by Amy Jarecki
Chapter Twelve
Logan didn’t expect Hakim to show before ten, which gave them a chance to prepare. He rigged a hidden camera in the shop’s back room. Olivia would be counting money out front by the till while she watched the meeting using an app on her phone.
Muhammed continued to work as the store attendant like everything was normal but, after five, Logan sent him home. The NATO operative might be a Muslim, but he was a local. Any number of jihadi supporters might know him—not as a NATO operative, but as a respectable and upstanding French citizen who wanted nothing to do with radical terrorists.
Logan tried to keep himself busy by using a clipboard to take inventory while Olivia sat in her niqab, counting and recounting the money in the till. Neither said a word. They both knew how important it was to the mission to hook Hakim. Without him, they had nothing but an old woman. And it was pretty damned evident there would be more kidnappings.
The idea made Logan sick. What they were doing with the girls, he didn’t want to know. His imagination was horrific enough.
He’d spent plenty of time working as a SEAL to witness the destruction caused by al Qaeda and ISIS both. A white Christian girl ought to wish for death before falling into their hands. He shuddered, blocking the horrific images of carnage from his mind. Olivia was right. They needed to move fast. At least fast enough to earn Hakim’s trust. If Logan blew this arms deal, he might as well go back to Iceland because no terrorist in Europe would trust him.
Ten o’clock came and went. At five past, Logan moved to the door to turn over the fermé sign just as Hakim pushed through with three thugs in his wake.
The man reminded Logan of a gang member in East LA—hands in pockets, carrying his chin high and wearing sunglasses at night. “My friend here tells me you have Muhammed Burke working for you.”
“I do.”
“He’s a friend of the infidel.”
Logan expected this question. “Don’t you think I know that? How would it look if I hired a true patriot to man the till? I’d have the DGSE breathing down my neck from day one.”
Hakim nodded to one of his thugs who opened his jacket, displaying a holstered Beretta. “You better not be fucking with me.”
Logan locked the door and pulled down the shade. “Come, we can talk in the back room.”
Olivia glanced up from her counting as the men passed.
“Who’s the woman?” one of the thugs asked.
Playing a jerk, Logan didn’t make formal introductions. “My wife, Oma. She converted me to Islam.”
“Can we trust her?” asked Hakim after the door closed.
“She’s in this as deep as me.”
“Good. True patriots remain loyal when they have blood on their hands.”
“Agreed.” Logan gestured to a round table with wooden chairs, making sure he was the last to take a seat. “Have you given my offer some thought?”
“Where are the goods?”
“Safe.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred a unit. A fraction of what they cost anywhere else.”
“Are they hot?”
“Do you care?”
Removing his shades, Hakim shifted in his seat. “If we do this, we’ll need to sample the wares.”
“That can be arranged.”
“All right.” Hakim leaned back and folded his arms. “Before then I’ll need your passport.”
“What? Isn’t your operation sophisticated enough to run a trace?” Logan leaned forward on his elbows. “Look, call my supplier. He’s an American. Lives in Cuba.”
“We’ll do that.”
Logan scratched a number on a piece of paper—a direct line to Garth who would pose as the supplier using a Cuban number at ICE. “Name’s Cobra.” He bit his tongue before he asked who Hakim worked for. Olivia had warned urgency and caution walked a fine line, and appearing too anxious to get chummy with the terrorist would expose him as a spy.
Hakim slid the paper into his pocket, then held out his hand. “Passport.”
Logan groaned as he moved to an old lockbox where he’d put the passport and some cash for show that afternoon. After retrieving it and giving the guys a good look at the stack of bills, he relocked the safe. He tossed his British passport on the table—the one with his picture and the name David Mason. “You lose that and I’ll never do business with you again.”
“You keep much money on site?” asked one of the thugs.
“You crazy?” Sliding back into his seat, Logan snorted. “We hold enough here to make change and that’s it. This place isn’t exactly a gold mine.”
Hakim slipped the passport into his jacket. “But it’s a good front for a gun runner.”
Logan grinned. Maybe he was getting somewhere.
Awkward silence filled the air as Logan watched Hakim’s eyes shift.
His gut clenched, but now wasn’t the time to upend the table and start a fight. Nonetheless, his instincts gave a warning.
The jihadist motioned to his goons. As soon as their hands began to move, Logan hopped to his feet. Three black Berettas trained on his heart. Raising his hands, he started backing to the door, with each step, his mind rifled through a dozen ways not to die. “Just a minute here. My guns are clean—serial numbers filed off—not traceable.”
Two of the men flanked him, their pistols held sideways like a couple of untrained thugs.
Planting his feet, Logan watched while Hakim and the third goon—a hulk about six-five and three-hundred-fifty pounds sauntered toward him. “Now hold on.”
Big fella seized Logan’s arm and wrenched him into a headlock while shoving his arm up his back.
“There’s no need to rough me up, mates,” Logan said while wrapping his fingers around his attacker’s wrist just in case things went too far. “If you’re not interested in my offer, walk away.”
Hakim sauntered forward with a smirk. “Listen well, my friend. If you cross me, I will sever your balls and stuff them down your throat. Then right before I slit her throat, I’ll fuck your wife while you watch. By the time I’m finished, you’ll be begging me to kill you. And if I’m feeling merciful, I’ll send you to hell with a bullet.”
Staring Hakim in the eye, Logan made his choice. He wasn’t a sack of shit, and any arms dealer wouldn’t roll over and allow himself to be bullied like a dog. Garth needed him to move in fast, but Logan also needed to earn respect. It was time to turn the heat up a notch. The only way to make Hakim realize he was serious was to take charge—put the fear of the devil in their hearts so they’d think twice about crossing him.
“Tell your men to back down. Now,” he seethed through clenched teeth.
Hakim’s face distorted with incredulity. “You dare make demands? I fucking hold your balls in my hands.”
“You are wrong.” Logan bent his knees, clamping his grip around the man’s wrist. It took a fraction of a second to unwind from the headlock and throw a kick into the big bastard’s groin. Spinning, he disarmed the two goons with upward strikes. Using the recoil, he slammed the butts of the pistols across each man’s cheek, dropping the thugs like a pair of rag dolls.
Hakim pulled a Beretta, shaking it at Logan’s chest.
“Do you really want to shoot?” Logan trained the pair of Berettas on each of the bastard’s eyeballs, his hands steady and assured. “’Cause I’m deadly at close range with or without these pieces of shit, and you can be damned sure you’ll die first.”
“Who are you, man?”
“An arms dealer who’s smart enough to know how to take down four men with guns. I offered you a sweet deal. I did not invite you to sever my balls and serve them on a platter. If you even think about making another move on me, I’ll kill you before you kill me. You can meet me in Les Marias—the vacant lot on Chemin du Rizan tomorrow at noon, or I can find another buyer. It’s up to you.”
Hakim beckoned his men. “Get up you pieces of shit, we’re finished here.” Then he gave Logan a heated stare. “If yo
ur passport doesn’t check out, you’re a dead man.”
“Oma!” Logan hollered. “Come in here and clean up this mess. Our guests are leaving.”
***
They stopped for food on the way back to the flat and once they were behind closed doors, Olivia allowed herself to laugh. She discarded her guise and tossed the garments on the couch, wearing a tank top and bike shorts like she always did. “You were cracking brilliant.”
Logan set the handled bag on the kitchen counter. “So I didn’t cock it up this time?”
“Nope.” She pulled a bottle of chardonnay out of the fridge, chuckling at the way his American accent made British slang sound quirky. “At least not yet.”
“You don’t think I overdid it?”
“No. In the two years I was on the Khalil case, anyone who didn’t assert himself was suspect. But still, tonight, it nearly killed me to sit at the till and listen to Hakim’s tripe, especially after that bit about severing your balls.”
Logan had the garlic chicken and baked camembert unwrapped and he pulled a pair of plates from the cupboard. “I have to say it was hard not to laugh. Hakim would be a convincing drill sergeant.”
“He’s a wanker of the highest order.”
Logan broke off a piece of chicken and held it to her lips. “You’re funny.”
Their gazes met as she bit down, the perfectly cooked meat melting in her mouth. “Mm.”
He glanced away and busied himself tearing pieces off the chicken while a blush spread across the back of his neck. “It’s good.” He ripped a big bite of leg meat with his teeth, making his lips shine with juice.
She watched him chew. Jeez, the man could make brushing his teeth look suggestive, but chewing and drinking wine? If only they were on holiday in the Galapagos, or anywhere other than on a mission. Shoving her thoughts from her mind, Olivia moved to a stool to put the breakfast bar between them.
Logan’s eyebrows pinched together and a furrow creased his forehead. “Do you think they’ll take the bait?”
She sipped her wine, savoring the crispness as it cleansed her palette. “I think they’ll follow through with the meeting. Whether Hakim will take it to the next level is a crap shoot.”
“I’d rather not worry about the gun sales and find out what they’re doing with the girls they’re kidnapping.”
“Me, too. But we have to take one thing at a time and going for the kill out of the starting gates would be a royal cock-up. You need patience.”
“Which I don’t have.”
“No time like the present to develop some. You ready to go in deeper?”
He meandered around the bar and sat in the stool next to hers. “If it means putting an end to the kidnappings, I’d sell my soul.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” she said into her glass before taking a long drink of wine.
Logan sipped his, too, then swirled the remainder. “It helps take the edge off, doesn’t it?”
She reached for the bottle and topped up their glasses. “As long as it doesn’t become a crutch.”
“It hasn’t?” he asked.
Under most circumstances, Olivia would take offense at such a probing question, but Logan’s affable inflection kept her ire at bay. “I rarely have more than two—four at most.”
“It would be a sacrilege to be in France among such good wine and not enjoy it.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
He flipped on his laptop and clicked the Pandora icon. “I think we need to relax a bit.”
“Music?” she asked.
“And more wine.” He held up his glass.
Olivia responded in kind. “Cheers.” She half-expected hard rock to blast from the speakers, but when a familiar tune by a British artist started, she leaned over and read the album cover. The Best of Rod Stewart. “You have some taste.”
“I thought you’d enjoy Rod the Mod.”
She chuckled. “And you’re educated.”
“Nah.” Logan shrugged. “Just a music buff.”
“All sorts or just British superstars?”
Logan leaned back on his stool and laced his fingers behind his head. Sexy as a kick-ass cowboy. “It’s easier to say what I don’t like—screaming. Any music where the vocalist continually screams at the top of his lungs shuts me down.”
“Okay, no Janice Joplin then?”
“I could agree with that.”
“You’re like an onion.” Her tongue slipped out the corner of her mouth while she examined him. Dark hair that couldn’t be tamed, ruggedly attractive. Eyes like an eagle.
He gave her a quizzical look. “Why’s that?”
“Because just when I think I can manage not to like you, you throw a spanner into the works and reveal something new—something unexpected.”
“What do you mean manage not to like me?” Logan shook his head while he reached over the counter and tore off another bite of chicken. “What’s not to like?”
If only Olivia could figure that out, her damned heart might stop leaping every time their eyes met. Instead of answering, she smoothed camembert over a baguette.
“What was it like?” She could feel his eyes on her, studying intently like he did everything. Logan was pragmatic. He examined and thought, and then he acted—not exactly what she expected from a hotshot who thought he didn’t have any patience.
“Hmm?” she asked, but she knew what he meant.
“Being undercover for so long.”
“I’m still trying to figure that out.” She clipped a bite with her teeth. “You dive in deep and it’s hard to find yourself when it’s over. Sometimes you start believing the lies. When you’re that close to someone, it’s hard not to be affected by their human side—until they do something so incredibly horrible you realize they have complete and utter disregard for any life except their own. That’s when it becomes hell on earth and it’s all you can do not to run.”
“It had to be hard.”
“It was fucked up beyond imagination.” She cradled her forehead in her hands. “The bad part is it screwed with my mind and, sometimes, I don’t know if I can ever be normal again.”
Logan moved behind her, his strong fingers sinking into the tight bands of muscle in her shoulders. “Know what I think?”
“Mm.” She rolled her head with his delicious massage. “What do you think, cowboy?”
“I think you’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met,” he whispered in her ear. “And I know your beauty goes far deeper than skin. You care, and this is a tough world in which to give a damn. Know what’s more?”
“No.” His hands felt so good, yet Olivia couldn’t let go of the tension in her gut. She didn’t know herself anymore. It scared her not to be in the middle of an op, because she might have to take a good look at herself. What if she didn’t like what she saw?
“You’re in there. The little girl, the woman, the student, the spy. Everything you’ve ever been is in your heart, but it’s up to you to decide how much you’ll let people see.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to feel. “It’s easy to get hurt.”
“Too easy.” He used languid strokes to massage deep into the tissue. “But you know what’s harder?”
“What?”
“Pretending nothing fazes you eats away at your soul more than having out with it. I’ve seen it before. SEALs who pushed the bad stuff to the back of their minds and didn’t face their demons always had it worse—worse nightmares and worse crashes.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes things are best left in the dust.”
“As long as you’re honest with yourself.” A jazzy piano played the intro for The Way You Look Tonight. Logan pulled out Olivia’s stool and took her hand. “Want to dance?”
Her palm perspired as she chuckled. “We shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” He tugged.
Giving no answer, she followed, her head swimming just enough.
While he twirled her into his arms, Logan’s deep
bass hummed the lazy music. But he didn’t grab her bum and sway side-to-side as she expected. The man knew his moves, slowly guiding her over the carpet in an easy swing dance.
“Again you surprise me.”
“What? Didn’t you think a crusty SEAL commander could dance?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, not all American sailors are full of vinegar.”
Olivia followed his lead as he spun her into his chest and back out again. “It’s funny the way we stereotype people.”
“Mm hmm.” The singing stopped and the music slowed. Logan lunged and she allowed him to tip her backward into a dip. “You’re a good dancer.”
She pointed her toe, extending her leg vertically. “I’m a girl. I’m supposed to be.”
“Ah.” He pulled her to standing. “The proverbial ‘girl’ stereotype.”
Her gaze shifted from his tempting eyes to his kissable lips as Have I Told You Lately started to play. She thought about turning off the music to mute the electric current flowing between them but, as he lowered his chin, the idea slipped her mind. And while he drew her into his arms, all she could think about was tasting him.
Their lips met with a flood of warmth. His tongue slid into her mouth like cream on a hot bun. The man could make her melt with a look, and now in his clutches, she was helpless to resist. Olivia slipped her hands around his waist and drew him flush against her breasts, her nipples crying for friction. Gradually, the gentle kiss grew urgent—impassioned beyond belief. Her heartbeat raced. His tongue plunged into her mouth with toe-curling, mind-numbing determination. Heaven help her, she’d been holed up with this man for weeks. She’d tried to turn off every feminine urge and focus on the job but, dammit, if ICE was worried about operatives having sex, then they should have made sure the flat had separate bedrooms with locking doors…outfitted with electric shock deterrent to boot.
She was a goddamned woman, not a robot. And the sizzling desire pulsing through her veins told her the man in her arms was as red-blooded as a male could get. Logan Rodgers was as hot for her as she was for him.
Hands groped everywhere while their lips remained fused with insatiable hunger. Olivia unbuttoned his shirt, then pulled away far enough to shove it from his shoulders. She smoothed her palms over his sculpted stomach. “Your abs are like steel.”
