She was a siren. A woman like this could take a man to his knees with just a smile.
Levi let Beau outside. The recording from Mike hit his phone. Levi played it while he cooked his breakfast. Damn it all. Zaida’s voice was lush and evocative. She spoke eloquently and passionately. And Mike loved her like a daughter, which was clear.
That was all he got from his first listen. He played it a half-dozen times. Her fear sounded real. So did her belief in her cause…and wasn’t that the making of all great terrorists? Finding a cause greater than one’s self, one’s community, or anything else in the world?
A person like her, with her beauty and charm and erudite ways, could easily wreak untold havoc just to leave her stamp on the world.
Levi didn’t buy her innocence act. Not for one second. He opened his laptop and started a web search on her as he ate his breakfast. She was a published author. Looked like she had hit a few of the big-time bestseller lists—New York Times, USAToday, Wall Street Journal’s Best-Selling Books. Hell, Levi hadn’t even known the WSJ had a best sellers list.
Why would someone with such a high profile, such a successful life, take an active and dangerous stand against terrorists? Levi let his dog back in the house, then went for a shower.
Time to meet the siren herself and get some questions answered.
Daylight filled Zaida’s living room when she opened her eyes the next morning. She was still in the clothes she’d worn the day before. She was momentarily disoriented by waking up on her sofa not her bed, then remembered she’d fallen asleep while she waited for Mike.
He never called and never arrived.
She yawned and stretched. She needed to get cleaned up so she could go downstairs for her morning coffee. She had a coffeemaker, but she’d never actually used it. Her mom made coffee with it when she came for a visit. Zaida didn’t think she even had coffee beans in her kitchen. Maybe she should call her mom and ask—she smiled as she thought how that would infuriate her mom.
She switched the TV on. A picture of Mike showed on the screen. Zaida had the sound way down. She turned it up as she read the ticker across the bottom of the screen that read “Middle-aged tourist found beheaded in a Boulder alley.”
Zaida’s phone rang, making her jump. “Did you see the news?” her mom asked on the other end of the line.
“Yes.” Zaida’s answer was barely a whisper.
“You saw him yesterday.”
“I did.” She couldn’t tell her mother what they discussed. No way.
“I can’t believe this. This is terrible news. Our angel. Gone.”
“I’m so sorry, Mom.” Much sorrier than she could even admit. Mike had died because of her. What now? Did he report their conversation to anyone? Who could possibly help her if the men he was tracking had done that to a guy like him?
This was awful. And it was all her fault. Is your freedom code worth the destruction of your community? His question floated through her mind. At the time he’d asked it, it had just been rhetorical. Now, not so much. What was she going to do?
Levi had been watching Zaida Hussan for the day, confirming that her patterns of movement hadn’t changed since Mike’s notes that were in the packet of intel he’d been given.
She was a creature of habit. Her apartment building was in the heart of Fort Collins’ legal district. The pricey condos where she lived were owned by the town’s elite—lawyers, judges, CEOs…and writers, apparently.
Mike’s notes reported her usual schedule. At 9 a.m., Zaida came down to the public atrium to buy coffee and a breakfast sandwich. At 1 p.m., she went to the gym, then stopped at the juice vendor for a healthy blend. At 7 p.m., she came down for dinner. She favored the French bistro. She’d stayed with that schedule while Levi had watched her, too.
The woman always looked perfect—he’d seen that in the pictures of her. Even after a hard workout, her skin glowed. Her dark eyes were fringed with thick lashes. Her thick, black brows were perfectly trimmed. Her shiny hair slipped over her body like a silky mink, settling itself on one shoulder or the other restlessly.
Her lips were lush, forming the perfect bow shape. The red shade she wore now made him wonder what they’d taste like. Her nails weren’t overly long. The polish she wore complemented her lipstick. He could almost feel those nails in his back, digging into his shoulders as he pleasured her.
Not the most original thought, considering the look in every other man’s eyes watching her right now.
His gaze moved lower. She was of average height, though she seemed taller. Maybe it was her innate elegance. Or her straight posture. She wore heels, moving in a sleek and easy way, like a model, always aware of the looks she garnered from any man nearby—and many of the women too.
Her breasts were large. Her clothes showed her generous cleavage, but never in an obvious way. Levi knew from the pictures of her that she wore designer outfits that seemed tailored just for her, like they were fucking sewn right on her. If she moved just so, and you happened to be looking, you’d catch a glimpse of the bounty her blouses covered.
He and every other man watched for that glimpse.
From Mike’s notes, Levi knew he’d never seen her with anyone. No boyfriend—or girlfriend—ever accompanied her. She had an easy smile and a deep-throated laugh that made Levi think of other things she could do with that mouth.
The vendors all seemed to love her. She chatted with them easily. They fell over themselves to put her at the right table, hand her a bouquet they’d made just for her, or have her coffee ready before she even asked for it. Fawning, really, all of them.
Such an exquisite and charming terrorist.
He hated her already.
Levi sighed inwardly. He shouldn’t have taken this op. He was tired of war. Though only forty, his soul felt twice that age. Why couldn’t humans find a way to get along? Why did the motherfucking Tahrir al-Sham have to bring war here, to his country, his town, his people?
He should have told Lambert to call up someone else. He’d worked with the CIA before, not just in the previous gig he did for Lambert, but in posts overseas, sometimes pairing with female operatives from the Black Squadron—the only unit that admitted females. The forward operations he’d been part of had laid the groundwork for numerous successful raids, netting considerable intelligence.
He should have known his CIA connections would come back and bite him in the ass. This wasn’t the commander’s fault. The war on terror wasn’t over, and it wasn’t a thing that respected national boundaries or peaceful college towns. It was everywhere.
And so were men like him…in sleeper cells of former SEALs activated as CIA contractors licensed to work wherever they were needed against an international enemy making incursions into the U.S. The higher-ups in Defense and in State felt retired spec ops guys like him, still of able mind and body, were national assets that were being wasted after they left the teams when they could be put to good use in the quiet war that was being fought on lean margins.
He wondered if retired Rangers and Delta Force guys were being activated as well. That hadn’t been a question the commander had been willing to address.
On this op—unlike his work on the teams—he was a lone wolf. If he screwed up, he’d take the fall as a citizen acting on his own behalf. There could be no blow-back hitting the CIA or any other part of the government…
His time with the Black Squadron had shown him first-hand just how capable and deadly a female could be, especially a beautiful, lethal operative like Zaida Hussan.
That was probably the reason he lived alone. Easier to sleep when you could close both eyes.
Tonight, Ms. Hussan did something different, yanking him from his thoughts. She came downstairs at 9 p.m. and left the atrium to go outside. He followed her, watching her from across the street. It was a late July weekend. Kids were already returning to town in preparation for school starting next month. And they were all over the place, barhopping, reuniting with friends. It was a war
m evening. And even though the sun had set almost a half-hour ago, there was still a little pale light in the sky. The streetlights had come on, making it easier to watch Zaida’s reflection in storefront windows.
A man approached her. Tall. Swarthy. Middle Eastern or Latino. Was this guy who she’d come out to meet? They stopped and talked. Levi moved to stand under a tree, watching Zaida’s body language. The man was all smiles, but she was not. She even drew back a few steps, but the guy closed the gap between them.
Levi started across the street. The guy grabbed her wrist. She pulled free. The streetlight shining on her hair showed the vehement shake of her head.
Levi had had enough. It was time he made contact with her, anyway. He inserted himself between them and gave her a light hug, letting his body block her confused reaction. “Zaida. God, it’s been a long time. Mike said he ran into you recently.” At Levi’s mention of Mike’s name, her expression shifted from fear to interest.
Levi turned to her companion and thrust out his hand. “Johnny Smith, nice to meet you. Zaida and I go way back. Went to college here in fact.”
When lying, it was always best to keep things close to the truth. Zaida had gone to Colorado State University. Of course, his name wasn’t Johnny Smith, but no need to make this guy’s homework any easier.
“I’m Jamal. Zaida and I were leaving.”
Levi’s brows lifted. He looked over his shoulder at Zaida, whose eyes were big and frightened. She gave a slight shake of her head.
“Well, I guess you got that half right; you’re leaving. She’s not.”
Jamal stared at Levi, then looked around him at Zaida, who was still parked behind his back. “Zaida, it’s time to go. We don’t want to keep our table waiting.”
“You want to go with him?” Levi asked.
“No.”
Levi grinned at Jamal. “Sorry, pal. Guess she’s done with you for the night.”
Jamal’s eyes narrowed. “Get out of the way.”
“No means no.” Levi’s eyes hardened. “Take a hike.”
“She’s not your concern.”
“True, that. I just like the word ‘no.’ It’s such a clear, short, sweet directive. But if you aren’t able to grasp its meaning, then maybe you need my fists to explain it? They can talk short and sweet, too.”
The guy’s rage tightened his whole body. Levi braced himself for whatever would come next, but nothing did, other than a hissed sigh.
“Zaida,” Jamal said, “we will finish this later.”
Zaida held her silence.
The man glared at Levi, then pivoted and headed off in another direction.
Levi watched him walk away. A black van turned the corner then sped in their direction. Levi saw Jamal make a hand gesture toward it, just a simple flattening of his hand and a wave against his leg.
Levi moved Zaida closer to the building, using his body to block her from the road. The van moved past them. Levi noted its license plate.
“What are you doing?” Zaida asked a little breathlessly.
Levi didn’t answer her. He was too busy looking around them, checking for someone, anyone, who was watching them. It was hard to tell in the dark; the open through-fare of the Old Town strip was like a death gauntlet. Threats could be anywhere.
When no other ones showed up, Levi turned to Zaida. She was watching him with that artful expression of hers, her exquisite eyes full of dark promises and tightly held secrets.
What was her game, getting the Tahrir al-Sham stirred up?
“Did Mike really send you?” she asked.
“Yes.” Levi didn’t hesitate. It was because of Mike that he was here.
She sighed. The tightness in her posture eased. Had she called Mike…or had Mike summoned her? The former would explain her ease with Levi, the latter would give the lie to her posturing.
“We need to talk,” Levi said.
“Yes, we do.” She looked around them. “We can go to my place. It’s near here.”
“I know. I’ve been watching you.”
Her lips parted and her eyes moved from his eyes to his mouth and chin, shuttering herself from him. “I’d been feeling watched.”
Levi’s whole body tightened. Visions of her fluid strolls through the atrium jumped to his mind. Had she been performing the whole time? Sowing a harvest of lust she could reap when it best suited her? He’d lapped it up like a panting dog.
And fuck if all the lessons he’d learned the hard way didn’t fail him when he most needed them.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They started toward one of the entrances to the atrium in her building. The restaurants were still going hard. He knew they would pull down their gates on the atrium side by 11 p.m. For now, everything was wide open. He wouldn’t put it past Jamal to be waiting for them somewhere between there and Zaida’s place.
She sent him a sideways look, then stopped. “I should have asked for proof that you are who you say you are.”
“Yes, you should have. But it wouldn’t have mattered. I have none. We’re going to have to go on trust, you and I,” Levi said.
“What agency do you work for?”
“I’m a ghost, Zaida. No government agency will acknowledge me. But right now, I’m your only hope.”
3
Zaida felt a shiver cut through her. This man, Johnny Smith, looked about as American as they came, with his deep blue eyes, rough beard, reddish-brown hair, and unusual height. He was a foot taller than her, maybe more. She remembered the feel of his body pressed to hers after Jamal left. He was as solid as the brick wall he’d pinned her against.
What did an American look like, anyway? She was born in this country and was as American as he was, but they looked nothing alike. Why was it even an issue for her?
Maybe she was just being sensitive about her ethnicity. The on-going wave of lawless actions by people with backgrounds like hers painted them all with similar brushes. She feared for herself and her family because of the actions of others, but that had never hit home as it did now. Perhaps Johnny blamed her for what happened to Mike. Maybe she was to blame. She’d begged Mike for help…a request that had gotten him beheaded.
Johnny had stepped between her and Jamal without a twinge of fear—something she could never have done. Maybe she should have gone to her parents instead of Mike, maybe then he’d still be alive. The terrible truth was she feared that perhaps Jamal, the son of her father’s old friend, was somehow part of everything that was happening.
“Show me your driver’s license,” she said.
He did. His name wasn’t Johnny but Levi Jones. She took her phone out and snapped a photo of is ID.
“While we’re at it, let’s swap phone numbers,” Levi said. She gave him her digits so he could dial her. When the call went through, he hung up. “Now, we need to talk.”
“Come back tomorrow. We’ll talk then.”
“Thinking of researching me?” he asked. She nodded. “You won’t find anything on me. I told you I was a ghost.”
“What kind of person doesn’t have a digital profile?”
“I guess one who doesn’t want to be found.” He grinned. His teeth were white and straight. The expression might as well have been a grimace for all the humor it held, which gave her another shiver.
She was handicapped by the fiction she wrote. Romance was her genre of choice. Reading and writing it was cathartic in times like these. She wrote emotional contemporary stories set in small towns; unlike the ruse she’d used on her mom, she never ventured into the edgier stuff of romantic suspense or thrillers. But no matter what sub-genre, in the world of romance fiction good always won…as did love.
Sometimes, her fictional worlds were more real than reality. But this was the real world—right here, right now—and it never quite worked out as it did in her stories.
“You aren’t going to save me, are you?” Her words were barely a whisper. She’d leaned a little closer to say them. His eyes darkened as he watch
ed her lips move.
“Do you need saving?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“What makes you think you’re in danger?”
“Besides Mike being cut in two?”
“Yeah.”
“Someone’s using me to get to terrorists. Or rather, using me to infiltrate my network of Muslim readers, putting me—and all of them—in jeopardy.”
Levi grunted. His eyes narrowed as he puzzled through that revelation. “We shouldn’t be talking about this here.”
She nodded. They headed toward the elevators. She swiped her badge in the reader. Levi held the elevator door for her, then followed her inside. The next floor was for the regular apartments. The upper two floors held the penthouse apartments with their luxurious rooftop decks. She’d been up there recently when one was for sale. One day, perhaps, she could afford one for herself. For now, she was content to be where she was.
Her apartment was large and modern with a crisp, open floor plan. The white of the walls, big kitchen counter, and cabinets was alleviated by her dark wood floors and the rich red colors of the Middle Eastern textiles that hung on the walls and the beautiful Persian carpets that were in every room.
“Nice place you have,” Levi said.
Zaida smiled at Levi. “Thank you. I spend all of my time here, since I work at home, so I filled it with things I love.”
“Why Colorado?” he asked.
“I grew up in Denver, but came up here for school. After I graduated, I just stayed. My folks helped me get this place, but I only agreed under the condition that they hold the mortgage instead of buying it outright for me.” She set her purse down. “I knew they’d use it as leverage against me if I accepted this condo as a gift.”
He frowned. “What kind of leverage?”
“They want me to get married and settle down, have a bunch of kids.”
Freedom Code Page 3
