by Lucy Monroe
“And she was ready when she left for Oregon,” he pressed.
“We thought she was. We were wrong.”
“No. She met the wrong man.”
“I should have stopped it.”
“You couldn’t. Whatever her reasons, the need for a fresh start, wanting more independence … whatever they were, Rach, Linny wanted to move to Oregon to go to school. And she didn’t want you moving with her.”
The wince on Rachel’s face said he’d guessed right on that last part.
“It doesn’t matter. She’s dead, and I’m not abandoning Jamila.”
“No one’s asking you to, sweetheart.” Well, her boss was, but Andrew Whitney didn’t count.
Not when it was Kadin’s call how and when the Atrati team and Rachel left Morocco.
She nodded, her throat working, and he wanted to hold her, but every line of Rachel’s body screamed to leave her the hell alone. He wanted to touch her so badly, his fingers were aching with the need, but he’d given up that right.
A small, wounded sound came from her throat.
Rights and nonverbal cues didn’t matter in the face of that small sound.
He moved fast to wrap her up in his arms, and he didn’t loosen his hold despite her immediate attempts to move away. “Relax, angel. Just give it a minute.”
“What?” she asked, her hands still pressing against his chest as if she didn’t know any other way now except to push people to a distance.
“Whatever you need.” He didn’t care if it made sense.
This woman was in so much pain, it was like a wall squeezing in around her. He wasn’t going to let her shatter from it.
Not on his watch.
She might be right that he’d abandoned both her and Linny when they needed him, but he hadn’t meant to. He’d meant to protect them both, just as he had his own family, from what he’d become.
But none of that was important right now. What was important was that Kadin wasn’t going to do it again.
Even if Rachel was the one pushing him to leave.
“Everything okay?” Eva asked, coming into the kitchen.
Kadin reflexively tightened his hold, knowing Rachel would try to get away. “Give us a minute?”
“No.” Rachel shoved against his stomach. Hard. “We’re done here.”
He just shook his head.
Eva cocked her head to one side. “It’s just, I think Abdul’s wife wants to make dinner. She’s hovering out in the hallway, reluctant to interrupt whatever’s going on in here.”
Rachel punched him in the side. “Let go, Kadin. People need this room.”
Shit. He might have listened if the punch hadn’t felt more like a caress. She was trembling against him, for all her bravado, damn it. Rachel had forgotten how to lean on others, but Kadin was going to show her again.
At least while they were here in Morocco. Maybe later, too.
He’d missed her friendship as much as he’d missed her being his lover. And though he knew she’d never trust him enough again to give him her heart, he’d never met anyone who needed a true friend more.
And being friends was better than being enemies … or nothing at all.
“You’re right.”
She looked up at him, her pretty, pale eyes reflecting pain too big to hide. No matter how much she might want to. “So, let go?”
He just shook his head, not even smiling at the confusion sliding over her feminine features. His heart hurt in a way he’d been damn careful not to allow in ten years. He bent his knees and took her into his arms, lifting her high against his chest before she could get out the first yelp of outrage.
“We’ll be upstairs,” he told Eva.
The medic shook her head, her dark eyes narrowing. “I don’t think that’s what she meant, boss.”
He didn’t bother answering, just walked out of the kitchen, nodding at Abdul’s wife as he passed her in the narrow hall. The cook-cum-housekeeper might well be a trained agent for all Kadin knew, since her husband was the one in charge of the safe house and who knew what else.
The Atrati operated in secret, even from each other sometimes.
The Moroccan woman said something in Arabic under her breath. It sounded like she was bemoaning crazy Americans, but he wasn’t listening all that closely, so he couldn’t be sure.
His focus was almost entirely on the rigid and now fuming woman in his arms.
“You can’t just pick me up and carry me around,” Rachel grumbled.
“Eva said you still need rest.”
“She didn’t mean I couldn’t walk.” The exasperation made Rachel’s voice rise so that Cowboy poked his head out of the door of the room he and Neil were still in.
“You need any help there, Trigger?”
“Nope. I’ve got it.”
“All-righty, then.”
Cowboy disappeared, and Rachel made a frustrated noise.
“Problem, angel? You wanted him to come, too?”
“No.” She huffed out another less-than-happy breath as he started up the stairs. “I don’t want to go back to our … my room.”
“I can be a reasonable man,” he informed her, in case she’d forgotten.
Her snort said she didn’t believe him.
Since her anger was an improvement on her bottomless hurt, he didn’t complain. Bypassing the second floor, he continued up toward the roof.
“Where are we going?”
“The living room inside is narrow if long—typical for a Moroccan home but not so comfortable for men of my stature. The roof, on the other hand, is a nice, open space.” Besides, the sunshine would do Rachel good.
She didn’t reply, but when they reached his destination, her indrawn breath said Rachel found the roof as inviting as he and his team had.
Encompassing the entire length and breadth of the house that had been built sometime during the reign of the Almoravids in the Middle Ages, the rooftop garden was dotted with potted palm trees and an assortment of bright, blooming flowers that would make most horticulturists jealous.
Off to one side and under a cloth canopy was a long, rectangular, wrought iron table and chairs sufficient for eight to dine comfortably. The other side of the roof had two distinct conversation areas. One was comprised of a surprisingly modern and comfortable grouping of deep sofas and four matching armchairs.
The other, not under a shade structure, was made up of a couple of smaller sofas arranged kitty-corner to each other with a single oversized table arranged in the open L they made.
Kadin took Rachel to the uncovered area. She could use the direct exposure to sunlight for a bit, and this part of the roof would be in the shade in less than hour as the sun moved across the sky.
He set her down with care on one of the rattan couches. “There. Not our room.”
See? He could be reasonable. Really.
She just sighed, letting her head fall back so the sun warmed her face.
A memory of her doing that when they were still kids assailed him. It was the first time he’d seen her as someone to desire. Before that, they’d been friends.
It was while watching her simply soak in the sunshine one day that he’d realized he loved her. She’d looked so beautiful, and he’d known he wanted her to be his.
Forever.
Life had gotten in the way of forever, but she’d never lost that beauty. Other people might think she was average, her hair too medium brown, her eyes too pale a blue to catch attention, her features just a little too normal for the cover of a magazine, but he’d never seen another woman he found even half as compelling.
He lowered himself onto the sofa by her feet, pulling them into his lap.
She didn’t fight him, so he started massaging one foot.
“You’re awfully good at that. Do they teach it in the Marines?” she asked in the voice he’d already figured out he didn’t like.
It was the one that put everyone at a distance, the one that let Rachel’s cynicism show through.
He laughed anyway, because the idea was so ridiculous. “No.”
“Ah, one of your old girlfriends, then.”
“I don’t have old girlfriends.” Except her, and she knew what she’d been to him. More than a girlfriend. His greatest joy and biggest sorrow.
Well, maybe she didn’t know that.
Her eyes shot open at that. “Right.”
He shrugged. “I don’t do relationships.”
“He’s not lying,” Eva said as she crossed the roof toward them. She carried a tray with a pitcher and glasses. “Mrs. Abdul thought you should have something to drink if you were going to be spending time on the roof in the sunshine.”
“How did she know we came up here?” Kadin had to ask.
Eva shrugged. “Don’t know, but I think the Atrati is wasting her talents as a housekeeper. She’d make a great spy.”
“We aren’t in the spy business. We’re soldiers.”
“Most of the time. Maybe TGP should recruit her,” Eva said to Rachel.
Rachel shook her head. “We don’t keep foreigners on the payroll.”
“Sure. Right.” Eva didn’t sound as if she believed that.
Frankly, Kadin didn’t, either. “Who says she isn’t already on ours as more than just a housekeeper? Her husband has some pretty decent connections in this part of Africa, and they do run this safe house together.”
Eva didn’t bother to answer.
Rachel didn’t seem to notice; she was too busy enjoying whatever type of juice Mrs. Abdul had sent up with the medic. The sound his former lover made as she sipped was damn near pornographic.
He switched his gaze to Eva to see if she noticed, but his medic appeared every bit as enamored with the drink as Rachel. Only the Puerto Rican’s reaction didn’t affect him the way Rachel’s did.
Kadin had to adjust himself before his cock got strangled by the placket in his fatigues. “Maybe we should get the recipe for that juice if it’s going to put such a look of bliss on a person’s face.”
Rachel smiled. Just a little one, but it was there. “Maybe we should.”
“So, Cowboy says you’re running surveillance on Miss Massri.” Eva was looking at him in question.
“We are.”
She gave him a sarcastic grimace. “But we aren’t spies?”
“We’re what we need to be.”
“Okay, then. What’s my assignment?”
“You and Peace will be monitoring the listening devices while Rachel goes through what we’ve recorded so far for anything useful. After she gets Spazz into TGP’s file on the Treffert tank.”
“That could take forever, and there’s no reason to believe I’ll pick up something Neil or Cowboy missed,” Rachel argued.
“Not really. Spazz’s devices only record conversation, not dead air. There should only be a few hours’ worth to wade through.” Eva frowned. “What’s the Treffert tank? I thought I was up on military-grade weaponry, but I’ve never heard of that one.”
Kadin found himself explaining yet again what Spazz and Cowboy had heard Abasi Chuma talking about.
A few hours turned out to be sixteen, but Rachel wasn’t complaining.
Only eight hours away from the deadline Whit had given her, she was tired and nearly comatose from not taking breaks, no matter what she’d claimed when Kadin called in to check on her. She still wasn’t complaining.
Because listening to the sound recordings from Spazz’s eavesdropping devices had proved to be more than a little illuminating.
In fact, it had turned her own conclusions right onto their head.
So far she’d not only heard references to the Treffert tank but also several mentions of Jamila as well.
Why?
Because the man who had come from Egypt with Abasi Chuma was Jamila’s uncle. Couple that with the fact that her father had just arrived with her in Marrakech, and there could be little doubt the brothers were heavily involved in the criminal organization for which Chuma worked.
That was the biggest revelation. Being able to listen to Chuma and his cohorts interact without censoring themselves made her realize that, unlike what she’d first believed, Chuma was not the top dog.
Oh, he was high up in the organization. That was obvious from the way the men who had captured her deferred to him, but he and Jamila’s uncle interacted like equals.
From a couple of comments the two men had made, she surmised they both worked for the same boss. They never named him, which told her two things.
The first, their subordinates didn’t know who the head honcho was. The second, these men were good at and careful about keeping their secrets. It implied that knowledge of who that man was could be dangerous to the man himself.
Why would that be?
Someone important with a stellar reputation? Someone who had connections to government officials and other people of power?
Chuma might have fit those criteria. At first glance. Initially, Rachel had assumed he did. But now that she knew more about him, and now that a new way of thinking about his organization had opened up, it put other observations she’d made during her investigation in a different light.
There was a person in this mix who fit all the criteria—powerful, dangerous, but untouchable—a man Rachel herself had never even suspected as anyone other than someone turning a blind eye to his soon-to-be son-in-law’s questionable activities.
Jamila Massri’s father.
The man might be as innocent as he appeared, but Rachel didn’t generally give men the benefit of the doubt.
Besides, she adhered to the tenet of Occam’s razor: given multiple possible scenarios to explain an outcome, the simplest one was almost always the correct one.
Massri’s future son by marriage and brother worked for the same man. A person they had to contact pretty frequently to do the things they did. Someone with connections who facilitated acquiring privileged information and then sold it to the highest bidder.
Who better than a well-respected doctor with a low-level government appointment that gave him access to those in the know without pointing to him as an obvious person of interest?
She’d been fooled, and it frustrated her.
She’d let herself be blinded by the unassuming-doctor persona Massri used as camouflage. Even his own daughter considered Abasi Chuma more of a “man’s man” than her father.
This discovery, or, rather, deduction, which Rachel’s gut told her was right on, was a huge step forward in TGP’s investigation. Whit was going to be thrilled.
Chills ran straight down Rachel’s spine at the thought. Once Whit found out that Dr. Massri was at the top of the food chain in the organization that her fellow agent Bennet Vincent had uncovered during his operation in Zimbabwe, Whit was going to want Jamila flipped for sure.
No way was Rachel letting that happen. Jamila was already at risk. Setting her to spy on the doctor would increase that risk at least tenfold.
A man who would give his daughter to a man like Abasi Chuma wouldn’t hesitate to kill that same daughter if he discovered she’d betrayed him. Even unwittingly.
Feeling sick to her stomach, Rachel felt terror wash over her at the idea of Chuma discovering his fiancée’s connection to a TGP operative.
Catching and imprisoning Dr. Massri wouldn’t remove the threat to Jamila, either.
Even in prison, men like Massri still had allies on the outside. Allies who could take his revenge on Jamila.
The problem was bigger than just getting Jamila away from Chuma or even out of Africa, for that matter. Somehow, Rachel had to get the other woman to safety without making her a target for Dr. Massri and the unsavory people he worked with.
Rachel was about to turn off the verbal feed and go call Kadin when something Chuma said to Jamila’s uncle caught her attention. Taking quick notes, she tried to understand what they were talking about and its significance.
Because the change in both men’s tones indicated that whatever they were disc
ussing was of some importance. That none of the other men was in the room at the time also pointed to its being of interest.
She highlighted the short discussion in the printout of the recording, correcting a few words the voice-to-text software had gotten wrong, just as she’d been doing all along.
This time felt more important than changing a womb to woman, though.
Planting the bugs in the hotel room went without a hitch; Abdul’s operative reported back to Kadin with an all-clear not fifteen minutes after going into the building. Spazz had said he would wait to activate the listening devices remotely until thirty minutes after Dr. Massri and his daughter checked in to the hotel.
That way, if the rooms were swept for bugs upon the Massris’ arrival, at either his or Chuma’s order, the tiny devices would not register.
Kadin knew that Rachel wasn’t entirely convinced of Dr. Massri’s involvement in Chuma’s criminal activities, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared, regardless. And underestimating the caution of those they were gathering intel on wasn’t something either he or his team made a habit of.
Jamila and her father checked in to the hotel, and not long after, Dr. Massri left her there. Cowboy followed the doctor to a large house outside the city, where he remained until nearly midnight.
Dr. Massri returned to the hotel long after his daughter had gone to bed, having eaten a solitary dinner in her room. Jamila had spent the evening online and then watching a documentary on the migration pattern of birds.
Exciting stuff.
When it became apparent that Dr. Massri had no plans further than going to bed himself, Kadin spoke to Cowboy through their communication earbuds. “Back to the safe house.”
“Roger that.”
It was a thirty-minute walk, and they arrived, from different directions, within a couple minutes of each other.
Kadin knew he should check in with his team first, but he made a beeline for the room he shared with Rachel. He needed to see her sleeping safely in the bed.
Of course, it was empty, and unless Rachel made the bed with the same precise folds as did Abdul’s wife, she hadn’t so much as napped in it in the last sixteen hours.
