Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

  Jace held up a hand. Gabe, prone to temper, was reacting negatively to the young CIA agent. His lack of trust in outsiders—­anyone who was not one of his own teammates—­was legendary inside Delta Force. Gabe glared, but finally stepped back. “Phosgene is only dangerous if breathed in over enough time to affect the respiratory system. Is that right?” He directed his question to Trevor.

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “Then we have to assume they have another way of blanketing an area large enough to do significant damage. Airspace is restricted. Other ideas?”

  Christina hesitated. “Are there bombs or other munitions on base that could be used as a dispersant?”

  “Nothing even remotely close to the parade ground,” Gabe said impatiently. He gave Christina a “What on earth are you doing here?” look. “Despite the persistent right-­wing rhetoric, we don’t store munitions underneath the pool house. Or near any public gathering places.”

  Heather grimaced. Jace sympathized. He, too, was annoyed by the constant blog traffic of anti-­Western and antimilitary factions, which postulated with varying degrees of hostility that the US stored munitions near family housing areas.

  “Okay,” said Bo Granville. “Where are the low-­lying areas on base?”

  Jace pointed his little finger at one area. “I hate even to say this, but here, and here. The main recreational areas—­including the pool house,” he said, exchanging an amused look with Gabe and Heather. “And these picnic areas and playgrounds.” A small frown appeared between his brows. “Truthfully, these areas are close enough to both the enlisted housing area—­Dogwood Beach, right?—­and the south side of the town of Garhara, also residential. But it’s nowhere near the president.”

  “We’ve been assuming the target’s the president,” said Tag. “What if it’s not?”

  “Who else?” said Christina. “Nothing else of significance is happening any time soon. Both Garhara’s and Ma’ar ye zhad’s mayors will be attending the president’s address, and some prominent local businessmen, but Prime Minister al-­Muhaymin is meeting President Cooper at his palace, not on US soil.” She leveled a challenging glare at Gabe, but Jace saw the flash of hurt in her eyes when his team second merely turned away.

  “What would be the political fallout of an Azakistani attack on the US president?” Heather asked.

  “Get Shelby Gibson on the line,” said Trevor. “She’ll know.”

  “IT WOULD WEAKEN public perception,” Shelby told them, her husky voice coming through the speakerphone loud and clear. All six paid close attention. “Obviously. It would publicly embarrass Prime Minister al-­Muhaymin, who considers himself to be a very progressive, strong ally of the United States in this region.” She paused. Heather found herself watching Trevor. She wasn’t stupid; Christina had interrupted something between Shelby and him. He looked weary.

  “The conservative movement would point to it as weakness on his part, saying he has little control. It would engender a certain level of sympathy for the United States, of course. Post-­9/11, our allies and friendly nations don’t automatically assume the US can absorb any blow. Still, as with 9/11, some countries in this region would be cheering, either openly or secretly. And there are factions inside the prime minister’s own government who would point to the incident as well deserved. Overall, though, if this happened, and I pray it does not, the fallout would center more on negative sentiment against the US, with a bit toward the Azakistani Parliament, as unfair as it sounds.”

  Gabe snorted. “We get attacked, and we deserve it? Jesus.”

  “Yes,” said Shelby. “It’s been the reaction around the world each time someone attacks the United States. Oh, sure, our allies condemn the attacks. But Khobar Towers in Saudi Arabia, the USS Cole, the 1998 attacks against the embassies in Tanzania, Nairobi, and Dar es Salaam . . . in each case, after the initial outrage, public opinion in Middle Eastern countries was we deserve it.” She hesitated. “And we all remember the celebrations throughout the Middle East, the burning of American flags, the cheering, during and after 9/11. Hatred against the United States is not far from a national hobby in some of these countries. And even the populist uprisings in Egypt and Libya happened in North Africa, not the Middle East.”

  There was silence around the table.

  “The president’s visit has been on his public agenda for months, because of the 9/11 commemoration,” Heather said. “There’s obviously significance to the timing of the attack.”

  “We should bring in the Secret Ser­vice,” Jace said finally. “Even if we think an attack would be ineffective, they need to know.”

  “Agreed,” said Granville. He glanced at Heather. “Good work, young lady.”

  Heather looked around the table. “To all of us. A good team effort.”

  Bo Granville gave a smug smile that puzzled Heather. Her contribution had been relatively minor. Why did he single her out for praise? She seemed to have caught his special interest. Why?

  Chapter Thirty-­Four

  September 10. 8:15 A.M.

  Bachelor Officer’s Quarters, al-­Zadr Air Force Base

  IT WAS GOOD to be back in her own apartment. Heather puttered. She dusted, vacuumed, and took a long, hot soak in the tub. Washed her hair. Napped.

  And missed Jace.

  Where was he?

  It had been less than twenty-­four hours, so the empty ache inside her felt ridiculous. But the past week had been glorious, every moment spent with him. They talked, laughed, made love. He took her to a picnic on one of the unused shooting ranges. She showed him her secret place at the edge of Lake Sego, where the rushes met the water and a broad, grassy strip was the perfect place to sit and read. She had shared with him parts of herself she’d kept barricaded inside for years.

  No doubt he was busy working with the Secret Ser­vice to thwart any possible terrorist attempt to get close to the president. Her fingers literally shook with the need to get back out there. To help.

  Instead, she forced herself to read one of the books Jeremy had lent her. CNN hummed in the background, discussing the president’s visit to Azakistan the next day. The visit included a meeting with Prime Minister al-­Muhaymin, a town hall assembly with the soldiers of al-­Zadr Air Base, then a speech at the al-­Zadr parade grounds, thrown open to the public in honor of the event. She shivered.

  By noon the next day, she was too restless to sit still. Getting into her car, she headed across base to the headquarters of the 10th Special Forces Group. She needed to clear out her desk anyway; her tour of duty in Azakistan would be up before the doctors cleared her for active duty. And it would be good to see her friends. It had been almost a month since her escape from Sari Daru Province. They no doubt wondered about her.

  She was mobbed as soon as she stepped into the building. One after another, friends and colleagues hugged her or shook her hand. It was silly, really, all the fuss. Most of these same ­people had visited her in the hospital. Still, this was goodbye, so she smiled, thanked them, hugged them back, and shared some tears for their lost comrades.

  Finally, she made it to her desk. There really wasn’t much to pack—­a few pictures, a dead plant, some books. The new regimental intelligence officer stayed with her as she sorted through her drawers, picking her brain on various projects she had been working on prior to her trip out to Eshma. Finally, she stopped in to say her farewells to the battalion commander.

  As she made her way out of the building, a uniformed officer hurried after her. “Lieutenant Langstrom. I’m glad I caught you.”

  Heather smiled at the head of personnel. “Hey, Captain. How’re things?”

  The officer shrugged. “Same ol’, same ol’,” he said. “We’re sure sorry to lose you.”

  “No more than I’m sorry to leave.”

  “Well, you’re going from the frying pan into the fire. And in a hurry, too.”
>
  Heather cocked her head, her brow wrinkling. “Sir?”

  The personnel officer lifted a sheaf of papers in his hand. “New orders. They came in this morning. I was going to have them messengered over to your quarters, but you saved me the courier.” He handed them to Heather with something of a flourish. “You must have impressed someone.”

  Already? She had thought new orders wouldn’t come for another few weeks, until her doctors cleared her to return to active duty. Frowning, Heather glanced at them.

  What?

  Heather did a double take, looking hard at the orders in her hand. Reading them again didn’t change the words. She had been reassigned to the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-­Delta.

  Delta wanted her?

  An instant of joy washed through her. Jace would work beside her.

  Delta Force was, of course, the elite of the special operations forces. Even the SEALs weren’t as tough, as trained, as elite as Delta Force operators. To be selected to support them was the highest form of compliment. Delta always got the best. Always. And if they wanted her, that meant they thought . . . she was.

  Reality crashed in. Delta didn’t want her, Jace did. What strings had he pulled to get her reassigned?

  She looked over her orders more carefully. She was being attached to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Hollow Straw, al-­Zadr Air Base, pending full medical release. That was, she now knew, where the Delta detachment resided, where she had been spending a lot of time recently. Her orders further stipulated a follow-­on assignment to 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-­Delta at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, home to the Special Operations Forces. She was due to report there in a little more than a month, when her rotation in Azakistan ended.

  Heather didn’t even try to control the hot wash of anger coursing through her. Of all the conceited, arrogant, high-­handed actions, this one had to take the cake. How dare Jace mess with her career? Fuming, she walked back to her car. When she eventually accepted an elite assignment such as this one, it would be because she earned it. On her own, with no one’s help, and on her merits. Not because someone pulled strings. It galled her.

  Without conscious volition, she drove across base to FOB Hollow Straw. The guard checked her ID and her orders, and allowed her, unescorted, through the gate. Heather let her fury carry her into the Tactical Operations Center. Like a laser, she saw Jace at once, bending over a map on the central conference table, deep in conversation with several men. She barreled over to him, interrupting him midsentence.

  “Captain Reed. I’d like to talk to you, please.”

  He looked up, clearly surprised to see her. “Heather. Hi. Can you give me a . . .”

  “Now, Captain.” She stalked back toward the door and wrenched it open.

  Jace straightened, leveling a look at her. After a moment, he glanced toward his men. “Tag, keep working with Mr. Seifert and Mr. Boston. Gabe, get with Private Tams. I’ll be right back.” He followed Heather through the door, closing it firmly behind him, shutting out the curious faces turned their way.

  Heather took a few stiff steps away from the building before turning on Jace. “How dare you?”

  Jace’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “You’re upset. I can see that. Care to give me a hint why?”

  Heather waved her orders in his face. “This, you bastard. My reassignment. Here.”

  His brows pulled together as Jace took the sheaf of papers from her hand. He scanned them, his frown deepening. “What the hell?”

  “Exactly!” Heather cried. A passing soldier gave her a curious look. Lowering her voice, she said, no less intensely, “What gives you the right to mess with my career? I decide where I go. Or the Army. Not you.”

  “Look, Heather . . .”

  She spoke over him, her volume increasing again. “What, did you think I’d fall all over you in gratitude? Follow you home to North Carolina? What? What could you possibly have been thinking?”

  “Will you calm down?”

  “I will not calm down. This is unconscionable. Pulling me away from my unit . . .”

  Jace got loud. “I didn’t do anything of the sort. I had nothing to do with this.”

  Heather waved her arms. “Oh, and I’m supposed to believe this is all some sort of great coincidence? I meet you, and suddenly I’m assigned to your unit? I’m not an idiot, Jace.”

  “Then stop acting like one. Let’s be rational—­”

  “Well, guess what, Jace?” Heather interrupted. “Your great plan backfired. ’Cause now? Now we’ll be working together? We’re not going to get to have any kind of a relationship.”

  Jace rubbed two fingers along the bridge of his nose. “This is a misunderstanding. Are you really saying you’re going to throw away what we’ve been building?” He exhaled hard, slicing a hand through the air. “Look, let’s stop and take a breath, okay? We’re not going to get to the bottom of this by shouting at each other.”

  Heather simply shook her head. “No. We’re not. Because I’m going to take this assignment, Jace. This is the chance of a lifetime for me. And as for us? We’re through.” Her shoulders sagged, and her throat clogged with tears as she realized the truth of what she was saying. “The second the adjutant cut these orders, I became a member of Colonel Granville’s support staff. And fraternization between military support staff and operational personnel is prohibited. You and I are done.”

  Chapter Thirty-­Five

  September 11. 8:00 A.M.

  Ma’ar ye zhad, Azakistan

  AA’IDAH TUCKED HER purse into the bottom drawer of her desk and turned on her computer. Shukri disappeared into his own office. Her father was out this morning, at a breakfast meeting with a potential new client. She checked the appointments calendar for the day. Nothing special, just a few clients. She began to sort their portfolios from the file cabinet and put them in order.

  Her fingers stilled, the folders momentarily forgotten as she stared at the photograph she’d taken from Shukri’s office yesterday. He had framed it in wood decorated with henna designs. Five men stood shoulder to shoulder, smiling into the camera. Two were Zaahir and the sheik. Shukri was on the left. The one on the right had been at her home with Zaahir. She thought his name might be Rami. The fifth man she did not know at all.

  She picked up the photograph. If Shukri asked where it was, she could always lie and tell him she wanted a photo of Zaahir on her desk. Once she faxed it to Christina Madison, though, she had stepped over a line she could not uncross. Her stomach fluttered.

  A step sounded on the floor an instant before Zaahir al-­Farouk appeared. Aa’idah closed her eyes; but when she opened them, he still stood in front of her desk, and he did not look pleased. Neither was she.

  She had not seen him since the disaster at lunch four days ago. Both her father and brother had bellowed at her for her rudeness, and her mother screeched that Aa’idah was ungrateful, that Zaahir was a strong and powerful man—­and handsome, by Allah’s grace—­and would provide well for her. Aa’idah had tried to explain the sickness she sensed in him, but her family scoffed.

  “You are a silly girl.”

  For a moment, Aa’idah could not tell if the words came from her mother or from the hulking man in front of her.

  “Have you no greeting for your betrothed?” Zaahir asked.

  Ice froze her heart. Had her father truly given his consent for this marriage? “You are not my betrothed.”

  Zaahir waved a hand, dismissing her words. “I soon will be.”

  “Honored sir, I do not wish to marry. Not anyone.”

  Zaahir offered a tender smile. “All women must marry and produce children. You will have your own household, Aa’idah, with servants. I will pamper you. You will want for nothing.”

  Aa’idah stood, unwilling to have him tower over her. “But I do not understand this. Why choose me? The
re are women more beautiful, younger, more conventional. I’m a modern women. I am educated and intend to work again, to teach. You are very traditional. We would not suit.”

  For the first time, he displayed to her the arrogance he showed her father and brother. “I will teach you the practices. You are intelligent and will learn quickly. You yourself are both beautiful and desirable. In time, you will grow to love me.”

  Love? She almost gagged. “What must I say to dissuade you? This cannot happen.”

  His heavy brows pulled down as he frowned. It made his already-­harsh features ferocious. Aa’idah found herself cringing away from him.

  “An alliance between our families can be nothing but beneficial to both the Karim and al-­Farouk households. Yes, there are other reasons for us to ally, important political considerations. Still, I desire you.” His warm gaze moved over her face, then dropped along her body. A small smile played around his mouth. “Very much. I will be a devoted husband to you.”

  “I do not wish your devotion!” cried Aa’idah in panic. The thought of his hands upon her body had her stomach roiling. The reception desk imprisoned her, she realized abruptly. Maybe she could squeeze past him? “My father is a successful asset manager. He’s not political.” Her shoulders sagged. She did nothing but fool herself with such thoughts. She knew what these men intended. While the thought of reporting their plan to Christina Madison frightened her, allowing an explosion to harm Americans when she could stop it filled her with repugnance.

  Somehow, she would find the courage to try to stop Zaahir.

  Zaahir’s smile was condescending. Before he could speak, Shukri appeared in his office door. “Father has strong political ties,” he said. He gestured between Zaahir and himself. “And we have important work to do.”