by Susan Stoker
“Quit.”
“Just like that?” Slade asked.
“Just like that,” Greg confirmed.
“You think she’s involved? That what you need me for?”
“No. We don’t think she’s involved, but we have nothing on Fourati. We have no photos, no videos that show his face. Nada. Zip. Zilch.”
“But Dakota James saw him,” Slade concluded.
“Exactly. We need her. Fourati has to be stopped before he can carry through with his plan. As far as we can tell, right now he only has a handful of men he’s recruited, but the more he gets, the more his plan can snowball.”
“You want me to find her.”
“Yes. Find her. Get a description of Fourati, then track that asshole down and eliminate the threat.”
Ah, there it was.
Slade had been waiting for confirmation that the former commander wanted him to kill for his country once again. The thought should’ve been repugnant. He’d left that part of his life behind. But then Slade remembered the pictures of the ruined section of the airport. Remembered the pictures and videos of the victims. A mother traveling with her three-month-old baby. The couple celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary by flying to Hawaii for a two-week vacation. The business men and women who were caught in the crosshairs of a terrorist.
The resolve to take down the asshole responsible solidified in his belly.
He opened his mouth to agree to take the job, when Greg spoke again. “There’s one more thing…”
Ah, shit.
“Fourati has decided that Dakota James is his.” Lambert’s voice was matter-of-fact.
“What? How does he even know her?”
“Apparently, he saw her in the crowd at the airport, and whatever happened between them made him decide that he wants her for his own. This is why we think she ran.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Slade swore. “She obviously didn’t want to be a terrorist’s plaything.”
“Apparently not. From what we’ve been able to intercept and decode, he’s on her trail.”
“Where is she?” Slade demanded. The thought of the poor woman surviving a terrorist bombing, only to be on the run because said terrorist wanted her for his own, was too much for his psyche. His team had told him on more than one occasion that he had a knight-in-shining-armor complex, but Slade didn’t care. He loved women. All kinds. Short, tall, fat, skinny, it didn’t matter. When push came to shove on a mission, if it involved a woman, Slade was made point. He did whatever it took to protect the women and children.
“That’s the thing. We don’t know.”
“What do you know?” he bit out impatiently. “From where I’m sitting, it’s precious little. You know there was a woman, and her name, and that she quit her job, but that’s about it.”
Greg didn’t even sound the least bit upset. “That’s why we need you. Find Dakota. Get her to tell you what Fourati said before his soldier blew himself up. Figure out what that fucker looks like so we can find him, shut down his dot-com operation, and get one more terrorist off our streets. Yeah?”
“What backup do I have?” Slade asked, knowing he was going to say yes, but wanting as many details as he could get before he did.
“None,” was Greg’s answer. “Well, none officially. You can call me and I can get you information. But as far as the operation goes, you’re on your own. This is an unsanctioned op. If you get caught, you’re also on your own. The US government will not bail you out and, if asked, will deny any responsibility for anything.”
Slade wasn’t surprised in the least. He’d expected that. “Compensation?”
Greg named a figure that made Slade’s eyebrows draw up in surprise. Apparently, the government wasn’t fucking around.
“I’m in,” Slade told him. He wasn’t concerned about failing. He’d find Ms. James, get a description of Fourati, kill him, and continue on with his life. He was actually looking forward to the assignment. Not to kill someone, that wasn’t something he ever enjoyed, but getting out into the field once more. Using his skills to eliminate a threat.
Once a SEAL, always a SEAL, apparently.
“Good. I’ve already arranged with Commander Hurt for you to take some time off. Starting tomorrow. There’s a relatively new but vetted employee who will be transferred over to your job immediately. Even though he doesn’t have your level of clearance, he can still help Hurt keep his head above water until you return. Your replacement has been briefed and your job is secure until you get back.”
“Wow,” Slade exclaimed. “I shouldn’t be surprised, yet I still am. How’d you know I’d say yes?”
“John said you would. I trust him.”
Slade mentally nodded. Yeah, he trusted Tex, too.
“Tomorrow at o-eight hundred, a folder will be delivered to your apartment with all the information I have on the terrorist group, Fourati, and, of course, Ms. James. Find her, get the intel, then stop Aziz Fourati once and for all.”
“Is there a time limit?” Slade asked.
“Not per se. But time is always of the essence. As of right now, Fourati doesn’t seem to have enough followers to be a viable threat. However, the more recruits he gets, the higher the possibility that someone will be able to take his place and carry out the threat if he’s killed.”
Slade understood that. So while Greg said there was no time limit, there was.
“Oh, and not only that, Fourati has said that he wants his new wife by his side before the new year hits.”
“Fuck,” Slade swore quietly. It was almost the end of November. That meant Fourati was getting impatient, and could have a lead on where Dakota was hiding. The urgency of the case just got ramped up. “I’ll look for that folder,” Slade informed him.
“Thank you, Cutter,” Greg said, using Slade’s SEAL nickname once again, proving he really did know a lot about him. “Your country will never know about this, but they’re in your debt nevertheless.”
“Is this the number I should contact you at if I have questions?” Slade asked. He knew the deal. He knew no one would ever know how many times he’d killed for the sake of national security. He’d long ago gotten over that.
“Yes. I’ll be waiting for updates.” And with that, Greg hung up.
Slade clicked off the phone and put his head back on the seat. A million things were racing through his brain. Details about the weapons he’d need, how best to take down Fourati without causing a panic, and how in the world he’d pull it all off on his own.
But the one thing that wouldn’t let go, that he kept coming back to, was Dakota James. Where was she?
Chapter Two
“Hello, Mr. James. My name is Slade Cutsinger. May I speak with you for a moment?”
Slade waited patiently a respectable distance away from the door he was standing in front of. He’d received the information folder the morning after his phone call with the former commander and had read every word, twice.
It wasn’t a lot of information to go off of—it was no wonder Greg had called him—but the picture of Dakota James had made his teeth clench and his hands curl into fists.
He’d never had as visceral a reaction to seeing someone before in his life as he’d had when he’d gazed into her green eyes. They seemed to grab him around the throat from the paper. She wasn’t classically beautiful, her facial symmetry was a bit off for that, but it was the happiness and glee he saw in her eyes that made him want to know everything about her.
The picture was from the latest yearbook from Sunset Heights Elementary School where she was the principal…or had been. She was wearing a dark blue suit jacket with a white blouse underneath. She had earrings in the shape of apples in her ears, and her dark blonde hair was in a bun at her neck. Her makeup was minimal, but still, her eyes were her best feature and needed no enhancement.
Slade had stared at her picture for a full ten minutes, shock holding him immobile as he memorized her facial features. He wanted to see more of her. Wanted to s
ee her body, see how tall she was when she was standing next to him, talk to her—was her voice low or high?—touch her. He’d had a sudden and unmistakable reaction to her photo. What would it be like to actually be in her presence?
Thinking about what Dakota had been through made him growl low in his throat, which shocked him back into awareness of where he was and what he was doing.
He wanted her. It wasn’t rational, it wasn’t normal by any stretch of the imagination, but there it was. Slade wanted to see her smile at him. Wanted to see her eyes twinkle with joy as she looked at him. Wanted to see her eating across a table from him, and most definitely wanted to see her green eyes open and look sleepily at him from the other side of his bed.
Slade had looked at hundreds of dossiers, seen hundreds of targets, and not once had any ever affected him like Dakota James. He would make her safe if it was the last thing he did.
Intel about Dakota’s father had been included in the file he’d received from Lambert. He was in his upper seventies and living in a house just north of San Diego. Not sure if the man would give him any information about his daughter—he actually hoped he wouldn’t, that he was being extremely cautious about Dakota’s whereabouts—Slade had packed his saddlebags on his Harley just in case, and headed out.
Feeling as if time truly was running out for Dakota and she was in extreme danger, his only goal was to get to her as soon as he could. He couldn’t explain the feeling, and if he tried, knew he’d sound insane, but Slade’s intuition had served him well for his career on the teams. He wasn’t going to ignore it now.
“What are you selling?” Dakota’s dad barked from behind the screen. “I don’t need no cookies, I’m fat enough, the election’s over, and I don’t need my lawn mowed.”
“I’m a friend of Dakota’s,” Slade said.
“Bullshit,” he responded immediately. “Dakota wouldn’t have a friend like you. No way.”
Offended, but also somewhat amused, Slade asked, “Why not?”
“You’re too good lookin’,” her dad said. “Her friends all wear fucking sweaters and khaki pants. And no way in hell they’d be ridin’ a Harley like you’ve got parked in my driveway.”
“My leather jacket gave it away, huh?” Slade asked, trying to keep a straight face. He respected this man. He said it like it was.
“Just a bit. Want to try again and tell me why you’re here, askin’ about my Dakota?”
“Your daughter’s in danger and I’m probably the only person who can get her out of it.”
The older man was silent for a long moment, but Slade stood still and let him look his fill. Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was in reality only a minute or so, Mr. James flipped up the little hook holding the screen door shut and said, “It’s cold out there. Don’t know what you’re thinkin’, ridin’ around on a motorcycle. Come on in.”
Letting out a relieved sigh, Slade followed the gray-haired man into the house and stood back as he closed and locked the front door. He shuffled slowly into a small living room toward a beat-up chocolate-brown recliner that had seen better days. The television was on and a show about female killers was playing. Dakota’s father lowered the volume, but didn’t turn it off, and gestured to the sofa nearby. “Go on. Sit. Don’t got any refreshments to offer. I don’t snack much and the Meals on Wheels lady hasn’t come by yet. Thought you were her, honestly. You want to know where my Dakota is, don’t ya?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m old, not stupid,” was his response. “Look, you’re not the first person to come knocking on my door asking if I know where my daughter is. I’ll tell you the same thing I told them, I don’t know where she is. And I wouldn’t tell you even if I did.”
“Who else has been here asking about her?” Slade questioned, his brows drawn down in concern.
The older man waved his hand in the air. “Government types, police types, people from work…you know, the usual.”
Slade wasn’t sure about that, but he let it go for now. “Mr. James, I—”
“Finnegan.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“My name’s Finnegan. Finn.”
“Right. Finn, I think you know that Dakota’s in danger.”
Slade sat still even though Finn narrowed his eyes and stared at him for a long moment before saying, “Why would I know that?”
Taking a chance that Dakota was close with her father, Slade laid it out for him…well, as much as he could. “You and I both know she’s the only survivor of that bombing at LAX. She not only saw things she shouldn’t have, she probably heard them too. If I was a terrorist who wanted to make sure my future plans went off without a hitch, I’d want to ensure all ends were tied up in a nice fancy bow.”
The silence in the room was deafening.
Finally, Finn asked quietly, “Who did you say you were again?”
“My name is Slade Cutsinger. I’m a retired Navy SEAL. I know Dakota has to be scared. I don’t blame her. And Finn, she has reason to be. I’m not bullshitting you about that. I can’t tell you much, but I can say that Dakota has nothing to be worried about with me. My only goal is to help her put this behind her so she can move on with her life. Safely.”
“You got ID?”
His lips twitched. Hell if he didn’t like this old man. Slade slowly reached for his wallet. He slid out his driver’s license and government ID, then leaned over to hand them to Finn.
After several moments of scrutiny, Finn returned them and reclined back into his chair. “See that box on the floor next to the television?”
Slade turned his head and nodded when he saw the beat-up old shoebox sitting under a stack of at least a week’s worth of newspapers.
“Get it for me.”
Doing as he was told, Slade retrieved it and handed it to Finn.
The old man fingered the top of the box lovingly as he said, “Dakota is all I have. My wife died ten years ago, and me and my girl have taken care of each other. She pays for someone to look in on me every day. Pays for the Meals on Wheels people to bring me lunch and dinner. She even makes sure my bills and mortgage are paid. She’s a good girl, and doesn’t deserve any of this. All she did was go about her daily business and get thrust into a situation neither of us understand.”
“I know,” Slade said softly.
“She’s not here,” Finn continued. “Not in San Diego or LA, and probably not even California. She was real shook up after that airport thing. Didn’t say much about it, but told me enough that I put two and two together. Then something happened at her school, though she wouldn’t tell me what. A couple of days later, her apartment complex burned to the ground. Newspapers said it was some idiot burning candles in an apartment, but I’m not sure what to believe.”
“When was this?” Slade asked.
“September. She was so excited for the new school year, but said she had to quit. That someone was following her and she didn’t want to endanger the kids at the school.”
“You haven’t heard from her at all?” Slade doubted that. Someone who obviously loved her dad enough to make sure he was taken care of wouldn’t just completely cut off communication.
“She sends postcards,” Finn told Slade as he ran his wrinkled palm over the box once more. “Not often, but sometimes.”
“Can I see them?” Slade asked, wanting to grab the box out of the old man’s lap and get to work finding Dakota.
“If you hurt her, I swear to God I’ll kill you,” Finn threatened.
“I’m not going to hurt her.”
Dakota’s dad continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I don’t care who you are or where you hide. I’ll find you and put a bullet through your heart. It doesn’t matter if I go to jail for it either. I’m old, I’m gonna die soon anyway, but it’d be worth it to kill you if you dare do anything that will make my baby suffer more than she already has.”
“I’ve spent my life fighting for the underdog. I’ve gone where I’ve been s
ent and seen and done things that no one should ever have to,” Slade told Finn, looking him straight in the eyes. “But one look at a picture of your daughter, and I knew I’d do whatever it took to make her safe.”
Finn held his gaze for a moment, then looked down. He cleared his throat twice, as if trying to compose himself, then held out the box. “They’re not signed, but I know they’re from Dakota.”
Slade took the shoebox from Finn and sat back on the couch. He eased the top off and picked up the first postcard. It was from Australia and had a kangaroo on the front. He flipped it over and saw Finn’s address written in a womanly script. As the man had said, it wasn’t signed, but there was one word written. “Peace.” The postmark was from Las Vegas.
He picked up another. It was a picture of the Statue of Liberty, and once again Finn’s address was on the back in the same handwriting as the first. This one said “Love.” It was appropriately postmarked from New York City.
Slade flipped through the rest; there weren’t a lot, about ten or so. Each had a different postmark and only one word written on it.
“Do you think she’s really traveling all over the country?” Slade looked down at the cards in his hand. “From New York to Florida to Seattle?”
“No,” Finn said without any hesitation. “She’s getting others to mail them for her.”
“But she could be,” Slade insisted.
“Me and my girl would watch TV when she came to visit,” Finn said, gesturing to the television set older than Slade. “The ID Channel. Mystery, forensic, and murder shows. We used to talk about how people could get away with killing for years before they were caught, without even really trying. Not long after the airport thing, she was here and we were watching one of them murder shows. I could tell something was wrong, but didn’t want to pry. She flat-out told me she might have to to lie low for a while. I told her she could stay with me, but she shook her head and said the last thing she was going to do was put her daddy in danger…”
Slade sat patiently, waiting for the older man to regain his composure.
Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “She told me she didn’t know how safe it would be to call, and was leery of writing letters with any information in them that could lead anyone to her.”
