by Irene Hannon
His pulse accelerated.
This was it.
The chances of anyone in law enforcement being super close were next to nothing. They’d had no idea in advance where the courier would be sitting, and he and his date were surrounded by fans who’d bought tickets further in advance, insulating him from the Feds. All part of the plan.
Amir joined the crowd surging down the aisle . . . edged in front of the courier to display the back of his T-shirt and tattoo . . . lowered his hands until they were hidden in the crush of people . . . and felt an aluminum can slide into one as the Bud Light he was holding in the other was plucked from his grasp.
Done.
He continued to shoulder through the crowd, putting distance between himself and the courier, never letting the man see his face.
In the lobby, he veered toward the men’s room. The courier would continue to the exit, as instructed, tossing his empty beer can in a trash container along the way.
Once in the men’s room, Amir claimed a stall . . . pried open the top of the doctored beer can . . . removed the items inside . . . and tucked them into the pockets of his cargo shorts. Then, flushing the toilet to mask the noise, he crushed the can flat in his hand and slid it into another pocket.
He paused to wash his hands, giving the other two men in the restroom a surreptitious perusal. Both had been there when he arrived. Neither appeared to be interested in him.
Without lingering, he left the theater and struck off for the MetroLink station, maintaining a measured pace, staying within a group of people. He needed to mingle so he didn’t stand out as a loner—or someone in a hurry to get away.
But ten minutes later, after chatting up a blonde beside him who was high on either the music or something more potent, he boarded the light-rail train in the midst of a horde of revelers and claimed an open seat. In thirty seconds, the train was packed, the aisles lined with concertgoers gripping the overhead handholds.
The doors closed, and the train pulled away.
Amir let out a slow breath.
Unless he’d miscalculated or missed some sign, no one had an inkling a switch had been made at the venue. Or that he was now in possession of artifacts destined to fund his new operation, whatever . . . and wherever . . . that turned out to be.
He needed to work on those plans—as soon as the last few pieces of old business were finished.
One of those would be dealt with in less than eight hours in St. Louis. His father would take care of the rest in Syria.
So he’d go home, get a solid night’s sleep—and continue to play the role that had protected him for the past three years while he considered whether the inside information Kristin Dane had might be of value to him.
25
Give it up, Carter.
As that advice echoed in his mind for the third time, Luke heaved a sigh and peered at his watch.
Eleven fifty-three.
And sleep wasn’t even a distant speck on the horizon.
He should have stayed at Kristin’s condo for another hour or two instead of opting for an early night. All he’d done after going to bed was pummel his pillow, think about her—and try to wrestle a boatload of restless energy into submission.
A full-throttle run would expend some of his tension—but at this late hour, he’d have to settle for a workout session with his weights.
Swinging his feet to the floor, he reached for his phone on the nightstand just as it began to vibrate.
Huh.
Odd hour for a text.
He scanned the screen . . . and his pulse picked up.
Why would Nick contact him this late at night?
He skimmed the brief message.
New activity. Didn’t want to disrupt your sleep. Call in AM when you get this.
Wait seven hours to get an update?
No way.
Since his FBI colleague obviously wasn’t sleeping either, Luke called him.
Nick answered on the first ring. “Did I wake you?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“We have a problem.”
Not welcome news at midnight.
“What happened?”
“Amir knows we’re aware of his operation.”
Luke tightened his grip on the phone. “How do you know?”
“I had a call ten minutes ago from Lange at the CIA. The abbot at the monastery alerted him that Khalil disappeared overnight. Lange’s people in Syria also contacted him. The local agent who’s been keeping tabs on Bishara’s son is seeing unusual activity at the compound where he’s being held. It appears they might be planning to shut down that operation.”
His stomach bottomed out. “Is Touma still alive?”
“As of a couple of hours ago. My guess is, not for long. If the US operation is folding, he’s no longer of use. Our special ops people are moving into position now to snatch him.”
“How could Amir have found out we were on to him?”
“There must be a leak somewhere. Who’s privy to the details in your organization?”
“No one. Even Sarge didn’t ask for too many particulars.”
“How much does Kristin Dane know?”
“More than anyone else, since she’s in the middle of this. But she’s been discreet. One of her best friends is a colleague of mine, and she’s told him next to nothing. I’ll double-check with her to make sure she didn’t inadvertently pass on any information, though. Could Bishara be the leak?”
“I plan to call him first thing in the morning, but I doubt it. He has too much to lose to risk sabotaging this operation.”
Luke stared at the shadows on the wall across from him. “Maybe one of the couriers realized they were being followed, communicated that to Amir . . . and he got spooked.”
“Possible—but with all the effort he put into setting up his elaborate arrangement, I doubt he’d shut it down on mere suspicion. I think he knows with absolute certainty that we’re closing in.”
Luke couldn’t argue with Nick’s logic—nor squelch the sudden cold chill that rippled through him.
What if Amir also had begun to suspect that Kristin was cooperating with authorities?
Might he go after her?
“I wouldn’t worry too much about Ms. Dane.” Nick answered his unspoken question. “And no, I’m not a mind reader—but I’d be wondering how concerned I should be if I was in your shoes. Amir will be too busy eluding us to fret about secondary players.”
That was probably true—and with any other case, he’d dismiss his concern.
But that was a lot harder to do when your heart was involved.
Nevertheless, he forced himself to shift gears. “Any updates on the courier we trailed yesterday?”
“Negative. He went home after the concert and his place is dark.”
“No suspicious activity at the theater?”
“None that we spotted—but the crowd was huge, and during his arrival and departure he was surrounded by a crush of people. Otherwise, he never left his seat.”
“Did your people go over the area where he’d been sitting?”
“Yes. Nothing was left behind. We retrieved the beer can he bought during the concert, which he tossed in a trash can as he left, but it was nothing more than a beer can.”
In other words, surveillance at the concert hadn’t yielded a single new clue.
“So what’s next?”
“I’m heading to the office to watch the covert video our people took of him during the show. One of our guys masquerading as an usher was able to stick pretty close—but I’m not overly optimistic it’ll be of much help.”
“You want some company?”
“Two sets of eyes are always better . . . but this could be a bust. He might still have the items at his apartment.”
“I’m wide awake anyway.”
“In that case, you’re welcome to join the party. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Call my cell when you arrive and I’ll meet you at the door.”
“Got it.” Pressing the end button, Luke detoured to his closet.
Ninety seconds later, dressed in a shirt and jeans, he grabbed his keys and stepped out of his apartment into the darkness.
Praying they’d spot something . . . anything . . . on the video that would give them a clue to follow.
Because if they didn’t . . . if Amir was setting plans in motion in Syria to shut down the operation . . . if he’d managed to retrieve the artifacts from the last shipment . . . there was a high probability he would vanish and launch a new scheme somewhere else.
Leaving the murder of three innocent people in his wake.
Perhaps four, if they didn’t get to Touma.
Fast.
God, I feel so lost.
From his seat in the second row of the small Byzantine chapel that had been his spiritual home since coming to St. Louis, Yusef bowed his head, shoulders sagging.
Here, he could worship in public each weekend . . . and in private every Friday morning before going to work . . . without fear—unlike the persecuted Christians in his beloved homeland. Yet today his soul was as parched as the hot, dry winds that swept across the vast, barren desert of eastern Syria.
He’d already asked God to save his son. Pleaded for mercy on his soul for the part he’d played in Amir’s diabolical scheme. Thanked the Almighty for the blessings that had graced his life these past nine years in his adopted country.
What else was there to add?
He flipped through the worn book of prayers he’d brought with him to this new land. Skimmed the passages that usually comforted and uplifted. Closed the book.
No words of consolation could vanquish the worry and anguish and despair that consumed his soul.
And that was his fault, not God’s. A human weakness, not a divine snub. If he gave his burdens to the Lord, as his faith taught, the Almighty would help him carry the load.
Today, however, summoning up the trust and strength that required was beyond him.
I’m sorry, Lord. Forgive me. I’ll try harder this week to get back on track, to overcome my . . .
A door opened softly behind him, and he checked his watch. Seven ten already? He’d stayed longer than usual this morning. Better not linger, or George might stop unlocking the door for him early every Friday. The maintenance man had more to do than sit around waiting to close up again while one congregant finished his half hour of private contemplation and prayer.
Slipping the book into the pocket of his jacket, he rose and turned.
“I’m sorry, George. I lost track of . . .”
The apology died in his throat.
A brawny stranger was standing at the back of the dim chapel. The baseball cap pulled low on his forehead cast shadows on his face, masking his features . . . but his eyes were cold.
“Can I help you?”
“Yusef Bishara?”
“Yes.”
“Give me your wallet.”
His jaw dropped.
“I said, give me your wallet. Now.” He pulled a pistol out of his jacket.
Yusef’s heart stuttered.
He was being robbed . . . in church?
This was surreal.
“I said now!”
At the man’s harsh command, he dug out the billfold.
“Throw it over here.”
He tossed it toward the man.
Keeping the gun trained on him, the intruder bent down. Picked up the wallet. Pocketed it.
Lungs locked, Yusef waited for him to lower the gun and disappear out the door.
He didn’t.
Instead, he walked a few steps closer . . . the gun never wavering.
That’s when Yusef knew.
The man was going to kill him.
His legs began to shake, and he groped for the back of a chair to steady himself.
“You have what you want.” He pushed the strained words past the constriction in his throat. “Please . . . there’s no reason to hurt me.”
“There are thousands—and thousands—of reasons.” He steadied the gun with his other hand and aimed it at Yusef’s chest.
Yusef caught his breath, stiffened . . .
The back door opened again, and George stuck his head in.
No!
He couldn’t let the man who’d patiently waited for him early each Friday morning die too.
The robber swung toward the door.
Move, Yusef! You have only seconds!
But his legs refused to budge.
A gunshot exploded, shattering the serenity of the sacred space despite the silencer attached to the front of the pistol.
Panic clawed at Yusef’s windpipe.
Had George been hit?
No way to tell. The robber was blocking his view.
Nevertheless, the shot propelled him into action.
Calling up every ounce of his strength, he barreled toward the man and launched himself at his legs.
A pathetic tackle from a sixty-three-year-old desk jockey wouldn’t stop a killer, of course. But it might buy George enough time to get away and run for help—if he wasn’t badly wounded.
He made contact just as the intruder spun back. The force of the impact toppled the shooter, and he went down. Hard.
But he never lost his grip on the gun.
Yusef lunged for his wrist and locked onto it with both hands.
The man jerked. Twisted. Kicked.
Calling up his last reserves of energy, Yusef held fast.
They continued to struggle . . . until the intruder suddenly rolled sideways and yanked his arm with what felt like superhuman strength.
Only then did Yusef’s grip loosen.
The man wrestled his arm down, until the gun was between them.
A second shot exploded—and a monstrous pain erupted in Yusef’s stomach.
Another shot shattered the stillness.
Then another.
The room around him began to blur.
The light dimmed
And as searing pain purged everything else from his consciousness . . . as a pool of red formed beside him . . . Yusef sent one last plea heavenward.
Please, Lord, let Touma live!
“Want a refill?” Nick rose and motioned to Luke’s empty disposable cup on the conference room table.
“No thanks. I’m already ODed on caffeine.”
“Good point. If we ingest any more high octane brew, we’ll be too wired to sleep once we go home and crash.” Nick sat back down and set his cup aside.
“Unfortunately, I think our departure is imminent. We’ve scrutinized every video—and triple scrutinized the sections where it’s possible, in the crush of the crowd, a handoff occurred. And other than a serious case of eyestrain, we have zip to show for our all-nighter.”
“Tell me about it.” Disgust laced Nick’s comment.
“I assume the courier’s tickets were a cash transaction, but are you planning to contact the theater and see if you can get credit card info for the people who bought seats in his immediate vicinity?”
“Yes—but only recent purchases are relevant. The elaborate handoff scenario was likely a last-minute decision, given that Amir just discovered his people are under scrutiny. If the adjacent tickets were purchased more than a few days ago, there can’t be any connection.”
“True.” Plus, the agent playing the role of usher had gotten decent video of the courier during the entire performance. They’d have spotted a handoff if it had happened then. “My money’s on the switch being made in the crowd before or after the show.”
“Agreed. And we’re nowhere with that.”
“Except for the pushy guy in the baseball cap, with the tattoo.” Luke tapped his empty cup against the top of the table.
“I know he caught your eye, but I think he was simply in a hurry to leave. Traffic getting out of those venues is a bear. Besides, all we have of the guy is a back view. Not much to go on.”
“I can’t argue with that.” Yet he couldn’t shake
an unsettling feeling of déjà vu about the man.
Feelings, however, weren’t going to get them anywhere.
“I guess this is a wrap. You ready to call it a night . . . or should I say morning?” Nick angled his wrist. “It’s almost eight o’clock.”
“I can’t see any reason to hang around. We’re spinning our wheels here.”
“I’m going to call Bishara, then bail. Assuming he’s not our leak, he needs to watch his back.”
Yeah, he did.
Too bad law enforcement didn’t have the resources to provide personal security in high-risk situations like this.
“Do you want to get an update on Touma from your CIA contact too? I’d think by now that special forces would have moved in.” Luke smothered a yawn.
“It wouldn’t hurt to give him a call. He did say they were going to wait for an optimal . . .”
“Hold on a sec.” Luke pulled his vibrating phone off his belt.
Sarge.
Whoops.
He should have texted or left a voicemail about his all-night plans—and late arrival this morning.
“My boss.” He put the phone to his ear while Nick picked up their empty cups and left the room. “Morning, Sarge. I was going to call you.”
“Where are you?”
“The FBI office downtown. We pulled an all-nighter.”
“You have any juice left?”
“Sure.” He took a fortifying breath. “What’s going on?”
“A shooting in Afton. They requested our assistance.”
“Okay.” He wiped a hand down his face and tried to psyche himself up for a busy morning. Strange that Sarge wasn’t cutting him some slack after hearing he’d had no sleep. That wasn’t the man’s usual style. “Are we shorthanded?”
“No, but I thought this one would interest you. We have two people down in what a witness described as an attempted robbery. One of them is Yusef Bishara.”
“What!” He vaulted to his feet, all vestiges of fatigue vanishing. Nick reappeared in the conference room doorway, and Luke waved him in. “When? Where?”
“The responding officer can give you details. Bishara was at church.” Luke wrote down the name and address as Sarge recited it. “It happened about forty minutes ago.”
