Athena Force 7-12

by Carla Cassidy, Evelyn Vaughn, Harper Allen, Ruth Wind, Cindy Dees

  “Allori?”

  “That’s the one. And they’ve already made it clear they have Razidae. They’ve got bin Kuwaji, too.”

  His voice suddenly held an odd distance. “And…?”

  “You have something more important going on there?”

  “Selena,” he responded, an understanding warmth beneath the response that meant get real. Then he added, “Is there a television in that office?”

  “Here?” She glanced around the room, not expecting to find any such thing in this dignified place of historic decor and presence. And so she almost didn’t recognize it when her gaze swept past, a classy little flat screen tucked on the bookshelf between two rows of books. With the phone still tucked at her chin, she tugged the center desk drawer open, surprised when it yielded. No remote control, but she found it in the next drawer over. “So there is.”

  “How’d you assess them?” Cole asked, his voice strangely flat.

  “In terms of intent?” Selena hunted for the power button. “They left a cooler full of dead people who didn’t need to die. They had the lobby guards killed and the place full of tear gas in the time it took me to—” Barf my guts out. No, not that. Cole was no dummy. He’d start counting weeks, too. “I had water running in the bathroom. By the time I stuck my head out, it was all over. And Cole—I’ve seen their leader. Jonas White is there and there’s no way he didn’t have something to do with this, but this man is…he’s a hawk. I think it’s Tafiq Ashurbeyli.”

  “Great,” Cole muttered. “He’ll kill them all just for having seen his face. You have that TV on yet?”

  “Getting there.” Selena scowled at the strange little remote and started pressing buttons at random. The television powered up, the volume already low, the station already tuned to UBC’s ubiquitous international news.

  Selena didn’t need volume to understand what was happening to bin Kuwaji. “Damn…they just took him from the ballroom. I saw them.”

  UBC’s live cameras showed bin Kuwaji standing in the dark cavern of the building’s main entry, gleaming white pillars on either side. He held himself with stiff dignity, and his expression showed not fear so much as acceptance. “No.” Selena said. “It’s too soon! They just got here—no one’s had any time to respond to—”

  Bin Kuwaji’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brain, and he crumpled. Oh, my God. Those fools. Berzhaan’s current Powers That Be would kill them all before they let the Kemenis go after this. From this isolated office, Selena had heard nothing. But right outside this very building, right this very moment, a man had died.

  Making a point no one in the world would now doubt. The Kemenis were ruthless, and they wanted this government—this progressive warm and fuzzy, West-loving government—destroyed past reclamation.

  “You saw.” Cole’s words came not as question so much as confirmation. “These are the people you’re dealing with, Lena. Be damned careful. If nothing else, we’ve got a conversation going unsaid between us…and I want the chance to have it.”

  “Conversation…” Not the wittiest response, but Selena found herself unable to tear her eyes from the screen where a rebel had exposed himself just enough to nudge bin Kuwaji’s body the first step of a long roll down the capitol’s entry stairs. Arms flopping, body limp, the deputy prime minister landed at the base of the stairs and lay there. The UBC camera panned back, showing the barrier of police and military vehicles between the capitol and the law enforcement personnel, all of whom had made some initial move toward bin Kuwaji, only to hesitate at the thought of exposing themselves. Someone ran back behind the long line of uniforms and flashing lights, spurred to action on an unknown errand. An air of helplessness pervaded the scene.

  “You ran,” he said. “From me. We need to talk about it. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to do that with an ocean and half a continent between us.”

  “How—” Too much to take, all at once and from all sides. How did he know? And could she have saved bin Kuwaji, if she’d thought to follow him? She thought so, but at what price? Her silence, perhaps, if she’d been hurt or killed before passing along what she knew.

  “Your note, among other things. A feeling. I know you, Selena.” Cole let the silence stand a moment. “Now’s not the time, but it’s foolish to pretend there’s nothing going on. Better to say it’s there and put it aside—as long as you believe I love you. Believe it, I mean.”

  Believe? There was more to it than that. He could very well love her with all his heart, but that didn’t mean his idea of love was the same as hers. Some men had no problem loving more than one woman…but Selena wasn’t made that way. And yet Cole waited, and she couldn’t linger here, and now was indeed not the time because if they started talking about them, she’d never keep her silence about her recent fatigue and illness and what it might mean. “I do—”

  With a click, the phone went dead. Selena toggled the flash button, hunting a dial tone.

  Nothing.

  Cut lines. Time to—

  The door from the waiting room swung inward. The man she’d described as a hawk stood there with gun in hand. He looked so relaxed and self-assured she had no doubt he considered himself to be in full control.

  And why not?

  He didn’t say anything right away. He eyed her as she stood behind the desk, not foolish enough to make any sudden moves—just standing, trying to avoid the whole deer-in-the-headlights impersonation. He looked her over from head to toe and nodded, approving. Then he gestured at the phone. “Very nice, but did you really think we wouldn’t have people monitoring the lines from the security office?”

  No point in lying; she responded in the Berzhaani language he’d used. “I didn’t think this line showed up there.”

  He shrugged with one casual shoulder, as if to say and you were wrong. “Who did you call? Your embassy? They already know the situation here, of course.”

  Along with the rest of the world. He’d made sure of that when he’d executed bin Kuwaji on the steps. And she still had no reason to lie. “My husband.”

  His voice matched the rest of him—cultivated. Smooth. Offering a hint of darkness. He smiled, and didn’t look amused at all. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who goes running to her husband for help.”

  She imitated his one-shouldered shrug. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does errands.”

  That did amuse him; his deep-set eyes widened slightly with his whimsy, one brow quirking. “I saw you come in. When my men described a Western woman in a long black coat…well, you can imagine there aren’t many such here in the capitol. Very smooth, your work in the lobby.” He lifted the hand that wasn’t already occupied by his gun; her AC adaptor dangled from it. “A shame you had to give up all your weapons when you arrived.”

  She made a scornful noise. “Says who?” She didn’t glance down. She knew the drawer was still open; she knew it held a thick sheaf of papers. Her fingers rested on them. Not your conventional weapon…

  Then again, not your conventional situation. And while taking down Tafiq Ashurbeyli might be the perfect antidote to this crisis, right now she’d settle for getting out of this room unscathed—and unimprisoned.

  He tossed the adaptor aside, a dismissive motion. “You have been valiant. I understand the desire to fight for your people—it is, after all, why I’m here—but you can accomplish nothing more. Come with me. Join the others. We will not take retribution for those things you have done…until now.”

  In other words, if she made him work for it, their next encounter wouldn’t be quite so civilized. She looked him in the eye, her voice lowering. “I’ll make you the same offer. You’ll accomplish nothing here, no matter how many people you kill. Release the hostages. Come with me. I’ll make sure you’re not killed before you make it to the bottom of those same steps you covered with bin Kuwaji’s brains.”

  “Ah. You saw that, then.” He nodded at the flat-panel television.

  “I saw,” she said fl
atly. “I wasn’t impressed. If you’re worth anything, it’s only that you’re worth stopping.”

  He laughed. He laughed, and she snatched the moment. She whipped the thick stack of paper at him edgewise; the pages separated and fluttered at him like manic birds on the attack. He flung up an arm to protect his face, off balance, and Selena dived beneath the line of his gun, rolling to come just beside him, snapping her leg around behind his knee.

  Tafiq Ashurbeyli, Kemeni rebel leader, went sprawling. His gun skittered across the floor; he hit hard, grunting with the impact. The gun didn’t go far, not on the thick carpet. Papers settled around them, their susurrus the only sound in the room.

  Both of them lay stretched out on the carpet; neither could reach the other. In that instant, they froze in place, hesitating in an uncanny moment of locked gazes—of mutual respect, equal determination and the acknowledgment of an enemy worth fighting.

  But not for long. Selena’s gaze flicked to the gun and back to Ashurbeyli; it didn’t take a genius to see who was closer to the weapon and who would reach it first. He would. Selena scrambled to her feet as Ashurbeyli scrambled for the pistol, both of them slipping on loose papers, and she glanced over her shoulder just long enough to see him bringing the weapon to bear as she ducked around the door.

  She thought he’d been smiling.

  Chapter 8

  Now it’s personal. Now he knew her face, and she knew his. Now each knew the mettle of the other. There was no going back from that…no changing it.

  And it changed everything.

  Except for what Selena did next: she hid. She crawled into the best hole she could imagine and, with the patience of a big cat stalking prey, she lay low. She nursed her rug burns, considered the apparently quiescent state of her stomach and floundered back and forth about the cause of its former rebellion. Pregnant? Bad food choice? Pregnant…? That quickly took her nowhere and she flushed the inner debate to instead contemplate what she knew of the capitol’s layout. Maintenance closets, kitchen supplies, laundry…

  Escape.

  No, not yet. After bin Kuwaji’s death, the hostages were in more peril than ever. Not so long ago, not so far away, the Russians had gassed a theater full of innocents in pursuit of terrorists. Selena knew the mood of Berzhaan’s leadership…their need to take a stand. She was the only wild card factor standing between these innocents and another hostage disaster.

  She turned her attention back to the situation at hand. The basement laundry was particularly easy to contemplate, surrounding her as it did. Silent machines with their round glass doors and mounds of partially processed sheets and tablecloths stood guard as she stretched out on a sturdy shelf behind stacks of freshly cleaned towels. Washcloths at this end, bath towels at the other, bound for the fanciest of the bathrooms and the abruptly unoccupied guest rooms. Should she be discovered, Selena was perfectly positioned to bring this tall set of heavy-duty shelves down on whoever found her—but only one rebel had come to look, and his eyes didn’t even hesitate on her.

  So she relaxed, quiet and darned near to comfortable, pleased with the amount of space she had to herself. Cole would fit here, too. Right here. Right up against her, where he’d no doubt nibble her ear and clamp his hands firmly on her bottom and pull her close. Very close. Very…ohsoright.

  She closed her eyes, adding in a big sigh. Tempting thoughts. Tempting to think about how well she and Cole suited one another in so many ways, now when she was forced to depend on him. It removed the doubts caused by that which he had no idea she’d seen. Him. The woman. The kissing. When he wasn’t even supposed to be in the country, for God’s sake.

  Except that part didn’t matter. She could trust him to handle this situation. He’d make the right calls; he’d spread the information he had. And it was her job to keep feeding details to him. She had her cell phone; she hadn’t wanted to use it because of the hinky satellite connections and the insecure nature of the beast—some poor confused city woman might get an earful through her baby monitor. She had no doubt it would go dead at the worst possible moment. Didn’t they always?

  So she wouldn’t call for a while. Not until she had information worth calling for. Her laundry hideout wasn’t it. Her generous collection of bleach didn’t do it, either. Nor would the ammonia-based products she hoped to find in the maintenance closets, the mop decoys, fire extinguishers…not newsworthy goodies. But useful, oh yes.

  For now she didn’t plan to collect the material in a single spot. It’d be too obvious to anyone who saw it. But she’d bring it all within proximity of the kitchen.

  In the kitchen, she planned to cook up trouble.

  After forty-five minutes, the ruckus caused by her escape slowly faded. No more voices shouting along the hallways, no more running footsteps…they had enough to deal with, really, given the repercussions of bin Kuwaji’s death. Posturing, imparting ultimatums, perhaps brandishing a second, less valuable hostage as a reminder for the looming security forces to keep their distance. The busy, busy day of international terrorists at work.

  They probably wouldn’t threaten Allori or Razidae just yet. Poor bin Kuwaji had been their sacrifice, just to show they meant business. Now they’d hold the other two back for more desperate moments.

  Or so Selena thought. But Ashurbeyli was canny—canny enough to have escaped being photographed all these years. Canny enough to get into this high-security building and take out that security while rounding up hostages. So she wouldn’t underestimate him. She’d just…

  Guess.

  Reassuring. She slipped down from the shelf, inspected her chosen gallons of bleach and made sure the lids to each moved freely. Good enough. She very much hoped to find ammonia in the maintenance closets, and from those two alone she could manufacture several types of mayhem. But she wasn’t ready to leave evidence of her plotting just yet, so she left the bleach where it was.

  She knew where to find it.

  The basement also yielded a lovely maintenance area. The cordless drill held promise, but someone hadn’t charged the battery pack. Selena plugged the thing in; it might yet be useful. Metal shelves, their lower legs rusting slightly on the clammy, unpainted concrete floor, held a variety of paints and shellacs. Selena acquired a hammer, hefting it lovingly. She tucked a pair of pliers away just on principle, and gathered several fire extinguishers for easy retrieval. A number of them already waited in the kitchen, but one could never have too many fire extinguishers. She hauled one along with her, and on her way past the kitchen collected a chunk of dry ice from a special storage freezer, dropping it into a towel sling along with the nearly empty giant mayo jar she’d put it in.

  Selena moved past the first floor quickly, for the terrorists were most active here. On the third floor she raided a cleaning closet for ammonia and crept back down to the basement to store it with her bleach, tucking it thoughtfully away under a pile of dirty towels. She quietly sacked a few guest rooms and came away with a planter full of decorative marbles.

  Sometimes the old tricks were still the best.

  After stashing her remaining goods in the guest room she’d chosen, she spent some quiet time on each floor—observing the terrorist activity, confirming that they did only occasional sweeps through the upper floors, concentrating their firepower on the first floor. She heard a pair of men tromping up the stairs to the roof, and a moment later a second pair coming back down, relaxed and chattering about how the various women they’d used compared to the ones they hoped to marry.

  So. They were watching the roof. She would expect no less from the man she’d encountered in Razidae’s office. He probably had at least one other pair of men up there, their watch schedule staggered with the ones who’d just changed shifts.

  But for those floors between top and bottom…Selena had the impression those sweeps were just for her. They lacked urgency but the Kemenis seemed to be looking for something—someone—as opposed to simply walking their rounds.

  They didn’t find her.
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  At least, not until she ventured back into the kitchen area.

  There, a little rummaging in a back corner netted her a huge can of oven cleaner, and she was beginning to feel downright well equipped, and ready to check on Atif in the freezer. But she’d set her hammer down to do the rummaging, and when she looked up from the list of warnings and ingredients on the can, it was to discover a young man in dark olive and tan stopping short in shocked recognition of whom he’d encountered.

  It could have been all over right then. The man—and young he was, barely any older than the college students he helped hold hostage—could have and should have shouted for help. He could have and should have shot Selena as she slowly rose to her feet. Hammer out of reach. Distinctive Abakan rifle pointed this way. Best chance…fake it.

  She gave him the slightest of shrugs, and a feeble sort of oh-well-you-caught-me smile, all the while thinking of the Abakans, and how so many of the Kemenis had what the Russians used only as an elite troops rifle—a rifle that was widely considered user-unfriendly, and effective only in the hands of an expert. The pistol grip was uncomfortable, the angle of the magazine awkward, and the operation of the thing was far from intuitive.

  She doubted the young man before her truly knew how to use it—how to accommodate its odd recoil characteristics, especially when in two-round-burst mode. On the other hand, she didn’t really want to find out. Not at point-blank range, and not when even a wide miss would draw the attention of every other Kemeni in the building. So she gave him the smile, and when he hesitated, she said clearly in his own language, “Please don’t shoot.”

  He absorbed her use of his language easily. He might have even been prepared for it. He lifted his chin, looked down along his nose at her as though he just might possibly be taller than she was—wishful thinking, at that—and said, “Ashurbeyli wants you.”