“Yeah, a whole crapload of fountain noise,” said the pale technician in the back of the van as he fiddled with the connections to his homemade parabolic microphone. “Maybe I’ll be able to filter out some of the background sound when I get my experimental system up and running.”
“Yeah, maybe. If you ever get it up and running.”
“Have faith, Hurley. Have faith.”
Chapter 4
Washington, D.C. July.
Eight weeks after the Al Arif jet bombing.
Faith opened her safe deposit box inside the private viewing booth of her bank. She shouldn’t be here. The cab was waiting outside, engine running. Her flight was due to depart the Maryland base in less than an hour. But she’d been unable to stop herself.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she slowly removed a faded photo from an envelope in the box. It was an image of her mother holding Faith as a four-month-old baby on the base where they’d lived at the time. Faith was dressed in a white christening gown. Her father’s large hand rested on her mother’s shoulder—steering, controlling. The rest of her father’s image had been torn from the snapshot.
Rage, pain, remorse surged inside her. Faith struggled to tamp it all down.
Usually it was easy to quash any emotions associated with her childhood, but since Tagua… She cursed, hating that she felt anything at all. She told herself it was just another damn symptom, along with the other changes that had been occurring in her body since she’d left Colombia—the increasing tenderness in her breasts, the nausea, fatigue, mood swings.
Faith quickly slid the photo into her briefcase, next to the pregnancy test she’d just purchased at the drugstore. She wasn’t sure why she needed the photo now. It was the single personal item she’d kept from her past, as if one day she might need a window to revisit it. Hell alone knew—maybe she missed her mother.
Or maybe she was just terrified of becoming a mother herself.
Outside, the air was warm, trees in full leaf, grass green. Washington was pretty in the summer, and Faith looked like she belonged. Her hair had been returned to its natural blond and hung in a sleek ponytail down her back. She was dressed in casual business attire with neat heels, bare legs, a crisp blouse. But her skirt was tighter than it used to be, and dark sunglasses hid eyes that had seen too little sleep since she’d left Colombia.
For the duration of those eight weeks Faith had been held at a high security location on a Maryland military base used by STRIKE, and for the entire time she’d been worried she’d be scrubbed, that someone might have seen her with Santiago.
But late last night word had finally—and suddenly—come that she’d been cleared, and immediately she’d been handed a dossier for a new rush job in Algeria. She’d left at once for her apartment in D.C., packed her bags, and this morning she was back at work, and thankfully off crutches—the weeks of detention had given her torn ligament enough time to heal.
But time in detention had also left her zero opportunity to privately access a pregnancy test, until now. Heaven knew when she’d be able to use it in private—maybe when she reached the hotel in Algiers, right before the hit.
As she ran back to the idling cab, Faith tried to tell herself the test would come up negative, that the changes in her body were due to stress, a lack of exercise, or something—anything—else.
Because if she was carrying Santiago’s baby—or whoever he really was—it would be the worst possible thing that could happen to her now, both professionally and personally.
*
Omair adjusted the collar of his linen jacket as he stepped out into the hotel courtyard and into the searing summer heat of an Algiers morning. For the past two months he’d been posing as a black-market weapons broker with stock to offload, hoping to flush out the buyer of the botched Tagua cache. And finally he had—a Russian who counted the Maghreb Moors among his top clients.
The Russian had invited Omair to breakfast with him at the historic hotel in hope of sealing a new deal for his clients. Omair’s immediate goal was to find out just what kind of arms the MagMo were seeking, and for what purpose. And he wanted to know who was going to pay for the weapons.
The entire courtyard of the hotel had been reserved for their meeting and the Russian sat waiting for Omair at a table covered with white linen under the vines. His bodyguards were on the other side of the wall, at Omair’s request. The Russian rose to his feet as Omair approached.
He was a short man, but made up in breadth what he lacked in height. His skin was deeply tanned. Dark glasses hid his eyes, and his hair had been oiled back from a pocked brow. His white jacket was too tight and the lapel sported a red carnation.
Inwardly, Omair grimaced. In his opinion the Russians always lacked taste, and this man was no exception. Omair made his way toward him, extending his hand in greeting.
*
Faith positioned her rifle between the stone crenels of an ancient battlement and peered through her scope at the courtyard far below. She was lying on the hot rooftop of an old Moorish structure in the traditional Arab quarter of Algiers, a city founded over a thousand years ago and steeped in the history of its conquests. In the distance the Mediterranean sparkled dark blue over a vista of whitewashed buildings with faded ochre rooftops, and towering palms dotted the shoreline.
But all she could think about was the pregnancy test in her sling bag.
The stick had turned blue.
Sweat dribbled into her eyes. The heat was making her sick. Her stomach and swollen breasts felt uncomfortable pressed against the hot concrete rooftop. She swallowed a sudden surge of panic.
She’d dodged a bullet in being cleared after the botched Tagua hit, but now this pregnancy could mean her job anyway. Assassins couldn’t just “quit”—the secrets she knew could bring down governments, start wars. Another sharp wave of nausea forced Faith to close her eyes for a brief instant. But the image of Santiago, naked, burned behind her lids. Her mouth turned dry.
You can’t think about it now. The test might be false positive. Do another when you get back. And you don’t have to keep the baby…just focus on your job…
Faith opened her eyes and peered through her scope again, forcing her attention back to the courtyard below. In her mind she replayed the notes from the dossier her handler had given her to study on the plane. This mission had been a rush one. No photo or biometrics indicators had been provided. All she knew was that her target—Faroud bin Ali—was a top terrorist with the MagMo and had so far eluded cameras. Her instructions were to watch for a CIA plant with a red carnation in the lapel of his white jacket. When the plant removed the carnation and set it on the table, it would mean her target had entered the courtyard and been positively identified.
Faith watched as the thickset man at the table under the vines stood up. He was reaching for the carnation in the lapel of his white jacket.
Adrenaline trilled softly through her blood.
The man removed the red flower and laid it next to his water glass. She controlled her breathing and her heart rate, curling her finger softly around the trigger as a tall, well-built man emerged from under the shadows of the vine trellis, black hair shimmering in sun.
Faroud bin Ali.
Faith carefully positioned the crosshairs over his head, breathed out, and on the last of her exhalation, she started to apply pressure to the trigger.
The man turned his head and shock slammed through her.
Santiago!
Her hands froze. Her heart jackhammered as thoughts skittered, tumbled, raced through her mind. The father of her baby—her target—a top MagMo terrorist? She was essentially a U.S. soldier. She had an order. She had to do this. Faith began to shake.
She told herself MagMo was endangering the lives of thousands of civilians. She had to follow her orders—she had to kill him.
Swallowing, she pulled the trigger.
But in her brief second of hesitation her target had moved a fraction to his left, and her slug ex
ploded into the white plaster in the wall near his head.
He ducked sharply, spun around. She could see his black eyes, and he was staring right at her.
Faith quickly aimed again.
But he was too fast. He’d already grabbed the CIA operative around the neck and was using the man as a human shield, dragging him back under cover of the vines. Faith caught a glimpse of them through the vine leaves, and she saw her target slice a dagger across the operative’s throat. Arterial blood spurted out, drenching the white suit.
“Santiago” dropped the man to the ground and ran toward the back wall of the courtyard. Faith tried to follow his movement under the vines, but as she drew another bead on him, something buzzed like a hornet past her ear and thwacked into concrete near her face. She gasped and jerked back as the concrete exploded into shards, one of them slicing across her brow.
She rolled onto her side, dropping about a yard down onto a ledge. She sucked in a burst of pain as her shoulder took the brunt of her fall.
Faith lay there, listening. Blood leaked into her eye. Sun beat down hot. But all she heard was the noise of bullhorns coming from the market in the casbah, the sounds of traffic, horns, the chirps of tiny birds darting through clotheslines strung from windows in the building below.
Carefully, she peered back up over the parapet and caught sight of a tall figure in a white robe and dark red turban up on the balcony of a gold-domed minaret that towered over this area of the old Arabic quarter. What the hell—who was that? The man raised a rifle, and another shot zinged past her face as she ducked back.
Faith swore, waited a breath, then quickly belly crawled to the far end of the roof using the parapet as cover, thinking that in another few weeks she’d be unable to do this—if she kept the baby. She edged carefully up behind a stone merlon. The minaret balcony was now empty.
Faith dropped back. Panic licked through her stomach. But who in hell was that robed shooter in the minaret?
She didn’t have time to think about it. The Algerian police could arrive at any minute and if they arrested her, STRIKE would cut her loose and she’d be left to rot in an Algerian prison.
Faith began to rapidly unscrew the components of her weapon, slotting the pieces into the holsters strapped to her legs and torso. Quickly tying a scarf over her nose and mouth, Faith then covered herself in the black chador she’d stuffed into a fake leather sling bag. Soft wire hoops had been sewn into the chador hem so the fabric would stand away from her body, hiding the angular weaponry strapped underneath.
Crouching with her back pressed against the hot stone, Faith used her sat phone to dial the number her handler, Travis Johnson, had given her for details of her extraction.
The phone rang, and rang, and rang, then cut off.
Another bullet suddenly pinged off the top of the merlon.
Her heart kicked.
The mystery shooter was still out there.
Bunching up the fabric of her chador, Faith crawled toward a doorway that led to a crumbling staircase down the outside of the building. She crouched at the top of the stairs, redialed the number. Sun baked down on the rooftop, the black fabric of her chador making her even hotter. Someone picked up. A recorded voice said this number was no longer in service.
A chill slaked through Faith.
She closed her eyes for a moment. If she couldn’t reach anyone for an evac, she’d have to go to plan B and make it to a safe house along the outskirts of the sprawling Algiers metropolis. The route had been mapped into her GPS, and scored into her mind.
No more shots came from the tower. Faith edged up and, using her military scopes, carefully scanned the minaret balcony, then the stairwell that curled around the tower. She caught a movement, a glimpse of a dark red turban—the man was running down the stairs. Coming after her?
She quickly redialed the evac number thinking she might’ve made an error. Again, three rings, then the recorded message saying the number was not operational.
Faith swore and pocketed the phone in her sling bag. Gathering the ends of the chador in her hands, she ducked through the crumbling doorway and ran down the narrow stairs, planning to vanish into the crowded market in the ancient medina below.
*
Omair raced for the old building near the casbah where he’d seen sunlight glinting off metal along the ancient battlements atop the roof, dodging through traffic and bumping into pedestrians as he went. The shot had to have come from that direction—it was the perfect place to put a sniper. Anger boiled through Omair’s veins—the Russian must have checked him out, seen through his cover, and tipped off an Algerian MagMo cell. Omair had been set up like a sitting duck in that courtyard.
There was no way in hell he was going to let that would-be assassin escape now. And when he got him, he was going to take his captive out into the desert and do whatever it took to make the bastard spit out the name of the man who’d ordered Omair—and his family—dead.
Omair swung into an empty alley and stilled, breathing hard, his shirt drenched. He glanced up and down the street to see if any of the Russian’s bodyguards had managed to follow him into the maze of twisting alleys and stairways. The casbah was an ideal place to hide. It’s where he expected the would-be assassin to come down from the roof.
A woman in a chador, dark sunglasses and veil, carrying a sling bag suddenly dashed out of a doorway ahead. She paused, glanced his way, froze as if startled, then spun and sprinted like an Olympic athlete down the alley and around a corner, gone, like a black ghost.
Omair gave chase. It had to be the sniper—it wouldn’t be the first time a man had hidden under the veils and chador of a woman. He lurched around the corner, saw the shooter racing up a flight of uneven stone stairs that had sunk in the middle with years of use. The shooter stopped at the top, glanced his way, then ducked to the right down another narrow alley.
Omair charged up the stairs, lungs burning. He swung to his right, entering the alley, and ran slap-bang into a mule loaded with garbage. Trash clattered out the bags and a man with a stick yelled a string of Arabic curses. Omair tried to edge past the mule while avoiding the old garbage collector’s swinging stick.
Another string of expletives followed him as he raced down more uneven stairs and into a wider cobblestone street. The noise of the market grew loud—vendors blaring the merits of their wares over loudspeakers, high-pitched music from ghetto blasters, people yelling in rapid-fire streams of Arabic. And Omair could smell the rich fragrance of spices, cooking meat, incense.
He entered the bustling market, carefully scanning the crowds. He was looking for something that stood out among the ordinary, something not quite right. Omair moved slowly, purposefully, silently, cutting through the crowd like a shark, people parting in a wake around him.
Suddenly, a black-robed woman carrying a sling bag caught his gaze. She looked heavyset by the way the chador stood out from her body, and she was moving slowly, but it was the shoes that alerted him—badass, dun-colored desert boots topped with gaiters. The other women in the market were all wearing sandals, mules, running shoes. Those boots meant business—and they were making for the far exit of the medina.
Omair ducked down a side alley and quickly circled around the back end of the market, approaching the exit from the outside. It was quiet in this section of the casbah, more derelict, more shaded from the sun. He could smell rotting garbage and cat urine. Omair ducked into a dark alcove and drew his dagger.
He heard his quarry approaching—a slight squeak from soles against the grit of sand that had blown in from the desert, the swish of fabric around pant legs.
The footsteps stopped suddenly.
*
Faith paused. She thought she’d seen a shadow moving farther up the alley. She stood dead still, listening as she peered into the gloom. It was dark here and the alley narrow. Plaster chunks had fallen from walls and garbage lay in alcoves. A tin clattered to her left and Faith whirled around. A stray cat fled across the cobblesto
nes.
Faith almost laughed with relief. She leaned back against the wall for a moment, catching her breath and willing her heart to calm.
Her plan was to find her way out the back of the casbah, and then to the safe house where she was supposed to receive further instruction. Part of her was afraid to return home—she’d failed another hit and there would surely be consequences.
She’d also have to face her pregnancy.
Inhaling deeply, Faith began to move cautiously down into the dark, narrowing alley. But before she’d made even five yards, she felt a grip around her neck as someone slammed into her from behind.
She tried to gasp for air, but her assailant was strong, choking her. Faith’s eyes watered as she rammed her elbow backward into her assailant’s gut. But his stomach muscles were like iron and her efforts were futile as he dragged her kicking into a dark alcove. His grip around her neck was like a vise, and tightening. Her vision went red, then black, small pricks of light circling. She fumbled blindly for the knife hidden under the folds of her chador, but as she grasped the hilt, her attacker swung her around to face him and lifting her off her feet, he slammed her back against the wall. Air gushed from her chest as the knife released from her fingers, clattering down to the cobblestones along with her bag.
Gasping for breath, air once again filled her lungs and as her vision returned his face swam into focus. Faith’s heart slammed against her rib cage—it was him, her target. Faroud Bin Ali. Santiago.
And the look on his face was murderous.
Faith kneed him hard in the groin. He grunted in pain, but as he doubled over slightly, Faith felt the tip of his dagger press into her stomach. She went dead still as she felt steel meet skin through the fabric of her clothes. And all she could think about was the tiny life growing inside her belly, and what harm the knife could do to it.
A raw primal urge to stay alive rose through her body, overriding everything else.
“Santiago,” she whispered hoarsely in Spanish. “Please, don’t do this.”
His eyes narrowed sharply. He reached up, yanked the veil and glasses off her face, and tore the chador hood back from her hair.
Sheik's Revenge Page 5
