by Amy Jarecki
“Keep talking like that and we won’t make it to the bed.” He whipped her tank top over her head and snapped open her bra. Clothes flew off in a fervor.
Finally naked, Olivia crushed her body against his. His skin was warm to the touch and inviting, molding to her like a matched pair. Kissing again, she couldn’t get close enough as she rubbed her hips from side to side. “I need you in me.”
The rumble from his chuckle made shivers fire across her skin. “You want it hard and fast?”
“Yes!”
“Good, ’cause every day since you gave me the tour of ICE you’ve driven me to the ragged edge.” He lifted her into his arms as Olivia wrapped her legs around his back. The movement made his shaft slick and she rocked against him.
Her breathing came in sharp gasps. “Hurry!” With her next breath, her back hit the mattress. She scooted toward the headboard while Logan crawled over her looking like a panther tracking his prey.
He looked dangerous and powerful and…
Oh shit. Not again!
With Olivia’s next blink, horrors from the past two years came flooding back like a punch to the gut. Damn, damn, damn.
As she gasped, violent panic stopped her cold. Disgust gripped her mind. Jamal on top. Jamal riding her like a whore. Jamal’s sweat dripping on her face.
She threw out her palm and stopped the man from pushing between her legs. “I can’t.”
***
On his hands and knees, his cock ready to explode, Logan froze. His mouth gaped in disbelief. He looked into the most beautiful and tormented eyes he’d ever seen in his life. “You want to stop? Now?”
She scooted aside and drew her arms around her knees as if she were a child trying to hide. “It all comes back. As soon as you started moving over me, I felt like a victim.”
Logan rolled to his side and stared at her in disbelief. Jesus Christ. In a heartbeat, the woman had just gone from hotter than wheels on a racetrack to frigid as dry ice. She was FUBAR and on a goddamned mission.
She shot him a glance. Not the aloof, condescending look she often used, but her gaze was filled with fear. That single look changed everything. Helped him understand.
Sighing, he pulled a coverlet from the foot of the bed and draped it over her. “I’m glad I blew that bastard away. I hate what he did to you.”
She nodded.
After sitting against the headboard, he brushed Olivia’s hair away from her shoulder. The silk caressed his fingers so lightly it made his heart want to burst. Dammit, she might be trained to fight like a killer, but Olivia Hamilton was a woman, a beautiful and delicate woman. “Come here.” He patted the bed between his legs.
She shook her head. “No. I’m no good. I can’t pretend anymore.”
“You have my word I won’t try anything.” When she slumped forward, he pulled her into the space between his legs, working his fingers into the same knots he’d released earlier. They’d all come back with a vengeance. “Tell you what,” he whispered into her nape. “You call the shots from here out.”
She hid her face in her palms.
Rather than push for an answer, Logan worked from her shoulders, down her arms and out the tip of her fingers. He worked in silence while her muscles gradually relaxed—while the aura of tension radiating off her began to ebb. “May I do the rest of your back?” he asked.
“No.”
He lowered his hands, his heart sinking. They’d been right all along to keep things professional, or as professional as possible considering they were stuck in a one-bedroom apartment and he was sleeping on a couch with his feet dangling over the edge. A week on the couch had been enough. Hell, things were better on the Washington. He liked being in charge of his team leading missions—after the groundwork had been done. His forte was going in fast and getting out faster.
Things on this op were just too damned unpredictable.
With luck, this mission would crash and burn so he could go back to ICE. Maybe Garth would assign him to another team. Maybe he’d never work with Olivia again. Maybe he should walk away now. This entire setup had disaster written all over it, and there he sat, buck naked, massaging a woman’s back. A woman who was posing as his wife. A woman who couldn’t find it within herself to return his affection.
Chapter Thirteen
While Logan went to meet with Kadir Hakim carrying two sample M4s in the boot of a hire car, Olivia sat at the desk in the flat and stared at her Surface Pro, reviewing a plethora of data with Asa. Olivia wasn’t one to spend hours in front of a computer analyzing information. She preferred to observe and act.
“I’ve been monitoring internet chatter and I think I’ve found a pattern,” Asa explained from the box in the open window at the top right of the screen.
Olivia practically went cross-eyed while Asa scrolled through her report. “What are your key words?”
“I’ve translated the descriptors in Arabic, French, German and English: girls, infidel, virgins, rewards. For kicks I also added the names of the seven Islamic heavens.”
“Mm hmm,” Olivia replied, cogitating. “Many people shorten all seven to Jannah.” Her head throbbed as she puzzled at the lines of jumble on her screen. They appeared to make no sense whatsoever. Until… “Wait.” She looked up. “Logan’s recording of Hakim on the riverfront mentioned something about virgins and rewards.”
“Ja, that’s why I included those words in the mix. Good thing I did, because it helped me narrow down the intel. And it seems the chatter increases two days before a girl goes missing…I think.”
“You think?”
“It’s not an exact science.”
“Right. It sounds like you have bugger all.” Rubbing her temples, Olivia returned her attention to the data, noticing a spike in the consistency of chatter on June 19th—yesterday. “Stop scrolling.”
The data on the screen stilled with the words rewards and virgins intermixed in a jumble. Had Asa drawn the same conclusion? “When do you think they’ll strike again?”
“Soon.”
“Did you notice the increase yesterday?”
“Ja, but it could be a blip.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m waiting on today’s results.”
That didn’t make sense. Once Asa put today’s activity through her meatgrinder it might be too late. That was the bloody problem with sitting in a room with a jumble of data rather than being out on the street. “Based on yesterday’s intel, can you make an educated guess as to where the next kidnapping will happen?”
“Ah…not sure, but…” The sound of clicking came across the wire.
“Just out with it.” Olivia groaned. “Tell me where in the world the data is most likely pointing.”
Asa cringed with a hiss. “It could be distorted because of the Music Festival.”
“At La Sucrière?”
“Uh huh, ja.” More clicking while Asa’s eyes focused. “There’s a concert for teens at two o’clock.”
Olivia glanced to her ICE watch while her adrenaline kicked in. She had an hour and she didn’t expect Logan back for at least three. There wasn’t enough time to hire another car. She moved her finger to the touch pad. “It looks like I’m heading for a teenybopper do. Ta, ta. I’ve got to run.”
A half-hour later, with her blonde hair in a high ponytail, wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a pink, scoop-necked top and a pair of three-inch heeled sandals, Olivia hid her face behind a scarf to ensure no one would see her as she exited the apartment complex and dashed into the passenger side of Muhammed’s Mini. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“You owe me. My kids were looking forward to a day at the pool.” It was Sunday and the shop was closed.
“Sorry, unfortunately bad guys work all hours.”
He put the car in gear. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.”
Driving through Lyon took forever. They had to wait for three changes of a single light just to cross the Rhône. Worse, traffic was a disaster outside t
he ultra-modern La Sucrière performance center that had been converted from an old warehouse on the riverfront.
Olivia pointed. “Pull over there.”
“Can’t. See the police up ahead? They’ll ticket us before we get out of the car.”
“Dammit.” She panned her gaze across the snarl of cars that hadn’t moved in five minutes. “I’m getting out. I’ll see more if I pretend like I’m texting on the corner.”
“What should I do?”
“I’ll call you if I see anything. Park as close as you can.” She tossed the bag containing her Glock over her shoulder and wove her way to a lamppost where she had a good line of sight to the doors. But the square was a sea of teens, all boisterously converging inside the center. And as cars pulled to the curb, more kids swarmed inside.
Pretending to be waiting for friends, Olivia leaned against the post and pulled out her phone. She worked her thumbs in pretend texting while she searched for anyone who looked like he might be a jihadi stalker—not too difficult, given the average attendee age was about seventeen.
At least Olivia hoped it wouldn’t be too difficult. Every other male seemed to have dark hair and olive skin. She eyed a group of guys that were standing in a circle, joking around. They seemed a bit older, glancing over their shoulders, checking out every female who walked past. She kept an eye on them while scanning the crowd. They boys didn’t quite fit the MO, especially with the way they were drawing attention to themselves.
A group of girls moved past, all chattering like typical teens. One bumped into Olivia and dropped a cell phone. She was blonde, willowy and attractive and could pass for a teenaged model with pouty lips. Odd. The girl kept going as if nothing had happened. The cell she’d dropped looked like a track phone. Olivia picked it up, chasing after the teen and tapping her on the arm. “Hey—you dropped this.”
Blondie glanced over her shoulder, looking annoyed. Before taking it, she hesitated as if she wasn’t sure she wanted anyone to know she had a cheap phone. “Thanks,” she said, sounding none too grateful.
Within a half-hour, most of the crowd had filed inside, including the group of rowdy boys. Olivia abandoned her lamppost and clutched her bag to her shoulder and scanned up and down the street, pretending like she was searching for a friend. If there were any terrorists stalking about, they weren’t making themselves obvious.
She called Muhammed. “Where are you?”
“At the top of the parking garage.”
“Why the bloody top?”
“No other spots available.”
“Well, you might as well head down, this looks like a bust.”
“You mean I dashed my daughter’s day for nothing?”
“That’s life when you’re playing with the big boys.”
Just as she pushed the off button, the blonde girl who’d dropped her phone exited the building. She pulled a red scarf from the stairs’ handrail and continued to walk toward the curb.
Olivia turned her back, pretending to send a text. Obviously, the girl had been looking for a reason to leave her friends and go outside. A BMW raced around the corner and screeched to a halt at the curb. Miss Forgetful hopped into the passenger seat with an enormous grin spread across her face.
Olivia speed dialed Muhammed while she got a good look at the driver. Dark glasses, styled black hair, olive skin—looked like one of the thugs who had been with Hakim at the shop.
“Bonjour,” Muhammed’s voice came over the speaker.
Olivia broke into a run. “Game on dude! Drive like an ace. Meet you at the exit.”
She didn’t wait for a reply as the carpark echoed with the screech of rubber. At least Muhammed wasn’t afraid of driving balls-out.
Behind, the BMW headed south along the River Saône, which meant they had to be heading for the Hrant Dink Tunnel.
Muhammed skidded to a stop at the gate, tossing a €5 note at the attendant. “Vite!”
Olivia jumped into the passenger side as the boom raised. “Turn left and step on it. If we don’t catch them in the tunnel, where they’re headed will be a crapshoot.”
He threw the car in gear and peeled around the corner. “Hasn’t the concert started?”
“Yeah, but the girl came outside after the crowd cleared and hopped in the car as if she were meeting her boyfriend.”
Muhammed flew along Quai Rambaud like he was on the motorway. “How do you know she wasn’t?”
“Intuition.”
“What?”
She flicked her hand toward the road. “Just drive.”
Olivia could be wrong, but something was amiss…and there was the chatter. As she put together the pieces, too many things aligned. The girl, her reluctance to take the phone, then leaving the scarf. Not to mention the driver looked like one of Hakim’s thugs…and again, the chatter.
Ahead, a light changed to red. Muhammed slammed on the brakes.
“Are you insane? Run the goddamned light!” She tore off her sunglasses as the Mini sped on and entered the tunnel. “There they are!”
“Which one?”
Olivia couldn’t miss the LEDs. “The BMW. Right lane.”
Muhammed flicked on the blinker, the Mini jerking as he cut off a car to move over.
“Do you see them?” she asked. “They’re two cars ahead.”
“Oui,” he said. “They’re taking the turn to Pont Pasteur.”
“Don’t drive up alongside them. Stay a car or two behind.”
“You sure are bossy.”
“You got that right. If my intuition is spot on, the man driving that Beamer is one of Kadir Hakim’s cronies and if he realizes we’re following, his car has the muscle to leave this tin box in the dust.”
Muhammed patted the dash. “This old girl hasn’t failed me yet.” He drove like a fiend, weaving through traffic, speeding up to avoid red lights, all the while keeping the BMW in sight. It had to figure, the damned suspect car made each bloody light by a fraction of a second. Muhammed punched the gas to shoot through. A car turning left across the traffic slammed on its brakes and blasted their horn while flipping the bird.
Olivia returned the gesture in kind. “Sod off, you wanker!”
“They’re taking the onramp to the A43.”
“Keep after them. Maybe we’ll shake off this traffic. For the love of God, it’s Sunday. Aren’t people supposed to be home with their families?”
“It’s always busy in Lyon. Tourist season.” Muhammed clutched the wheel like a racecar driver pushing the gutless Mini to its limits.
Once they merged onto the motorway, the traffic eased as they approached the outskirts of town. After driving past the airport, the BMW signaled for the next exit. Muhammed followed at a distance until the perp turned into a block of flats.
“There.” Olivia pointed.
“I see it.” Muhammed signaled. “Have you got a plan?”
She slipped her hand into her bag and wrapped her fingers around the Glock then stuffed a pair of zip cuffs into her back pocket. “You grab the girl. I’m going after the perp.”
“I don’t think—”
She shot him a look. “Nab the goddamned girl, I said.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The BMW pulled into a space under cover of a carport.
“Stop here,” said Olivia, opening the door. Before the Mini completely stopped, she hopped out. Running forward, she reached the driver’s side of the BMW just as the perp stood. She trained her gun on his heart while she switched to French. “Get down on your face. Now!”
The suspect raised his hands, his lips curling at the corners, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. “What’s this about?”
“You tell me.” She snatched zip cuffs from her pocket while Muhammed dealt with the hysterical teenager on the other side of the Beamer. Olivia didn’t allow her gaze to flicker. The NATO operative could handle blondie—the girl was an accessory at best, but the man in front of her was of great interest, and most likely dangerous.
The pe
rp backed up, shaking his hands. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“You should have thought about that before you picked up an underage girl,” Olivia said, hedging as she crept forward. Besides, her accusation made her look more like a cop.
She sensed the perp shift his eyes behind his shades. After taking two more steps back, he started to run.
Anticipating the flight, Olivia was faster. She launched herself forward, tackling him to the pavement. The man bucked up. Holding on, she straddled him and pressed the Glock to the base of his skull. “Don’t even twitch or I’ll pull the trigger.” She slipped a cuff around one wrist, yanking it tight. The man bucked again, trying to roll over. She jammed the muzzle of her gun harder. “Do that again and your blood will be oozing all over the pavement.”
He froze as Muhammed came around to give backup.
“Where’s the girl?” she asked in English while wrenching the perp’s other arm behind his back and securing it.
“Cuffed to the neck rest in the back of the car.”
“Good. Let’s get out of here before anyone sees us.”
“Are you police?” asked the suspect as Olivia pushed him into the back seat of the Mini.
“Yes,” Olivia replied. He didn’t need to know who they were or where they were from, and lying would shut him up.
“Fuck,” the bastard cursed under his breath. Little did he know he’d just made a declaration of guilt.
Chapter Fourteen
In the old quarry on the outskirts of Lyon, Logan stood back while Hakim fired the M4 at a rusty barrel, flanked by two of his cronies. Everything in Logan’s false background must have checked out because Hakim had returned the David Mason passport and started calling him “my friend”. Logan had memorized his cover backward and forward. He’d initially entered the world of ISIS as a minor supplier to Jamal Abdullah Khalil—proved himself as a loyalist. As a British subject, he was invaluable to the jihadi cause, but as he grew bolder, MI5 started watching him. After selling Jamal stinger missiles stolen from a US controlled warehouse in Jordan, the Brits turned up the heat. David Mason took his Muslim wife and moved to France—and he still had the missiles hidden in Pakistan.
