhône—they were speaking Arabic I think.”

  “Did you get any dirt?”

  “Recorded on this, but the damned thing ran out of juice.” Logan tapped the playback button and turned up the volume. The sound was scratchy at best. “What are they saying?”

  “It’s hard to tell. Everyone’s talking at once.” She held up her palm. “What is that in the background? Traffic noise? Couldn’t you get any closer?”

  “No.” He plugged the e-cigarette into the USB port on his laptop. “Snapped a few pictures, too.”

  Olivia kneeled and inclined her ear toward the phone. “Damn, it cut out.”

  “Got any idea what they were talking about?”

  “It’s hard to make it out exactly, but something about virgins and rewards.”

  “Not surprising for a mob of thugs.” Logan turned his laptop so Olivia could see. “You recognize any of these?”

  “They’re too dark. I can barely make them out.”

  Logan clicked the upload button to send them to ICE. “Maybe Asa can work her magic. Send the convo as well.”

  “Roger that.” Olivia used her thumbs to send the recording from Logan’s phone. “Where’s the food? I’m starving.”

  As if on cue, his stomach growled. “Shit.”

  “You didn’t get it, did you?”

  “I kinda got distracted. Sorry.”

  She punched him in the arm. “At least you’re good for something. Coming up with a lead will buy you a pass this time.”

  He nodded toward the fridge. “I brought home some brie and bread from the shop. Will that suffice?”

  “Got any wine?”

  “This is France. Of course we have wine.”

  “Then serve it up.” Olivia leaned back and put her feet on the coffee table.

  Now that the excitement was over, he gave her a good look. “That a new negligee?”

  She fingered the lace. “You like it?”

  “You didn’t answer me.”

  “No, it’s not new.”

  He gave her a look. “What do nice Islamic women wear to bed?”

  Olivia threw up her hands. “You have one stonking meeting with a suspected bad guy and all of a sudden you want to start telling your work-spouse what she can wear. Put a sock in it. This is our safe house and I can wear anything I damn well please.”

  “As long as no one’s peeping in the windows.” Logan got up and pulled the food out of the fridge. “This is also our front for infiltrating the terrorists responsible for Mathilde’s disappearance. You should be acting like a good wife at all times.”

  “That means lots of sex and no wine.”

  He held up the bottle. “If that’s what we need to do, then so be it.”

  “I think I’d prefer to be a naughty wife.”

  Hesitating for a moment, he looked at her and blinked. Too right she looked like a naughty anything reclining on the couch in a negligee. Christ, he’d thought a gazillion times that she could pass for a Miss Universe contestant. Though she was right that the apartment was considered a safe house of sorts, the longer they stayed in Lyon and the deeper they delved into society, the more they would be expected to behave like they belonged. Moreover, Logan didn’t know how much more he could take of Olivia draping herself across the furniture in sheer lace. And every time he entered the apartment, he was attacked by her perfume. How much was a man supposed to endure before he snapped?

  “Stop with the long face,” she said. “When the time comes, I’ll sleep in the damned niqab if need be.”

  He sliced the cheese, forcing the knife through the brie with ten times more force than necessary. “What about lounging around the apartment in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt? It would be far less distracting.”

  “You’re not the one who has to run around in a niqab all day.” She guffawed and gestured downward. “This reminds me that I’m a girl.”

  What goddess needs to be reminded of her femininity? “Yeah, too much so.” Grabbing the box of crackers, he threw a handful onto a plate.

  “Aw, does Davie want his wifey covered up all the time?” Jeez, she’d never used his alias outside the apartment.

  He pursed his lips and gave her a heated stare. “I’m just saying sexy nightwear and holding down the fort in a spy operation don’t mix.”

  She stood and sauntered forward, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. “You’re no fun.”

  He poured her a glass of wine. “You have no idea.”

  Chapter Ten

  Following her routine before leaving the flat, Olivia put the life-sized sleeping baby in the pram, then wheeled it to the park for the afternoon.

  Though Garth insisted their role was to infiltrate the terrorist ring suspected as being responsible for the disappearance of Mathilde Petit, Olivia wanted to do everything in her power to ensure no other innocent young girls went missing. She hated that ICE wanted to leave the protection of the locals to the Lyon police. She hadn’t signed up to be a passive spectator. She’d signed up to make a difference in this world. To stop terrorists. To do her part to end fanaticism and protect the innocent. If anyone asked Olivia, Mathilde had been kidnapped by Khan. If she could save one girl from the horror of being abducted and subjected to some nutcase’s idea that she was in some way unclean, and therefore he could do anything he pleased with her, she’d do it. She wouldn’t hesitate.

  Today was balmy with plenty of sun, and Oliva wore her sunglasses along with her suffocating niqab. After a couple of laps around the pathway, she sat on the same bench she’d been using for the past fortnight and pretended to dote on her baby.

  An older woman she’d seen before sat beside her. With deeply etched lines on her face, gran looked to be at least seventy and wore a hijab veil covering her head, but leaving her face exposed.

  Olivia smiled pleasantly even though her mouth was hidden—smiling could be seen in the eyes as well. “Bon après-midi.”

  “Good afternoon,” the woman replied in Arabic. “It is a pleasant day for a stroll.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You are new here.”

  “Yes, my husband and I recently moved from London.”

  “London? If only I could be so lucky to live there.”

  “You do not like Lyon?”

  “It is nice.”

  “But you’d prefer England?” Olivia asked.

  “I believe my sons would be more prosperous there.”

  “Well, then I hope they one day have an opportunity to visit. Especially if they like the rain.”

  The woman chuckled. “And you, do you prefer Lyon?”

  “Mostly…” Olivia purposely made her voice trail off while she cast a forlorn glance to the pram.

  The woman leaned in. “You do not sound convincing.”

  Olivia’s heart fluttered for a mere second. Had she found
an opportunity to delve deeper? “Right before my husband and I took possession of the shop, a kidnapping happened here in this very block.” She wrung her hands. “I worry about my daughter’s future here. She will not be a babe in arms forever.”

  The old woman patted her hand, a wise expression filling her dark eyes. “You have nothing to fear, my dear. You are a daughter of Islam.”

  Ooo.

  Could she eke out more? “What are you saying?” she asked innocently.

  “You must know you are of the pure faith. Only the infidel’s children are taken.”

  Olivia’s stomach jumped, but she was too much of a pro to let any sign of shock show in her expression. She sighed for added effect. “I wish your words were true.”

  “Oh, but they are.”

  Before she wrapped her twitching fingers around gran’s neck, she had to push further. This old lady could be Taaha Khan’s grandmother. “Do you know about the disappearance of Mathilde Petit?” Olivia pointed. “She was a student right there.”

  The woman slapped her hand through the air with a chuckle. “You ask too many questions. You must remember to respect your elders.”

  “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect. I only have concern for my daughter.” Olivia ran her palm over her belly. “And my unborn.”

  “Of course you do.” The woman patted Olivia’s hand, then shifted her gaze to the pram. “Your baby is always so quiet.”

  Moving her fingers to the handle, Olivia prepared to push if necessary. “The babe falls asleep in the pram—otherwise she cries all afternoon.”

  The woman leaned forward to peer beneath the sunshade. “Are you breastfeeding?”

  “I am.” Olivia stood and nudged the pram away from the crone’s prying eyes. “If you will forgive me, I must return home. I have a leg of lamb to prepare.”

  The woman waved with a nod.

  It was all Olivia could do not to run to the flat and ring Asa. The old woman had practically admitted she knew about the kidnapping. And the audacity to say that Olivia had nothing to worry about was an admission she knew something about what happened to Mathilde. If only she could have pushed for more, but doing so definitely would have jeopardized the op.