by Ronie Kendig
“So, Takkar let him just waltz back in?” Bledsoe asked.
“It was better than that,” Lance said, the bitter taste of irony on his tongue. “Sajjan—whose own father died five years ago—invited Daniel Jin to take his father’s place. It was a demonstration of honor and respect.”
“So why aren’t we calling into question the man who’s been helping us?” Bledsoe scratched the side of his face. “Because that’s who Takkar is, right? The guy at the A Breed Apart gala? I’m not understanding why he’s not suspect in this. Is he friendly or—?”
“Or.” Lance let the nonqualifier stand. “Our situation here is Meng-Li—Daniel Jin.”
“If he’s in bed with Takkar, shouldn’t we—?”
“Bledsoe. Listen up, all of you.” Lance tried to stow his own frustration. “Takkar will not be discussed. Clear?”
They didn’t like it. Neither did he. But they couldn’t lose focus, and he couldn’t answer questions about Sajjan Takkar. Not here. Not now. Not ever. The fact that he couldn’t discuss the foreign operative should be enough to silence the team. They would read between the lines.
“So, why do we need Walker?” Bledsoe’s tone wasn’t belligerent. “Just curious.”
“Because I’m fluent in Mandarin, and”—her very expressive eyes drifted to Russo, who, by the tilt of his head and the set of his jaw, was listening—“I interned with Takkar Corp.–Shanghai for a year.”
Sliding his hands in his pockets, Lance leaned on the table. “Walker worked as the assistant to Meng-Li’s admin. She has some knowledge on his inner workings. She was the one who came forward with the leads on this case.”
Metal scraping against metal announced Russo’s move. He stood, fingers resting on the table. “That alone is enough to question everything she says. I vote she leaves.”
“Fortunately for me and this mission,” Lance said, “this is not a democracy. You have no vote here. If you don’t like it, suck it up. She’s staying. Get your focus back on the target—find Meng-Li’s claws in our system and chop them off!”
CHAPTER 23
Shanghai, China
18 February—0930 Hours
His pearl lay on the satin sheets, her beauty rivaling the opulence of the room, the incongruent beauty of the pearl. He set the symbolic pearl ring on her pillow and stood back, appraising the two. So similar. She had been an irritant, but he recognized that with refinement, with endurance, she would become a gem.
Showered, dressed, he left the room. Sailed through the penthouse and met his assistant, who inclined his head as he gave an upper-torso bow. How he missed the days of kneeling bows. As his people had long done before their emperors. Respect in physical form.
In the elevator, he turned and, before the doors slid closed, saw Kiew emerge from his bedroom. Long black hair tumbled over her ivory shoulder as she stood wrapped in the sheet, the pearl between her fingers as she watched him. Questions danced in her eyes, but he would not answer them. Not with words, not with a smile. Give her too much encouragement and her weakness would return. She would stop trying.
Several hours in the air aboard his private jet gave Daniel time to meditate. Empty his body of the stress toxins and clear his mind so when he arrived he could move forward confidently. He noticed an obvious decline in his stress levels as the Lear descended into Kabul International Airport.
Singular focus must be maintained to guarantee the success of his mission. Coat buttoned, he hustled down the steps of the jet and into the waiting black SUV, where he loosened the coat. The driver pulled away as soon as Daniel slumped into the rich, ebony leather seats. Congestion through Kabul city caused numerous delays, but they were to be expected—and avoided. The driver detoured time and again onto freer streets, affording Daniel even more contentment when they pulled up in front of the large, multistoried building precisely on time. Never early. Never late.
The door popped open, and Daniel climbed out. He stood, securing the buttons once again as his gaze rose skyward. To the top of the steel-and-glass structure that bore not the name of his father and his partner. But of only the partner. Takkar Corp. glittered despite the thick clouds and snow billowing off the mountains. A northerly wind tossed the flap of his coat against his cheek. A slap, as it were, from the spirit of his father, who did not appreciate being forgotten. Being excluded.
It would be remedied.
Teeth grinding, he stalked up the ten steps to the front door, where Waris Singh met him with an acknowledging nod then escorted him to a private elevator, accessed only by a special key Waris inserted after sliding away a metal plate on the wall. What looked like a tiled wall split in half and opened onto an elaborate elevator adorned with granite, mirrors, and gilded trim. Much more luxurious than his own private elevator in Shanghai.
Waris said nothing, and Daniel repaid the courtesy. Or discourtesy? He would not speak to this underling, and he knew the man held no little disgust for him.
After ascending, the doors slid back silently. No whoosh. No ding. Nothing. Just opened and secreted them onto a floor that provided two paths. To the left where an Exit sign offered a perilously exhausting journey to the roof and basement. And to the right a set of scanners and panels guaranteed a more profitable venture.
Daniel started walking. It was not the first time he’d been here. And there would come a time when he would wait on the other side of the door for the guests. It must be remedied that he held no office here. That his father’s name did not gleam above the city as Takkar’s did.
Again, the paneled wall recessed and a door appeared. Waris accessed it and stepped back for Daniel to enter.
He crossed the threshold, and what met his eyes stopped him cold.
A portrait, at least four-by-five feet, reigned over the large foyer. His belly afire, as if a dragon had been unleashed, he stared at the likeness of Dilraj Takkar.
“It is an incredible likeness, is it not?”
Daniel forced himself to turn toward the voice. To douse the fire within and portray an unaffected facade. “I would have the name of the artist to commission one of my father.”
Sajjan Takkar, distinguished in his expensive suit and bloodred turban, stood at the end of the long hallway. “Indeed! Come, friend. Have a seat.” Beyond him spread a massive view of the ancient city of Kabul, crumbling like a forgotten, unimportant statue of a prince no longer valued.
Daniel moved toward the man. Though Sajjan was in his fifties, he looked no more than Daniel’s own forty years. When he entered the open area, he found lavish sofas huddled around an open fire. All gleaming over the city in which Takkar reigned. And there, reclining on one of the burgundy sofas, was a woman.
American.
“Have you met my wife?” Sajjan turned with an outraised hand. “Nina, meet the son of a friend of my father’s.”
The woman rose and glided to Sajjan. Something was familiar about her. Something…dangerous.
“Meng-Li Jin, meet my wife, Nina Laurens Takkar.”
He did not have time for this, for pleasantries. This trip had been made for business, not to leisurely recline on sofas and meet American whores who sought money over morals. Though he gave an acknowledging nod, Daniel turned to Sajjan. “I would speak with you”—it hurt to say the next word, but for the sake of civility and pretense, he did—“friend.”
“Daniel, I asked Waris to bring you here so we could have privacy and openness.”
He slid his gaze to the woman.
“Mom, you ready?” Another woman emerged from the side, this one dressed in black military pants, hiking boots, and a jacket. “Tony? Ready?” Behind her trotted a massive dog that seemed to control the entire room. And trailing the beast of a dog—
Daniel took an involuntary step backward. Stop! No weakness. But that man—he was familiar, not personally, but that he was a soldier. He had the bearing that shifted Daniel’s confidence. That knocked his reassurance out of alignment.
“Baby, I was born ready!” Thoug
h the man’s words were casual, lighthearted, there was nothing light or casual about the way his gaze raked Daniel.
“That’s my cue.” Nina turned to Sajjan, kissed his cheek then whispered something before she spun and smiled at him. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Jin.”
That was why he did not like Americans. Why he used their stupid American name—because they did not understand Chinese name structure. That his name was not Mr. Jin. It was Mr. Meng-Li. His first name was Jin. Irritation clawed its way up his spine, digging into each vertebra with razor-sharp talons.
Silence draped the luxurious room, making the cozy setting feel empty. Icy. In his own, temporary isolation, he warned himself not to let this upset the meditation that had secured peace of mind. Sajjan Takkar would not devastate his plans, neither for peace of mind, nor destruction of the American military.
“Daniel, are you well, friend?” Sajjan’s voice broke through his thoughts.
He turned to face the Sikh. “I would ask for your help, Sajjan.”
The man turned his head, considering. Weighing. As if he might find something lacking about Daniel—absurd! “I’m listening.”
Listening. Had he not earned more than a platitude of “listening”? Where was the commitment their fathers had sealed in blood decades ago? Had he been wrong to think this man would work with him to tear down their common enemy, the one Muslims termed the Great Satan?
“You know what I like about you, Daniel?”
The words drew him away from the window. When he turned, he found Sajjan sitting on the massive sofa that dwarfed the rest of the living area. Waris had taken a seat on a bar stool, one leg propped on the foot support rung near the bottom.
“Your dedication is unshakable.” Sajjan straightened, forearms resting on his knees as he scooted to the edge of the dark cushion. “While you had so little, you fought and created an empire.”
“With no thanks from”—careful, he warned himself—“those capable of assisting.”
Sajjan stood, slid a hand in a pocket, the other coming to rest on Daniel’s shoulder. “But your strength, Daniel, is that you did not need their help. The fire within you burned hot and you forged your own way.”
“And now,” Daniel said, his anger dulled by the generous words. “I come to ask for your help. Does that make me weak?”
Laughing, Sajjan stroked his beard. “I would like to think that makes you wise.” He waved a hand to Waris. “We all have those whose counsel we seek.”
“It is not counsel I seek.” Did the man think him so beneath him that he needed others to tell him which way to walk? How to run? “It is cooperation.”
“You have it, old friend.”
Daniel’s heart pulsed hard. “You have not heard what I need help with.”
“But our fathers made a pact years ago that you and I both agreed to maintain.”
Lifting his chin, Daniel could not help but stare speculatively. “Perhaps you should know the facts before you agree.”
“Then you should think twice before you lay it on the table.”
“Where does your loyalty lie? With the Americans? With the Afghans?”
“My loyalty,” he said, lifting a cigar from a tray before facing Daniel, “is where I lay it.” He sliced the end of the cigar, lit the end, then puffed on it.
“Are you saying you can be bought?”
The man’s expression went dark. “You are a friend so I will forgive your indiscretion in questioning my character.”
“No insult, I only meant—”
“Have you a favor to ask?” Hazy circles puffed around his head as Takkar stared with those dark eyes, pinning Daniel. “Or a demand to make?”
Indignation coursed through him, hot and virulent. How dare this man! He had taken full control of the company, made it his own, lived fat and rich in a skyscraper when— “The Americans need to be dealt with.”
“And how would you propose we do that?”
“Takkar Corp.”
“Explain.”
“You have one of the best security and technology divisions in the country. I want help disrupting their communications.”
“To what end?”
Here was where he’d need to get creative. “With one hand they have played their cards well, pretending to leave the country as agreed.” Sajjan leaned against the sofa, arms crossed, the cigar smoking in his left hand. “And with their other?”
“They have planted rogue teams to remain in country.”
“This is old news, Daniel.” Sajjan straightened and walked around the room, hovering at the window for a few minutes. “Do not play your own cards here at my risk.” He leveled a decisive glare at him. “Takkar Corp. will help you, but only with absolute openness so I can prepare for and contend with the fallout.”
Daniel stood stunned.
Sajjan puffed on his cigar. “What do you need?”
CHAPTER 24
Kabul, Afghanistan
19 February—1915 Hours
All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.’ ” Brian stood before the wall dribbling plaster with years of use. They tacked up their map, the trail, the clues.
“Wise words,” Lieutenant Hastings said as she joined him at the wall. “Who said it?”
“Galileo.” Brian couldn’t make sense of the information they’d gathered. It felt as if he was crawling out of his skin with the lack of progress.
“You know, your personnel file shows you could probably become a Mensa.”
Disgust spiked through Brian. He shot her a glare. He wouldn’t get caught up in dwelling on his dad. He had to solve this. They had to stop this guy.
“You’ve sat there at the computer for days working on stuff I’ve seen some of the brightest minds do back at Langley and the DIA.” Hastings folded her arms and studied him. “Yet every test you’ve taken with the Army, you’ve passed. Nothing spectacular but just above average.”
He gritted his teeth.
“In light of what happened with your father, I can’t help but wonder—”
“Don’t.” Brian pivoted and returned to the bank of monitors where Falcon sat, tracking troop movement, radio coms. “We need something to work with here.” Anything to get Hastings off his back.
“Bledsoe.” Hastings remained at the wall but faced him. “I believe you can solve this. Why haven’t you?”
His jaw dropped. It actually dropped—just a fraction—but he couldn’t believe the woman’s audacity. He slowly straightened at the insinuation lingering in her words. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing complicated.” She went on even as Titanis moved in behind her. Was the Aussie defending her or stepping in to stop her—which really would be protecting her as well? “Just that you’ve always avoided being labeled anything close to your father, but there’s an intelligence in that head of yours I’d bet is off the charts.”
“That right?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t wavering. “What do you need to figure this out, Bledsoe? This doesn’t take fists or guns. This is technology, and that’s LEGOs to a guy like you.”
“LEGOs.” A guy like me.
“Yeah.”
Heat flared across Brian’s shoulders but then dumped out just as quick. She was trying to bait him. Egg him on. But it didn’t matter. “We’re up against a monstrosity of technological engineering.” And they didn’t have a prayer. Fighting the unfightable. Searching for the invisible.
Elbows on the table, Brian held up his hands, letting them express his point as much as his words. “It’s like you—sitting in your comfy ergonomic chair in your snazzy dress blues and thinking you actually know how the heck a tactical operation should go, how the men on that team should solve the terrorist attack of the decade just because you decide”—his voice pitched at the same time a hand came to rest on his shoulder—“a guy with a brain should’ve already solved this crap.”
Beside him, Captain Watters gave a gentle squeez
e of his shoulder muscle. A nonverbal cue to be both careful and calm down. “I think we’re all doing our best, and I’m certain Lieutenant Hastings is not implying anything.”
Her eyes widened. “That wasn’t even close to what I meant.”
Brian gave her a mock grin. “I guess I’m not as smart as you thought.”
Her eyes narrowed.
He returned his focus to the notes he’d taken, the chicken scratch from hours of scanning the IP trail that ricocheted across the globe. He had the IP hits sorted by location, repeats, unique hits, length of time—anything that might possibly become something.
And yet, it was nothing.
“You okay?” the captain asked.
“Fine.” Brian lifted his IP trail and hammered in the coordinates. Just need a Titanic-sized break in this iceberg.
And of all the stupid, asinine things—to accuse him of not trying. The woman didn’t know how close to the mark she’d hit with that comment had this been ten years ago.
Or even six months ago.
But he would do anything to chop TN1 into a thousand pieces.
“I’m rarely wrong,” Hastings countered.
The woman just didn’t give up. “Tell you what, baby,” Brian said, feeling the thump of his pulse against his temple. “Give me something to work with, not this rat bait you’ve suffocated our time with, and I can solve this. But this is like a microscopic needle in a haystack. If you had something useful—an e-mail, a voice mail, a recording of—”
“We have a recording,” Hastings said.
Brian stilled. “What?”
“We have a recording,” she repeated, verifying with a quick look to where Burnett emerged from the other room with Walker.
“What recording?” the captain asked.
Hastings gave Brian a sympathetic look. “It’s from Bledsoe’s ambush with the supply team.”
I’m going to be sick. God had a cruel sense of humor. Though his gut roiled at the thought of having to break that down—
“We’ve had teams going over it.” Burnett sounded like he was justifying.
“Give it to me.” Keeping a civil tone wasn’t important right then. Figuring this mess out was.
