Hidden Peril

by Irene Hannon

  “How’s Bishara?” In his peripheral vision, he saw Nick freeze.

  “He has a gunshot wound to the stomach. He’s at St. Anthony’s, being prepped for surgery as we speak.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “Dead from two gunshot wounds. The maintenance man at the church interrupted the scene. Turns out he has a concealed carry permit he was prepared to use.”

  “Good for him. Who’s the responding officer?” He scribbled the name as the man reeled it off. “I’m on it.”

  “I take it we won’t be seeing you around the office today.”

  “Between this case and the FBI situation, I’d say that’s a fair conclusion.”

  “Get some shut-eye when you can.”

  “I’ll try.” But it wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon.

  Nick joined him the instant the call ended. “What’s going on with Bishara?”

  “He’s been shot.”

  Nick sucked in a breath.

  As Luke filled him in, his colleague’s demeanor grew more and more grim.

  “A robbery in a church that’s unlocked each Friday for one specific parishioner.” A muscle in Nick’s jaw clenched. “What are the odds?”

  “Zero. Amir targeted Bishara. The robbery was to cover the real motive. I doubt warning him to watch his back would have helped in this situation.”

  “Yeah.” Nick massaged his temple. “I wonder if the dead guy is Amir?” The moment that speculation left his mouth, he shook his head “Scratch that. Blame it on fatigue. Amir has other people do his dirty work.”

  “Right.”

  “The question is, did he want Bishara dead because someone tipped him off that the man was working with us—or because he was tying up loose ends, getting rid of peripheral people, before launching some new scheme?”

  Loose ends.

  Peripheral people.

  Luke’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Kristin Dane could fall into either of those categories.” He tried to keep his tone neutral—and almost succeeded.

  Nick’s brow puckered. “I can’t see how. Bishara was a willing participant. She had no idea about her role in the candle scheme until her clerk was murdered. That might be a stretch.”

  It might be.

  Or not.

  And the uncertainty was turning his stomach into a pretzel.

  He pulled out his keys—and tried to put the brakes on his accelerating pulse. “You want to go with me to the scene?”

  “I’d like to . . . but I also want to talk to Bishara as soon as he’s able to communicate. Why don’t you handle the scene and I’ll call you with an update from St. Anthony’s?”

  “That works. Did you reach Adam Lange?”

  “Yes. No word on Touma yet.”

  Another piece of bad news.

  “I hope we don’t lose both of the Bisharas.”

  “Me too.” Nick picked up his own keys from the table. “I’ll walk out with you.”

  They wove through the FBI building, half empty at this early hour, and parted in the parking lot.

  But as Luke hit his sirens and lights and took off for the small chapel where Bishara had been shot, he wasn’t all that optimistic about the fates of father and son.

  Nothing in this case was playing out as they’d hoped.

  And while Nick’s assessment of the danger to Kristin seemed sound, Rick’s comment from yesterday kept echoing in his mind—and jacking up his pulse another notch with every mile he drove.

  Terrorists aren’t predictable.

  26

  Bang, bang, bang, bang!

  Kristin fumbled the pottery bowl she’d just unpacked, snatching it a millisecond before it crashed to the floor.

  Who could be pounding on the back door of WorldCraft an hour before the shop opened?

  Clutching the bowl to her chest, she grabbed her cell and cautiously approached the barrier between her and the determined visitor. “Who is it?”

  “Colin. Open up.”

  Colin was here?

  She set the bowl down on top of an unopened box and twisted the lock.

  He barged past her.

  “Come in, won’t you?” She sent him a wry look and closed the door.

  “Why didn’t you answer when I knocked out front?”

  “I’ve been back here, unpacking merchandise.” She waved a hand around the storeroom, where the contents of half a dozen boxes from around the world were strewn. “And I didn’t hear you with the music playing.” She switched off her iPod, muting the soaring notes of Phantom of the Opera. “What are you doing here?”

  “Have you talked to Luke today?”

  “No. Why?” She scanned her phone. No missed voice or text messages.

  “He’s investigating a robbery that involved a shooting. The name Yusef Bishara mean anything to you?”

  “Bishara’s been shot?” She grasped the edge of a shelf as the world tipped for a moment. “Is he . . . is he alive?”

  “Last I heard, yes.”

  “Did they catch the shooter?”

  “He’s dead. The maintenance man interrupted the scene—and he had a gun.” Colin folded his arms. “Given that Bishara is a Syrian native and an expert on artifacts . . . and the monastery that supplied your candles is in Syria . . . and Sarge sent Luke to investigate despite the all-nighter he pulled at the FBI office . . . I’m assuming there’s a connection to your case.”

  Luke had spent all night at the FBI office after planning to go home and call it a day?

  What else had happened that she didn’t know about?

  “Kristin?”

  She pulled herself back to the conversation. “It’s not my case. I’m a bit player in a much larger drama.”

  “You’re connected. That’s all that matters.”

  “Only peripherally.”

  A muscle in his cheek clenched. “I don’t like this.”

  Neither did she.

  But dwelling on her situation wasn’t going to change it.

  “I feel bad for Bishara.” She set her phone on the desk. “He’s had some very tough breaks.”

  “I’m more worried about you—and Luke is too.”

  She blinked. “How do you know?”

  “He called me. I couldn’t get any details out of him, but the mere fact he reached out tells me this is serious.”

  Luke had asked one of her best buds to watch out for her in his absence?

  Sweet.

  But also scary.

  If Luke had gone to that much effort to protect her, there was reason to be worried—not that she intended to let Colin know she was scared. He had his own life to live, and a new bride who deserved his full attention. “I’m fine, Colin. No one has any reason to come after me. Bishara was an active participant in the . . . situation. I wasn’t.”

  “But I’m guessing he was cooperating with the authorities—and so are you.”

  “No one is aware of that . . . except the authorities.”

  “As far as you know.” He yanked at his tie to loosen it and began to prowl around the back room. “I’d stick close if I could, but I have my own cases to investigate.”

  “You don’t have to babysit me. I can . . .”

  Her phone began to vibrate, and she snatched it up again.

  Rick.

  She narrowed her eyes at Colin. “Did you tell Rick about this?”

  “Of course.”

  Shooting him a disgruntled glare, she put the phone to her ear. “Hi, Rick. Colin’s here. I’m fine. You two need to stop worrying. This is getting blown out of—”

  “Good morning to you too.”

  She snapped her jaw closed.

  Rein it in, Kristin. Who’s acting over-the-top now?

  “Sorry. Good morning.”

  “Better. I called to let you know I’ll have my cell close at hand all day. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

  At least he wasn’t being as high-handed as Colin.

  “I apprec
iate that.” Even if he was too far away to be of much help on the off chance she needed assistance.

  “And I’m booking your guest room for tonight.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I have some errands to run tomorrow in town. I can get an earlier start if I stay at your place. You did offer to put me up anytime I needed a place to lay my head, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Expect me about nine.”

  “Rick, this isn’t necess—”

  “Gotta run. One of the counselors is waving at me. See you tonight.”

  The line went dead.

  Weighing the phone in her hand, she turned back to Colin. “You two worked this out, didn’t you?”

  “What?” His innocent expression was as plastic as the pink flamingo gag gift he and Rick had propped on her lawn after she moved into her condo.

  “You know what.”

  “I’ll take the Fifth.” He twisted his wrist and huffed out a breath. “I have to run. Keep your phone handy today. Don’t hesitate to use it. I’m closer than Rick—or you could always call Luke. He might manage to get here even faster than me.” With a wink and a quick grin, he crossed to the door. “Keep this locked.”

  “I always do.” She followed him to the back of the shop. “And stop worrying. You’re all overreacting. Big time.”

  “For once, I hope you’re right and I’m wrong. You can lord it over me later and I won’t say a word. Promise.”

  With that, he slipped outside.

  She locked the door behind him, swiveled back to the shop, and squared her shoulders. She was not going to let the three men in her life freak her out. Caution was wise; paranoia was dumb. Why would Amir have any interest in her? She’d been no more than a pawn in his game, an unwitting accomplice. She knew nothing about his operation that would interest law enforcement or threaten him with exposure.

  Holding on to that reassuring thought, she marched back to the box of pottery and plunged her hands into the packing material. Yelped as she encountered a sharp object. Jerked her hands back out.

  Blood was dripping down her index finger.

  She yanked some tissues from the box on the desk and dabbed at the jagged cut. One of the bowls must have broken during shipment—a first for this supplier.

  Not the most comforting omen . . . if one believed in such nonsense.

  Which she didn’t.

  Retreating to the bathroom to wash the cut, she dismissed that whole superstitious notion.

  But perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to consider the incident a reminder to use caution in the days ahead.

  Because just in case there was any reason for concern, it might be better not to plunge into anything without first making certain no danger was lying in wait—ready to pounce.

  Bishara wasn’t dead.

  But his hitman was.

  Amir wadded up the paper napkin from his takeout coffee and hurled it into the trash can beside his desk.

  This was not the best beginning for his Friday.

  He leaned closer to the computer, straining to hear the conversation taking place in WorldCraft between Kristin and that detective friend of hers, Colin.

  But the voices grew fainter.

  They must be walking toward the door.

  No problem. Their discussion had been winding down anyway.

  It had, however, been replete with warnings from Colin—as if he and his buddies were worried the man behind the artifact scheme might have an interest in her.

  Leaning back in his chair, he swiveled toward the window and studied the blue sky.

  Funny. He’d more or less written Kristin off. Decided getting any information she might have wouldn’t be worth the risk.

  However . . . if she was clued in about Bishara—as she obviously was—she might know other details worth taking a chance to discover. Since that smitten detective had been in touch with her more often than mere business demanded, it was likely he’d told her details about the case he’d shared with few others.

  And those details might help him in the next iteration of his cell-funding scheme.

  Amir drummed his fingers on the desk. He’d have to bide his time, though, in light of this latest turn of events. If his hired gun had followed the plan and confronted Bishara in the parking lot as he left the chapel, robbery would have been a far more convincing motive for the killing. Why on earth had the man gone inside?

  Furrowing his brow, he stood and jammed a hand in his pocket, jingling the change.

  Given that the Feds were aware of Bishara’s connection to him—and the man was cooperating with them—they’d assume the shooting was a contract hit.

  But there was no direct line between him and the gunman. He’d tossed the throwaway phone. The money he’d deposited into the man’s account had come from an offshore bank with no traceable connection to him.

  He should be safe.

  Should being the operative word.

  The law enforcement guys on his tail, however, were sharp. One tiny blunder was all it might take to establish a link between him and the artifact scheme.

  He hadn’t committed any that he knew of.

  But if he’d made some incriminating slip that could lead them to him, he’d better duck out of here early and finish the contingency plans he was putting in place at home.

  Because if this ended up going south, he didn’t intend to be taken quietly.

  He would go out with a bang that would ricochet around the world . . . and make his father proud.

  Luke paused at the door of the crowded surgical waiting room at St. Anthony’s and zeroed in on Nick in the far corner, exactly where his text had said he’d be waiting.

  The instant the FBI agent caught sight of him, he rose and joined him in the hall.

  “How’s Bishara?” Luke moved out of the way as a woman in scrubs hurried past.

  “He made it through surgery and is in recovery. The doctor will come here to talk to us. I also heard from Lange. Our people have Touma. They’re in a helo heading for the air base at Rmeilan in northeastern Syria.”

  “Is he okay?” Luke dodged another scrubs-clad staffer.

  “I don’t think the past two years have been a cakewalk—but he’s alive.”

  “That’s one piece of good news.”

  “What’s the story on the shooting?”

  “I interviewed the custodian who took out the hit man. When he saw the guy pull into the parking lot at such an early hour, he got suspicious and stuck close. More so after the shooter approached the chapel. He followed him and opened the door on the pseudo-robbery. Despite the fact he almost took a bullet himself, he felt terrible he couldn’t get a shot at the guy before Bishara was wounded.”

  “That’s crazy.” Nick frowned. “Bishara would be dead if he hadn’t had a concealed carry permit he wasn’t afraid to use. He’s a hero.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “Any ID on the shooter yet?”

  “His car was a rental, and the ID he gave Avis appears to be bogus. His prints aren’t in the database, either. I’m wondering if we might get a match to some of the random DNA the ME found on the body of the courier who killed Susan Collier and Elaine Peterson.”

  Nick folded his arms. “It’s possible. There’s no reason Amir wouldn’t use the same hit man.”

  A fortyish woman in a white coat, a plastic bag in hand, sped past and poked her head into the waiting room. “Bishara?”

  “Here.” Nick stepped forward.

  She swiveled around and gave them both a doubtful perusal. “Are you with the FBI?”

  “I am.” Nick pulled out his creds. “This is Detective Luke Carter with St. Louis County PD.”

  Luke displayed his ID as well.

  “Sorry. You don’t look like the usual law-enforcement types.”

  Hard to argue with that. The jeans, wrinkled shirts, and day-old stubble didn’t fit the spit-and-polish image of either an FBI agent or a County detective.
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br />   “We’ve been on the go for more than twenty-four hours.” Luke put his badge away.

  One side of her mouth hiked up. “That would explain the bloodshot eyes too. Reminds me of my resident days. Connie Cerutti.” She shook hands with both of them. “There’s a small private conference room two doors down. Let’s do this in there.”

  She led the way, and they filed in behind her.

  After setting the bag on an end table, she motioned to a small grouping of chairs. “I haven’t been up for a full day, but after several intense hours in the operating room, I don’t mind sitting for a few minutes.”

  “When can we talk to Dr. Bishara?” Luke dropped into a straight-backed chair while Nick took the one on the other side of the doctor.

  “He’s awake but groggy—and still in recovery. I understand he has no family in St. Louis.”

  “Or in the country.” Nick leaned forward. “I spoke to his administrative assistant at the museum. She said he mentioned once that his pastor has all of his legal and medical directives. I have a call in to him. How serious is his condition?”

  “Normally we only talk with family members or legal representatives about a patient’s condition. HIPAA rules—”

  “Don’t supersede the Patriot Act, which allows the FBI access to medical records as part of a counterterrorism investigation.” Nick’s tone was polite but resolute.

  “Even without that, HIPAA gives law enforcement access in a medical emergency in connection with a crime,” Luke added.

  “Okay.” She threw up her hands. “I won’t debate HIPAA with you—and I didn’t realize this had any connection to terrorism. That’s a new one for me.”

  “So when can we talk with him?” Nick asked.

  “We don’t typically let anyone into the recovery room. Patients may be conscious, but they’re often not lucid.”

  “We need access ASAP.”

  “I’ll authorize a quick visit, but you’ll be able to have a more coherent discussion in about thirty minutes.”

  “We’ll wait. What’s the prognosis?”

  “The bullet missed the vital organs and lodged in the stomach. We removed it without complications. But while we were in there, we discovered a tumor, which we biopsied.”

  Luke frowned. “Tumor as in cancer?”

  “It’s possible. Has he been having any pain?”