by Pamela Clare
“Looks like the door took most of the blast for him. If he hadn’t been standing behind it when the bomb went off…” He shook his head. “He’s damn lucky to be alive.”
“I know.” Looking across the street at the ruined door lying on the front lawn, her stomach pitched. “But I still want to shake him until his teeth rattle.”
*
Concealed in the back of the garage in a yard one block over, Mostaffa waited until the third set of sirens arrived before he worked up enough nerve to leave his hiding spot. He pulled his hoodie up over his head to help disguise his appearance. He’d ditched the Yankees hat in the van he’d abandoned four blocks over after he’d triggered the bomb. After darting through a yard down the street from the target house he’d walked to this new location, careful not to draw attention to himself.
The device had gone off exactly as planned, though he didn’t know how many of the team members he’d managed to catch in the blast. Now he had to find out and make sure whoever he’d hit was dead, so he could start making plans to take out the others. He had no idea how he was going to do that with the amount of risk he was facing, but he’d rather be taken out cleanly in a fight with the remaining team members than die a slow and hideous death at the hands of the man who’d hired him.
He checked his gun one last time, ensuring he had a round chambered, then ducked out from behind the garage door. His running shoes were silent against the pavement as he turned onto the sidewalk and approached the chaos ahead, falling in with a line of people walking down to see what all the commotion was. All up and down the street, crowds of onlookers stood around on the sidewalks and neighboring lawns. Police were everywhere.
He ducked lower into his hoodie and stuffed his hands into his pockets, ignoring the way his heart was trying to pound its way out of his chest. Fire trucks were already on scene and at least one ambulance. From this distance he couldn’t tell if anyone was in the back of it, let alone what state they were in.
He slowed, hanging back a safe distance until he could judge if it was safe to come any closer. The burning safe house stood empty, orange and yellow flames licking at the blown out lower floor windows. A bomb squad vehicle lumbered past him down the road and parked near the main body of the crowd where the police were keeping everyone away from the scene. He watched the black-clad bomb technicians climb out and talk to the other officers already there. No doubt they were here to assess whether it was safe for the firemen to attack the flames.
He noticed a light brown haired woman in a red sweater standing apart from the crowd, near the ambulance. Something about her was familiar. Drawing nearer, he caught a glimpse of her profile and recognized the female who worked for the NSA. Not one of his listed targets, but important nonetheless because of her connections to the rest of the team. The others had to be close by; they would never leave her unprotected.
As though she felt the weight of his gaze, she turned her head and made eye contact with him. Her eyes widened in recognition and his steps faltered. Then her mouth opened and she raised a hand to point at him as she yelled something.
Shit!
Mostaffa started to spin around, ready to bolt. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of someone in the back of the ambulance standing up. His gaze locked on Mostaffa like a heat seeking missile and he felt his insides shrivel at the rage and determination in the other man’s eyes. Gage Wallace, the Titanium team’s second-in-command and one of Mostaffa’s highest priority targets, along with Hunter Phillips, the team leader. Wallace had been right by the door when Mostaffa had hit the remote, yet he wasn’t dead. Hell, he was still freaking standing.
Swearing, Mostaffa took off and veered between two houses. At the end of the first lawn he risked a frantic glance over his shoulder and was stunned to see Wallace coming after him, gun in hand. Two big men and a few cops were right on Wallace’s heels. Mostaffa swerved into the nearest yard and ran headlong for the wooden privacy fence at the back. Reaching it, he grabbed the top with both hands and vaulted himself over it, landing with a bone-jarring thud on the damp grass on the other side. Something popped and buckled inside his right knee and he went down.
Stifling a cry of pain, his ribs and shoulder took the brunt of the impact as he hit the ground, costing him precious seconds he didn’t have. Terror and adrenaline flooded his system. Fear drove him back onto his feet and forced him onward in a running limp as he crashed through the shrubbery to aim for yet another fence. A dog started barking in the next yard, the high-pitched yapping adding another lash to flay at his frayed nerve endings.
They were coming. He could feel them, gaining on him with every second. Lunging upward, his hands closed over the top of the latticework in the fence. His muscles bunched as he hoisted his body up. He’d just thrown one leg over the top of it when a shout from behind him froze him in place.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Unable to help himself, Mostaffa looked back. A big man with dark hair stood where Mostaffa had just fallen at the last fence, a black pistol in his grip, his gaze narrowed on Mostaffa’s hands. He knew that face. The team leader, Hunter Phillips. Icy fingers of fear plucked at his spine. The man’s posture and expression screamed death. Before Mostaffa could move, another man vaulted over the fence. Light brown skin, deadly demeanor. Blake Ellis, former Marine scout/sniper.
Mostaffa knew he was a dead man.
Fear paralyzed him, sapping the strength from his suddenly unresponsive muscles.
“Get down on the ground and put your hands over your head,” Phillips growled, stalking ever closer. Ellis mimicked his movements on the other side, boxing Mostaffa in. He could hear other men coming, shouting in the distance. There was no escape except over this fence, and with his knee already swelling in his jeans he knew he didn’t have a prayer of getting away. His hand twitched, ready to go for his weapon tucked into his waistband.
“Hands up,” Ellis barked. “Get on the ground, now.”
“Hands!” Phillips barked.
They wanted to take him alive, he realized with sudden clarity. But he knew what would happen when they took him into custody. There was no way he was letting that happen.
In that split second decision, he reached back and withdrew his gun. An instant later two bullets hit him in the chest. He didn’t even have the breath to scream as he toppled from the fence and slammed into the grass on his back. The pain was so intense it robbed him of breath, an agonizing burn that blotted out light and sound. Somehow he found the will to force his eyes open. The two men were still poised across the yard, watching him with weapons up, ready to fire. He realized dimly that he no longer held his gun. But he did have something else.
Choking on the blood he could feel welling up into his mouth, he forced his hand toward the front pouch pocket of his hoodie.
“Hands where I can see ’em,” the commanding voice rang out.
His numb fingers closed around the remote, managed to curl around it. He couldn’t see anymore, could only pray this would work. With his remaining strength he urged his shaking arm to pull his hand from his pocket.
“Bomb!”
Before he could draw another breath, more bullets slammed into his chest. He collapsed onto the wet grass, the remote slipping from his numb fingers, then blackness slammed down.
One of the cops smashed a section of the privacy fence in just as the two double taps rang out, four shots in quick succession. The final shot didn’t come, telling him someone had held off on the standard head shot.
Gage stumbled forward through the opening in the cedar fence, one arm slung across the shoulders of another cop as the man steadied him. His attempt at running had damn near killed him. He was still shaking, sucking wind and his chest hurt like hell, a damn sight more than the scalded side of his face. Before him in the yard stood Hunter and Ellis, their backs to him, weapons raised. Mostaffa lay flat on his back near the rear privacy fence, bleeding from a grouping of center mass bullet wounds.
; Shit. They needed him alive.
“Get a medic,” Hunter yelled back at them. He approached Mostaffa with Ellis at his back, kicked something out of the tango’s hand. Gage let go of the cop and hurried forward as fast as he could given his shitty breathing. Hunter whipped his shirt off and stuffed it against the bullet wounds while Ellis checked Mostaffa for a carotid pulse. He looked over at Hunter and shook his head. Hunt swore and started chest compressions through the bloodstained shirt, though there was really no point. Even if a medic had been standing right beside them, there was fuck all he could do without starting a transfusion instantly.
Shifting his gaze away from the downed terrorist, Gage focused on what Hunt had kicked from the guy’s hand. Something small and black lay in the grass. Squatting down, he examined the remote, aware that this little piece of plastic and circuits had damn near killed him earlier.
“Shit,” Hunter muttered, sweat rolling down his face as he kept up with the compressions. “Where the hell’s that medic?”
“Too late, man,” Ellis said, easing back onto his haunches. “He’s gone.”
The cops swarmed the yard. Hunter let out a vicious curse and kept going for another few seconds before Ellis reached out and stopped him. Hunter snarled in disgust and stood up, running a bloody hand through his hair. “Fuck, we needed him for questioning. God dammit.”
Gage walked over and pointed to the remote. Hunter’s gaze shifted up from the device into Gage’s face. He shook his head in disbelief. “How the hell’d you get here, anyway?”
“Piggybacked,” he gasped out, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the cop who’d helped him. The rest of them were securing the scene, taking possession of the body and questioning Ellis. Hunter would be next, but at Gage’s wisecrack the team leader’s harsh features transformed into a broad grin.
“Hardcore, man.”
“Yeah.” Shit, he barely had the strength to stay upright now. “Give me…a ride back …so I can…see Claire?” He paused to wheeze in another breath, clammy all over and shaky as hell. Chances were good he was worse off than he’d thought. “She’s probably…freaking out.” She’d been screaming his name as he’d tried to chase after Hunt and Ellis. Hell, she’d no doubt run after him before one of the cops stopped her to keep her back. He wouldn’t be surprised to walk out of this yard and find her standing there on the sidewalk, waiting to throttle him in front of everyone.
Hunter shook his head in a kind of fond resignation, clapped a solid hand on Gage’s shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere except to the hospital in the back of that ambulance. And that’s an order, even if I have to sit on your chest to make you stay put.”
He grinned, pulled in a pained breath. Already felt like he had an elephant sitting on there, he didn’t need Hunt’s added weight as well. “Look after…Claire for me.”
Hunter smirked and motioned to someone behind Gage. The paramedics. “You should be more worried about what she’s gonna do to you when she sees you next. She was pretty upset when you took off after the tango. Last I saw she had two cops holding her down on the ground.”
He winced. “Shit.” He was so gonna get it.
“Scared of your woman, Gage?”
“She’s gotta…temper.” And she wasn’t afraid to use it, at least with him.
Hunt snickered. “Then you’d best get your ass on that gurney they’re bringing before she shows up, huh?”
“Yeah.” He allowed them to get him on the stretcher, but only after he climbed onto it under his own power.
Chapter Thirteen
Zahra sat alone in the conference room at NSA headquarters, working on the last bit of translation Alex had asked her to finish before leaving for the night. Most of the team had left over an hour ago, except Sean and she hadn’t seen him since he’d disappeared around the same time with Alex to work on something else. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that it was dinner time and she hadn’t eaten since that stir fry Claire had thrown together back at the safe house.
She finished translating the last of the Pashto and Urdu in front of her, shut down her laptop, and stood to stretch out her lower back and legs. Her right leg was giving her trouble again, the muscles stiff and painful from her being stuck in a seated position for so long. She eased her right outer thigh and hip into a stretch, grimacing at first then sighing in relief as the pain faded. The conference room door swung open, startling her.
Sean strode in holding his cell phone in one bronzed hand. The man was as delicious as ever, just under six feet of dark, muscular sex appeal. But his usual smile of greeting was missing, and the set expression on his face sent a wave of unease through her. She straightened and faced him, hiding a wince as the muscles in her hip continued to protest. “What’s wrong?” Though she didn’t know him well she could tell something was definitely not right.
The muscles in his lean jaw flexed for a second as he stared at her. He seemed genuinely upset. “Someone blew up the safe house and Gage with it. They’re transporting him to the hospital by ambulance right now.”
Zahra’s eyes widened and her stomach sank. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Without thinking she dropped her usual guard, closed the distance between them and slipped her arms around him in a comforting hug. She didn’t expect him to return it but he did, spectacularly, squeezing her tight against his hard frame and pressing his cheek against her hair. His unexpected response shocked her into stillness. The warm, woodsy scent of him rose up to tease her, her body flooded with a barrage of endorphins from the feel of him so hard against her. He felt and smelled amazing. Too amazing.
Pulling back, she cleared her throat and searched his eyes. He had gorgeous eyes, so dark they were like espresso, but this close she could see the warm flecks of chocolate in them. “What happened? Is he going to be okay?”
“Mostaffa rigged the furnace into a bomb and waited for the team to go back to the safe house. Hunt and Claire saw him driving by, started to chase after him when he remote detonated it. Hunt and Ellis got him but the cops and FBI aren’t gonna get anything out of him because he’s dead.”
That twisted bastard, she fumed. She wasn’t a bit sorry he was dead. In fact, she hoped he’d suffered excruciating agony before he’d died. “What about Gage?”
“Hunt said he was conscious and even tried to run after the guy when Claire spotted him in the crowd, the stubborn dumbass. He’s banged up pretty bad and they’re pretty sure he has at least one partially collapsed lung.”
That sounded serious enough to be scary. “What was he doing trying to chase after him in that condition? Claire must have lost her mind.” Zahra shook her head, incredulous.
“She was pretty mad but she went with him in the ambulance. I’m going up to the hospital to meet everyone.”
“I’ll go with you.” Since it belonged to the company she left her laptop and files on the table and grabbed her purse. There was nothing sensitive in the papers and no one would be able to access the information on her laptop without either her or Alex’s codes. When she turned back she saw the hint of a smile playing around the edges of Sean’s full lips, softening his grim expression.
“What?” she asked, wondering why he was staring at her like that.
“I’m glad you’re working with us, that’s all. Real glad.” His voice held a smoky edge that she found incredibly sexy, her vow to become a reclusive cat lady notwithstanding.
She mentally shook herself. “I’m glad to help. I just wish I’d have found something in time to stop the attack.” They’d been so close to cracking the case. God, poor Gage. She couldn’t imagine what Claire was feeling right now, but Zahra was going to be there to lend her a friendly shoulder to cry on if she needed one.
Sean shrugged, the leather of his jacket creaking. “You tried your best. We all did. Come on.” He nodded toward the door and held it open for her. Stepping past him into the hall with a murmur of thanks, she drew up short when Alex and Evers appeared at the end of the corridor.
“We were just coming to get you,” Alex said to her then looked at Sean. “You tell her?”
Sean nodded. “She’s coming with me to the hospital.” He urged her forward gently with a hand on the small of her back. That simple touch caused a spike of heat to radiate out from his palm into her muscles and across her skin in a series of tingles. It felt so good she didn’t pull away.
The earlier stretching had helped somewhat but her hip was still stiff, making her gait more awkward than usual. Though she tried to mask it Sean’s gaze swept down the length of her body in quick assessment before coming back to her eyes but he didn’t say anything. Come to think of it, none of the team members had asked about her limp and she was glad because she didn’t want to talk about it. Alex knew everything, of course, because he was her boss and he’d been very thorough with her background during the interview process. It meant he knew exactly how much she wanted to help rid the world of Islamic extremists and their brainwashed, backward beliefs.
“We’ll meet you there,” Alex said to Sean as he and Evers fell in step with them and walked toward the elevators. He waved to his assistant, still at her desk. “Go home, Ruth. See you in the morning.”
The sixty-something woman waved and answered with a tired smile, looking relieved to be sent home for the night. “Okay. Good night.”
Alex punched the call button for the elevator and waited for the car with hands on hips. Sean stood to the side with Zahra, his hand still against her lower back and she liked the feel of it there too much to draw away. After a moment Alex shook his head and looked over at her and Sean. “From this moment forward we’re going to have to take increased precautionary measures.”
“Such as?” Zahra asked, guessing he meant more than simple security measures and sensing there was more to this than he was letting on.
Those silver eyes hardened like steel. “Besides Evers and the rest of the team, the only other people who knew the safe house’s location work for the NSA,” he began in an ominous tone, the words sending a shiver of foreboding up her spine. “That means whoever leaked it to Mostaffa’s contacts was one of us.”
