Double Impact

by Tess Gerritsen

  She couldn’t do it.

  Not even to save her own life.

  She shook her head adamantly, ignoring the resulting pain. “No, it wasn’t him.”

  The pent-up breath the man exhaled echoed in the otherwise silence.

  Carlos looked ready to throttle her…or worse. Michal appeared taken aback and Ami felt certain she had just signed her own death warrant.

  “Look again…more carefully,” Michal urged. “Are you certain?”

  With no other option, Ami did as he instructed. She looked at the man and surmised from the swelling of his face and the blood leaking from his busted lip that he’d already paid a hefty price for something he hadn’t even done.

  “No,” she said firmly, determined not to be responsible for another man’s death. No matter what kind of extremist or terrorist he was, she would not be his judge and executioner. “It’s not him.”

  Michal peered deeply into her eyes for what felt like an eternity before he turned to Carlos. “Let him go.”

  “What?” Carlos bellowed. “We cannot-”

  “Release him,” Michal ordered. His attention shifted to the prisoner. “Tell your people that I am far from finished. I will not forget this transgression. Nor will I overlook another.”

  Glowering at both her and Michal, Carlos did as he was ordered, cutting the man free then jerking him to his feet. “Go!” He pushed the man toward the door.

  Ami recoiled as he staggered past her, at once relieved and fearful. He collapsed against the door frame and didn’t appear able to go farther. She’d been right. Carlos had already worked him over considerably.

  “Get him out of here,” Michal ordered, his patience at an end.

  Carlos grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to attention. “What are you waiting for, imbecile? Get out!”

  When Carlos would have shoved the prisoner through the door the man twisted, his right hand snagging Carlos’s weapon from his waistband.

  Ami’s breath left her in a whoosh and the scene lapsed into slow motion. Displaying surprising strength, the prisoner shouldered Carlos aside and leveled the barrel of the weapon on Ami. “American whore!” he screamed.

  Michal dove in front of her.

  A blast exploded in the room as Ami hit the floor hard on her backside, sending pain piercing through her.

  Another blast splintered the air.

  The prisoner dropped the gun and crumpled to the floor. He lay facing her, his sightless eyes unblinking.

  She blinked, stunned.

  People scrambled around her. Muffled voices. She couldn’t understand…couldn’t make out their words. Could hardly hear at all. She turned to see…

  Michal.

  He dropped to his knees.

  Carlos and Thomas instantly appeared on either side of him.

  Ami struggled to her feet, scarcely noticing the detonation of agony that accompanied her every move.

  She pushed her way between the men hovered around Michal.

  Bright crimson spread across the fabric of the white shirt he wore, the spot widening, plunging toward the center of his chest.

  Blood.

  He’d been shot.

  Nausea roiled in her stomach. The room spun. And then the lights went out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JACK WAITED IMPATIENTLY at a table for two on the terrace outside Café Marly. He didn’t care that the chic French restaurant sat beneath the arcades of the Louvre overlooking the majestic pyramids of steel and glass, or that tourists strolled through the courtyards with properly awed expressions. He only cared that his appointment was late.

  The waitress stopped at his table once more to see if he needed anything else, but Jack waved her off. The last thing he needed was more caffeine. Or a flirtatious waitress looking for a roll in the hay with an American businessman. Ordinarily, Jack would have considered that a good thing, but there was nothing ordinary about the situation.

  The events of the past twenty-four hours had convinced him beyond a doubt that Ami Donovan was in over her head.

  Arad had taken her for medical attention, indicating that he had accepted her story. According to Fran Woodard, who’d stayed behind to monitor the situation, Arad’s men had discovered the planted evidence.

  Jack massaged his temples, but produced no relief for the insistent throbbing there.

  Preston Fowler was already in Paris and had agreed to meet with Jack for a status briefing. Jack was pretty damned sure he wasn’t going to want to hear what he had to say.

  “We’ll have to make this quick,” Fowler said, appearing out of nowhere and snapping Jack back to the here and now. “The American ambassador moved our meeting up so I don’t have much time.” He hefted his portly frame into the delicate chair on the opposite side of the tiny table and scanned the terrace for the waitress.

  “Hello to you, too,” Jack rumbled.

  Fowler gestured to the waitress and indicated that he would have the same as Jack, a high-octane espresso. Then he settled his irritated gaze on his subordinate.

  “Be thankful I was able to fit you in at all,” Fowler said crossly. “My schedule is tight. I have to be back in the States by morning.” He leaned back in his chair, ignoring its creak of protest. “What is it that couldn’t wait until the regularly scheduled briefing?”

  Jack pinned him with a gaze he hoped relayed the urgency of the situation. “We have to pull her out.”

  Fowler laughed outright, oblivious to the indignant stares cast his way at the outburst. When his amusement died, a mixture of anger and impatience replaced it. “Tell me you didn’t drag me over here for this worn-out tap dance.”

  “She was almost made,” Jack said, his own temper flaring. “Arad is far too suspicious of her already.” He shook his head. “This latest setback is only going to increase the risk to her. She won’t be any use to us dead.”

  The waitress stopped at their table before Jack could say more. She served Fowler and sashayed away. Jack was forced to wait out Fowler’s preoccupation with the woman’s swaying hips before he could continue.

  “You have to let me pull her. I think-”

  “You’re thinking,” Fowler cut him off, his attention swinging back to the discussion, “with your dick instead of your brain.”

  “She won’t last-”

  “And as far as this latest close call goes, the way I hear it, she brought that heat down on herself.”

  Jack’s spine stiffened. “Who told you that?” There were only three people besides him who knew what had really gone down.

  “Patterson and I go way back,” Fowler said bluntly. “He told me about her little escape attempt.” His glare turned as hard as flint. “Didn’t you make it clear to her what she had to lose?”

  Something snapped deep inside Jack. Some boundary that had heretofore kept his emotions in check when it came to his profession. But this time was different. This time it was personal. He hadn’t saved her life two years ago just to watch her die now.

  “Let’s say we get really lucky and somehow this assignment is successful,” he said tautly. “Any of Arad’s men who survive will kill her. Even if she’s fast enough and cunning enough to get away, she won’t last twenty-four hours. Arad is too popular among his peers and those who support them. Once that world knows he’s dead and that she had something to do with it, she won’t stand a chance against the wave of vengeance that will be unleashed. She won’t be safe anywhere on the planet. Even terrorists have their loyal followings.”

  Fowler leaned forward. “Who do you think you’re talking to, Jack?” There was no mistaking the underlying fury in his tone. “I know the reaction projections just as well as you do, maybe better. It’s the only way. We haven’t been successful in our attempts to turn one of his men. She’s the best shot we’ve got. We all want him dead. What part of that don’t you understand?”

  Jack clenched his jaw and reached for calm. It wasn’t to be found. “When did we stop caring about the co
st? There was a time when we didn’t sell out our own.”

  Fowler simply looked at him in that arrogant manner that was apparently prerequisite to the position of deputy director. “Think about it, Jack. Things have changed. We don’t do business with terrorists anymore. We squash them. Any way we can. In this case, she’s our ace in the hole.”

  Something about the way Fowler looked when he made that last statement or maybe the overconfident, condescending tone of his voice, brought a new kind of clarity to the situation. Realization sent dread washing over Jack.

  “You set this whole thing up,” he said, scarcely believing the words even as he uttered them.

  Fowler snorted haughtily. “A little slow on the uptake, are we, Jack?”

  Before Jack could roar with the indignation exploding in his chest, Fowler went on. “We needed Arad taken out of the picture. You had her stashed away, under the watch of that damned pricy shrink we keep on the payroll, why not use her? What do you think? That we’re in the business of baby-sitting?” Fowler huffed with self-righteous indignation. “She’s an asset. We use our assets, otherwise we dump ’em. The plan was perfect.” Fowler chuckled at his own ingenuity. “We knew Arad had a weakness for her. All we had to do was expose her in such a way that suspicion wouldn’t be aroused. The assassination attempt on one of Peres’s old friends was the perfect solution.”

  Rage erupted inside Jack. “You son of a bitch,” he hissed.

  Fowler’s expression turned lethal. “I’d watch my step if I were you, Jack. You’re already skating on thin ice. As I said, we don’t keep assets that lose their value.”

  Jack’s secure cellular line vibrated. He snatched it from his jacket pocket and answered the call before his baser instincts could take over completely. The way he saw it, he and Fowler had nothing else to discuss and killing him was against the rules. Nothing he could say or do at this point would make a difference. Ami was in too deep. Too vital to the ultimate goal.

  “Tanner.”

  “Jack, there’s been a development.”

  Fran Woodard. His heart rate kicked into overdrive. “Is she all right?” If Arad had learned the truth…

  “It’s not our girl,” Fran assured him. “It’s Arad.”

  An altogether different anticipation surging inside him, he demanded, “What happened?”

  “Carlos picked up one of the scumbags from that extremist group we framed. Apparently things got out of hand and Arad was injured.”

  Shock quaked through Jack. “Is he dead?” Relief edged into the fringes of his anticipation, renewing the hope that Ami might just survive. If Arad was dead, he could pull her out. The hesitation on the other end of the line went on for a beat too long, crushing the hope that had sprouted. “Dammit, Fran, is he dead?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted reluctantly. “They rushed him away. There was a lot of blood.”

  “Where is he now?” Jack should get back there, be close by. The flight took only-

  “They’re at the clinic-the same one he took Ami to just a few hours ago. I’ve given them an hour, but no one’s come out yet. It doesn’t look good.”

  That butcher shop scarcely met the most remote definition of a medical clinic. If Arad needed surgery or a blood transfusion, he was a goner.

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Wait.”

  His pulse pounding out his tension, Jack’s brow furrowed against the pressure as he waited for Fran to tell him what the hell was going on. He should have stayed. But when he’d learned Fowler was in Paris, he’d hoped to talk him into aborting the mission. He clenched his teeth against the rage that rose all over again when he considered what Fowler had done behind his back.

  “They’re coming out.”

  Jack stilled completely, even his heart seemed to stop beating, his nerves felt raw with frustration…with anticipation. He wanted this over. He wanted Ami safely reunited with her child and hidden away from harm.

  “Arad’s alive.”

  The two words deflated his hopes like a players strike right before baseball season. He muttered a curse.

  “He looks like hell, if that makes you feel any better,” Fran added. “They’re loading into two cars. Patterson and I’ll be right behind them.”

  The airport, Jack knew already. Arad would want to get back to his estate. The fortress he called home. The only place on the planet he felt truly safe.

  And once he was back there, Jack could do nothing but wait.

  Ami was on her own.

  MICHAL DID NOT BREATHE easy until he reached his home.

  His shoulder hurt like hell, but he would live. The most important thing was that Ami was alive and safe for the moment. He downed his whiskey, numbing the pain a bit. How long would she be safe here? How could he allow the possibility of another incident such as the one that had taken place in Tripoli?

  He could not. It was that simple.

  She was soaking in the tub now, relaxing the soreness in her muscles where the bastard had beaten her.

  Her reluctance to identify the man who had harmed her nagged at him. Whether it was the man Carlos had killed or another of his group, Michal did not care. They were complete scum. Anti-Israeli as well as anti-American. Still, because she was so upset, he had been willing to give the man his freedom, mainly, he admitted, so that he could take Michal’s warning back to his people, and the bastard had tried to kill her.

  He poured himself another drink and downed half of it. He should have killed him and been done with it. But he had allowed emotion to get in the way. A nearly fatal mistake. His gaze tracked Carlos’s pacing. He had more to say on the subject, of that Michal was certain. But he restrained himself out of a respect that lessened each day.

  “Speak your mind, my friend,” Michal told him, his pain nicely numbed with the heat of the liquor flowing in his blood.

  Carlos pulled up short and glared at him. “You almost got yourself killed.” The muscles of his face worked with the rage simmering inside him. “Because of her. I told you.” He took two steps toward Michal’s relaxed position in a wing chair. “She betrayed you once. How can you be sure this was not an elaborate setup?”

  Michal shook his head. “You are wrong, my friend.”

  Carlos flung his arms in the air as if beseeching a higher power for guidance. “They have never before made a move so bold,” he argued. “And this story of hers as to how she escaped. I do not believe this.” He moved his head side to side for emphasis. “She would not have escaped those animals. She is too helpless for such a fearless feat.”

  That was the part that nagged at Michal the most. This Amira was far too vulnerable and terrified of his world. Still, in her desperation perhaps she had been merely lucky.

  “She escaped.” Michal’s gaze latched onto Carlos’s. “That is all that matters.”

  He threw up his hands again. “You are under a spell,” he shouted. “She is using you and you are too blind to see it.”

  Michal set his empty glass aside and pushed to his feet. His shoulder throbbed in response. It was a damn good thing the bullet had gone straight through, missing anything important, including bone. There had been lots of blood and there would be plenty of pain, but nothing worse.

  “You make many serious accusations,” Michal said quietly, his tone laced with a lethal quality for good measure. “Do you have evidence to support this assertion? And what is it she would hope to gain by using me or setting me up? She has asked for nothing.”

  Carlos looked too smug. Michal’s instincts pushed through the haze of alcohol and stood at attention.

  “We both know that she betrayed you before.”

  Michal didn’t bother commenting. It was as Carlos said. But that was the past, this was now.

  “I have been watching her closely.”

  Tension slid through Michal. Carlos was no fool. But Michal did not like the idea of him watching her. “And what have you observed?”

  “Nothing. She remembers nothing of
the past, she does nothing.” He splayed his hands in confusion. “Nothing.”

  “What is your point, Carlos?” Michal warned, his patience at an end.

  “My contacts in the village tell me that there has been CIA activity.” Carlos cocked his head and said the rest with far too much pleasure. “It started about the same time she arrived.”

  A new kind of tension wormed its way into Michal’s already rigid muscles at that news. “What activities have your contacts reported?”

  “Only that a man-an American-has been asking questions, hanging around, watching, pretending to be a tourist.”

  “This man,” Michal prodded, “what does he look like?”

  Carlos shrugged. “The description is vague. Dark hair. Tall. Lean.”

  Michal filed the description for later use. “But you have no direct link between Amira and the CIA or this man you believe to be CIA?”

  Fury erupted in Carlos’s eyes once more. “What will it take to convince you? You are not thinking straight? Raoul is dead! You were almost killed. If you do not get rid of her, she will be the death of us all!”

  Michal advanced on him then, going toe to toe, eye to eye so there would be no misunderstanding. “This discussion is over. If-” he continued when Carlos would have argued “-you broach this subject again, I will consider it an outright act of insubordination.”

  Deep, dark red rose from Carlos’s neck all the way to his forehead, but, to his credit, he remained silent.

  “You will keep me informed as to any further CIA activities in Marseilles,” he added in case there was any question. “Unless, of course, you no longer wish to pursue this working relationship. Am I clear?”

  The standoff lasted all of ten seconds.

  “You have made yourself crystal clear.”

  Carlos walked out of the room as if all was understood, but Michal had the distinct feeling this battle had only just begun. He hoped for Carlos’s sake he was wrong. His gut told him that the issue went far deeper than Ami’s presence.

  Whatever the case, if the man forced his hand, it would not bode well for him.

  AMI GINGERLY DRIED her body. Every reach, every bend, was agonizing. When she’d swabbed herself dry as best she could, she wiped the foggy mirror with the towel and studied her reflection. Most of the swelling had gone down in her cheek, but the bruise was an ugly shade of yellowish purple.