Hidden Peril

by Irene Hannon

  She climbed the steps to the porch and twisted the handle on the door.

  Yes!

  It was open.

  Entering the small screened porch, she surveyed the space. The furnishings were sparse and bland—but this was a bachelor pad. Ryan apparently fit the bare-bones-decorating stereotype for single guys.

  She approached the sliding doors, which were covered by closed vertical blinds. The window adjacent to the porch was also shuttered, though it was cracked a few inches, offering a glimpse inside—along with a whiff of some strong, pungent odor she couldn’t identify.

  A shadow moved past the window shade.

  Huh.

  So Ryan was home.

  Her theory about the front doorbell must be . . .

  A crash sounded inside the house—followed by a string of harsh expletives that burned her ears.

  It was Ryan’s voice . . . but never in the years they’d been business neighbors had she heard him say a single vulgar word.

  O-kay.

  This was awkward.

  How was she supposed to knock after witnessing that rant? He’d be mortified if he knew she’d overhead him.

  It might be better to wait a couple of minutes, then bang the screen door on the porch as if she’d just arrived. That would save them both some embarrassment.

  She tiptoed to the threshold and waited.

  From her new spot, she had a clear view into a sliver of the kitchen, where Ryan was busy at the small island.

  But he wasn’t cooking.

  She examined the odd assortment of items arrayed on the countertop.

  Sections of metal pipes. A bag of what appeared to be small metal balls. Large containers of . . . she squinted, trying to read the labels . . . hydrogen peroxide? Like the chemical used in hair dye?

  And what was that white powder in the adjacent container? It looked like laundry detergent . . . or sugar?

  She inspected the surrounding countertops, inching closer to see better. Coffee filters, a thermometer, glass bowls, a bag of ice . . .

  What the heck was Ryan doing?

  Suddenly, as if sensing her presence, he glanced toward the crack in the window.

  Their gazes met.

  Shock flattened his features for a fleeting second . . . then every muscle in his face tightened and fury flashed in his eyes.

  The angry man staring back at her was nothing like the genial Ryan she’d come to know during his visits to WorldCraft.

  Kristin stumbled backward, a chill rippling down her spine.

  Ryan might be a respected businessman who’d always seemed like a straight arrow, but every instinct in her body screamed “Run!”

  Fast.

  She pushed through the screen door and clattered down the steps, praying she could reach her car before Ryan was able to unlock the sliding doors and follow her.

  Because no matter how he tried to explain whatever he was up to on this so-called sick day, she wasn’t going to buy it.

  Not after his shock had morphed to rage—hatred, even—once he’d spotted her watching him.

  Bypassing the last step, she leaped to the ground . . . raced toward the side of the house . . . flew around the corner.

  And came face-to-face with Ryan.

  Gasping, she jolted to a stop.

  He must have gone out the front door and circled around to intercept her.

  The hows and whys of his sudden appearance, however, were her least concern at the moment.

  The only thing that mattered was the gun pointed straight at her heart . . . and the words he uttered.

  “Make one wrong move and you die.”

  28

  “We have more.” Mark looked up from his computer screen as Luke pocketed his keys and followed Nick into the FBI conference room after their pedal-to-the-floor trip from the hospital.

  “What?” Nick walked past several other agents also working on laptops at the large conference table.

  “Our attaché in Copenhagen talked with Ryan’s mother. She hasn’t had any contact with her former husband or son in twenty-four years—but Lange’s local agents in Syria managed to turn up a fair amount of intel on Tayeb Doud. He has strong ties to ISIS, with particular emphasis on fund-raising efforts for various cells around the world—like the one here that was spearheaded by Ryan.”

  “So he arranged for Khalil to infiltrate the monastery and also set up Touma’s kidnapping?” Luke settled a hip on the edge of the table.

  “We can’t prove that, but it’s a reasonable assumption.” Mark swiveled around in his chair. “The one helpful piece of information Ryan’s mother provided was her ex-husband’s educational background. He received a double degree in accounting and economics at the University of Mosul in Iraq.”

  “Why is that important?” Nick pulled out an adjacent chair and sat.

  “It adds credence to the intel that suggests he’s handling finances for terrorist cells—but his affiliation with that university is also significant in light of what’s happened there during the past few years.”

  “ISIS took over in 2014.” Luke had no problem calling up the article he’d read less than a month ago on this subject. “They destroyed thousands of books . . . many of them ancient . . . and shut down whole departments—or took control of them. The chemistry lab became a bomb-making training center. Jihadists came from all over to learn how to mix volatile explosives, then went off on missions to other countries.”

  “Correct.” Mark sent him an approving glance.

  “Are you saying Ryan learned to make bombs?” Nick leaned forward, posture taut.

  “We can’t prove that either. But we do know from his passport activity that he came to the US three years ago. Twelve months later, he booked a one-week cruise in Greece, which he took. However . . . he was gone four weeks.”

  “Leaving three weeks unaccounted for.” Luke rubbed his forehead. “And Greece isn’t far from Syria.”

  “Right. He could have paid his father an under-the-radar visit in Raqqa while he was overseas to solidify the plans taking shape here.”

  “His father lives in Raqqa? The city that was a major ISIS stronghold for years?” Luke clamped his fingers tighter around the edge of the table.

  “Yeah. And with Dad’s connections to the University of Mosul, it’s not a stretch to think he might have sent his son there to take a course that could prove useful if there were any glitches here.”

  “Where do we stand on surveillance?” Nick asked.

  “Getting ready to dispatch agents as we speak.”

  Luke pivoted toward the speaker—a lean, wiry man with short gray hair, who entered the conference room and held out his hand. “Marty Holtzman, SAC.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Luke rose to return his firm clasp.

  “Likewise.” He angled to address all of them. “I’ve assigned two agents 24/7 for now. If our subject starts to play games, I’ll beef that up.” He shifted back to mark Mark. “Anything new since the last update?”

  “No.”

  “Keep me up to speed.”

  He swept out as fast as he’d entered, vitality pinging in his wake.

  “I could use a little of his energy about now.” Luke dropped back onto the table. “Does he get involved in every case?”

  “More or less. More in a high-profile one like this. A lot of SACs are political figureheads who spend their days attending meetings, but Marty likes to get hands-on. Comes from being a top field agent in his heyday, I suppose.” Nick lifted his hand to cover a yawn.

  “Why don’t you guys go home and crash for a few hours? I can call you if we find anything hot or if the surveillance gets interesting.” Mark linked his fingers over his stomach. “Given that he knows we’re on to him, Ryan may lay low while he calculates his next move.”

  “Or he may have a contingency plan already in place.” The twin creases embedded on Nick’s forehead deepened. “I don’t like the bomb-school scenario that could account for at least part of those mi
ssing weeks during his trip to Greece.”

  “You read my mind.” Luke tried to tame the sudden turbulence in his stomach. “His backup strategy to avoid capture might not be pretty.”

  “That’s why we’ll be keeping him under surveillance.” Mark looked between the two of them. “You guys need to clock some z’s. We’ve got this covered. He makes one wrong move, we’ll be all over him. And if that happens, we’ll need everybody at 100 percent capacity. Sorry to say, but neither of you are close to that at the moment.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Nick tried to stifle another yawn. Failed.

  “I rest my case.” Mark steepled his index fingers.

  “Fine. We’ll get some shut-eye.” Nick stood. “I’ll check in with you in a few hours.”

  “And I’ll call you if anything breaks—both of you.”

  “Thanks.” Luke rose too, falling in beside Nick as they silently wound through the cubicles to the rear door.

  After they parted in the parking lot, Luke pulled out his phone and walked toward his car.

  Frowned.

  Kristin hadn’t returned his call or his text.

  That wasn’t like her.

  She’d said she had several errands to run this afternoon, though. It was possible she hadn’t had a chance to respond.

  But somehow that didn’t feel right.

  He slid behind the wheel and dialed her again.

  When it rolled to voicemail after three rings, the red alert beeping in the recesses of his mind intensified.

  Overreaction due to fatigue—or legitimate concern?

  He stuck his key in the ignition and started the engine while he debated that question.

  Sixty seconds later, as he followed Nick out of the lot, he still had no answer.

  And until he was certain Kristin was okay, it would be useless to go home and try to sleep.

  Maybe Alexa knew where she was. Kristin could have mentioned her plans for the afternoon. Or there might have been a rush at WorldCraft and she hadn’t been able to get away yet.

  It was worth a call.

  Half a minute later, Alexa gave him his answer.

  “She left about an hour and a half ago, Detective. I know she had a bunch of stops to make, including a swing by Ryan Doud’s house to return his cell. She found it in the parking lot after he went home sick.”

  Kristin was going to Doud’s place?

  His pulse stuttered.

  “Thanks.”

  Ending the call with a sharp jab of his thumb, he clenched the wheel and forced back the panic nipping at his composure. Ryan might be Amir, but there was no reason to think he had his sights set on Kristin. The cell return might be nothing more than a handoff at the door. It was possible she hadn’t even gone there yet.

  So before he got too freaked out, he’d try to call her once more.

  If she answered, he’d give her the scoop and tell her to walk a wide circle around Doud.

  If she didn’t . . . his already long day was going to get a whole lot longer.

  This wasn’t part of his plan.

  Balling his fingers, Ryan stopped pacing and glared at the shell-shocked woman he’d hustled into his kitchen.

  Kristin didn’t have a clue what she’d stumbled into—but if she described what she’d seen to those cop friends of hers, they’d have all the grounds they needed for a search warrant and arrest.

  That couldn’t happen.

  “Ryan . . . I don’t understand. What’s going on? I thought we were friends.” Kristin watched his gun as she spoke.

  Friends?

  What a laugh.

  She’d been nothing more than a means to an end.

  “Shut up while I think. You’ve messed up everyth . . .” The cell in her tote began to chirp, and he motioned toward it. “Take that out and toss it to me.”

  Her hands were shaking as she picked up the bag and began to root through it.

  Good.

  The more scared she was, the less trouble she’d give him.

  Especially since she hadn’t connected him to the candle operation and had no idea yet who he was—or what was in store for her.

  But she would soon.

  Kristin removed the cell and lobbed it to him.

  After a one-handed catch, he skimmed the screen.

  Detective Luke Carter was calling.

  And this wasn’t his first attempt to reach her, based on her phone log.

  The cell stopped ringing. He switched it off and removed the battery.

  “Your friend is persistent—and we don’t want him tracking you down. Sit.” He waved the gun toward a straight-backed chair in the kitchen.

  “Why are you doing this? And what’s going on here?” Kristin gestured to the array of materials on the counter in the foul-smelling kitchen.

  “You’ll find out soon. I said sit.”

  When she hesitated, he switched the gun to his left hand and lunged toward her, slamming his fist into her jaw.

  Her head snapped back, and she swayed.

  Before she could regain her balance, he shoved her into the chair, pulled her arms behind her, and bound her wrists together with a length of wire he grabbed from the island.

  He circled back in front of her and got in her face. “Why did you come here today?”

  She blinked several times, as if she was having difficulty focusing. “You . . . you dropped your cell in the parking lot. I-I was returning it.”

  He felt in his pocket.

  His phone was missing.

  “It’s in the outside compartment of my . . . my tote.”

  He snatched it up and rummaged through the pouch, lips twisting. “So you came here to do a good deed. Ironic.”

  “Why is th-that ironic?”

  He set his phone on the counter beside hers. “Because now we’re both going to pay a very high price.”

  She gave the materials spread out in the kitchen a sweep. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I’m guessing it’s illegal.”

  He barked out a harsh laugh. “Smart guess.”

  “But . . . why? You have an established business. A great life. Why would you want to mess it up with . . . this. Is it meth?”

  Meth?

  He scanned the counters again.

  Yeah, he supposed she might think that—if he was as far off law enforcement’s radar as he’d assumed. Many of the ingredients were similar.

  But meth was child’s play compared to this operation.

  “No. I’m not into meth.”

  Yet this material was equally explosive.

  And now that Kristin had blundered into the middle of it, he wouldn’t be off law enforcement’s radar for much longer.

  That left him only one option.

  He was going to have to do what his father expected—go out in a blaze of glorious martyrdom, taking as many infidels with him as possible.

  Including the one sitting in his house.

  Kristin watched Ryan stride from the room—and went to work on her wrists. This might be her only opportunity to try and free them.

  But whatever binding he’d used cut into her skin with every flex of her fingers.

  Gritting her teeth, she kept trying. A little pain in her wrists was better than whatever Ryan had in store for her.

  Despite her efforts, though, the ties didn’t budge one iota.

  “Give it up, Kristin.” He spoke from behind her, and she froze. “All you’re doing is cutting your wrists on the wire.”

  He’d bound her wrists with wire?

  No wonder it hurt so much.

  “Listen, I don’t know what you’ve got going on here, but . . .”

  He circled around her, and the words died in her throat as the object in his hands registered.

  She’d never seen one in real life, but there had been similar photos in the media. The vest-like garment, with a hole that went over the head, had pockets filled with pipes, all connected by different colored wires. Small metal balls encased in plastic sleeves
were secured in rows below the pockets.

  It was a suicide vest.

  Which had to mean that Ryan was . . . Amir?

  She sucked in a breath.

  “I see you figured out the connection.” His eyes were cold, his tone flat.

  “It was you all along? You were running the artifact operation?” Somehow she managed to choke out the questions.

  “I had help on the other end, but yes . . . I was in charge here. It was a perfect setup until one of my couriers made a bad mistake.”

  “The one who killed Susan and Elaine?”

  “Yes.” His gaze remained icy. “I don’t care about the killings. People are expendable. But he left evidence behind that helped the cops connect those deaths to your shop . . . and from there to the candles. That was his mistake.” He gingerly set the vest on the counter. “I’d hoped I wouldn’t need to use one of these. Ever. But thanks to you, now I will.”

  “Why don’t you leave me here and just . . . disappear? You could still get away.” She eyed the vest and tried to drag in some air despite the suffocating panic paralyzing her lungs.

  “With your detective friend breathing down my neck? It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s already in search mode. Did you tell anyone you were coming here today?”

  She tried to maintain a neutral expression. “No.”

  He backhanded her.

  The stinging blow sent heat radiating throughout her cheek, and her eyes teared.

  “You don’t lie well, Kristin. Who did you tell?”

  She clamped her mouth shut. No way was she mentioning Alexa’s name and potentially putting her in danger.

  Ryan’s features hardened, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. Your detective will ferret it out sooner or later. In any case, we don’t have much time. So let me tell you how this is going to play out.”

  He moved in close. Close enough for her to see into the murky depths of his dark irises.

  And as he explained his plan . . . as his diabolical scheme—and its impact—began to register . . . the familiar features of her genial business neighbor slowly mutated.

  Until she found herself looking into the face of hell.

  29