The image of her eldest daughter, Sabreena, flashed through her mind. Murdered by government troops simply because she had been in the wrong place and the wrong time. That’s why Adad had taken up arms in the first place—revenge. But their other children were now stuck in Syria, a country torn apart by civil war while the West refused to act. Sargon said they needed to demonstrate that the instability in Syria could overflow even as far as the heartland of America and then the Americans would intervene. Breadcrumbs of evidence would point to the Syrian Government, and maybe then the West would arm the rebels and help expel the vicious tyrant from power.
Sargon had requested her help, told her that her children would be raised as his own if anything happened to her. Promised to help get them to safety if she succeeded.
Well, she had succeeded. She’d worked at the mall for several months and supplied all the information they’d needed to stage the assault. Her stomach clenched. Many of the people she’d worked with had been killed today.
She sobbed loudly and someone patted her back. The faces of the people who had died flashed through her mind and her sobs became louder. Then she saw her own daughters. Her beloved husband.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They’d been such normal people leading such ordinary lives. Now she had to get her daughters out of Syria, out of danger. Save her babies before the real war started.
***
Sargon Al Sahad sat in his villa in Rabieh on the outskirts of Greater Beirut and chuckled at the events unwinding on his satellite TV. He’d already checked his bank account and then transferred the first half of the payment into a Swiss numbered account. He was now a very wealthy man.
Of course, he’d already been a wealthy man. And he wanted the second half of his payment, along with the luxury of time to enjoy his riches.
He popped a fresh, succulent fig in his mouth and savored the sweetness that flooded his senses. The phone beside him on the couch rang. He’d been expecting the call.
“You’ve done well,” the voice said with no introduction.
Sargon preened. “Did I not tell you I could do it?”
“Do your people suspect?” The man’s voice was deep and full of undercurrents of immense power.
Sargon craved that sort of power. “They believe we are setting up the regime so the West will step in, which I suppose is true. No one suspects anything else. Our secret is exactly that. As promised.” A Syrian by birth, Sargon was sick of watching his country being systematically torn apart from the inside. For good or bad his homeland would be rid of the old regime and ready to rebuild. And when the fighting died down, he intended to be at the forefront of that political revolution. Until then he was biding his time in Lebanon—although the people he’d recruited in the US believed he was still fighting on the frontlines. A necessary subterfuge.
“As long as the American people never suspect where the terrorist plot truly originated.”
The enemy of my enemy is my friend. “That would be a death sentence for us both,” Sargon agreed.
The man gave a heavy sigh. “Is the next part of the plan in place?”
A film of sweat bloomed on his back and made the thin cotton of his shirt stick there. This was the part that made him nervous. It was a tightly balanced plot that had many potential downfalls. He prayed it would work.
“Do not worry, my friend.” If his part in it was ever revealed it would make him the most hunted man on the planet. He didn’t want Bin Laden’s fame or his fate. “We both have too much to lose for this to fail. No one will link either of us to the attack. The evidence will point elsewhere.” Nothing could connect back to him or his powerful ally.
“I won’t contact you again,” the man said.
Sargon put the handset back in the cradle and climbed slowly to his feet. Time to move on. People who got sloppy didn’t live to get old. Sargon intended to grow very, very old.
***
Snow obscured Elan’s vision, making it hard to see from his position on the roof of an insurance building a half kilometer east of the Minneapolis Mall. The mall itself was surrounded by emergency vehicles; people were running through the streets, heading away from the chaos and violence. In his homeland this was where the danger was greatest, but these people seemed oblivious.
Helicopters buzzed in the air above, risking much as the weather ramped up to a bitter, arctic storm.
Ambulances streaked through the streets below him, lights flashing, sirens screaming with a compelling sense of urgency as they swept through intersections.
Right now everything was going to plan, but he wasn’t foolish enough to trust blind luck. A helicopter turned and headed toward him, back to the airport. He withdrew into the shadows.
His breath condensed on his binoculars and he wiped the lenses clean. His heart was heavy. Life was precious. But stakes were too high to lose his nerve. He had his orders, to watch, to oversee, to clean up any mess that might lead back to them. He was very good at cleaning up other people’s messes.
CHAPTER FOUR
Vivi sat beside Michael as he lay in a hospital bed. The relief of seeing him safely out of the mall had quickly morphed into panic when he’d passed out in the parking lot. The ambulance had sped through traffic, sirens blazing even though the medic figured it was just a combination of low blood sugar and stress. Vitals had been stable, but his blood pressure had dropped dangerously low. The other patient riding with them had been a fifty-year-old woman with a shrapnel wound in her leg. The woman had worked hard at reassuring her that Michael would be OK.
Such bravery humbled her.
Vivi couldn’t believe how close they’d all come to death today. The fact they were still breathing was a miracle—knock on wood.
The doctors had assured her that Michael was basically fine, but his face was waxy pale against the white sheets, and worry gnawed at her insides with a physical grind.
She held his hand, but he’d withdrawn from her, and every time he focused inward she had to fight her instinct to hold on to him even tighter because smothering him only exacerbated his need to escape. David—her ex—always said she fussed too much. Whereas he had ignored or belittled their son. Treated Michael like a failed military recruit, barking orders, yelling insults—worse. That was before he’d ditched them for some hot NSA agent with 36 DD boobs and a Ph.D. in Astrophysics.
The woman had done them both a favor.
Vivi had married a jerk, but at least she’d received this precious gift of a child. So even though she wished David a serious case of erectile dysfunction she never regretted having fallen for him in the first place. He was the price she’d paid for the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Michael.
She clasped his warm hand in her cold one and tried not to squeeze too tight. It was natural to be introspective after what had happened today. She hadn’t even begun to process everything, and she was an adult.
A small, persistent tug on her conscience told her she needed to call Michael’s father, even though the idea of talking to him right now made her ill. Still, he could make things hard for her if he chose. Better to head him off with a dose of cold, clinical information and an invitation to come visit if he had any concerns. That should keep him far, far away.
The hospital was abuzz with activity. They’d set in motion an emergency response contingency plan and every bed they could spare had been cleared and assigned to patients injured in the mall attack. Michael was in the orthopedics ward, along with many other people who’d received minor wounds. Vivi had closed the curtain around the bed to try and create the illusion of privacy, but it was noisy, and tension snapped through the air, putting everyone on edge.
The attack was over, thank God. The terrorists were presumed dead; law enforcement were clearing the mall and searching for terrified civilians and booby trap bombs.
The curtain swished open, and the nurse came in dragging an IV pole.
“How’s our boy doing?” The nurse was a m
uscular guy with a round, smiley face and a booming voice. Michael turned his face away.
“He’s exhausted.” Vivi wanted to hold him close to her chest.
Don’t baby him.
“No wonder. You said he hid in a cupboard in the toy store when terrorists were nearby, and they never suspected a thing?”
Vivi could barely stand to think about it, but Michael’s lips turned up slightly at the corners; he was obviously pleased people knew how heroic he’d been.
She went with it. Tried to engage him and draw him out. “He was incredibly brave. You stayed there until the police could get to you and the bad guys didn’t even know you were under their noses, right Michael?”
He nodded weakly. The tiny spark of interest in the conversation bolstered her.
“You are one brave kid. I would have peed my pants.” The nurse started an IV to rehydrate Michael and get his blood sugar levels up. His lips looked dry and cracked. He licked them pathetically.
“Can I give him some water?” she asked the nurse as he filled in a chart at the end of the bed.
He nodded. “Sure, but just a sip or two every so often. It shouldn’t take long for him to feel better now that he’s getting some fluids inside him. Wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t discharged in a couple of hours.” Because they needed as many beds freed up as possible…
She gave the guy a sad smile and he patted her on the shoulder. “It’s going to be OK. It’s over now.”
She’d tried not to think about all the suffering, but images kept rushing back in horrific detail. The mother being shot and falling on her young son, probably saving his life by shielding him with her body. The unnatural angle of the cooks’ bodies in the restaurant kitchen. The drops of crimson blood on white tile…
Nausea threatened but she forced it down. She needed to be strong for Michael. How would he be able to deal with something he couldn’t talk about? She didn’t know. She was going to have to get back in contact with Dr. Hinkle. If he’d agree to counsel Michael she might agree to a longer term study, but no more MRIs. Michael had panicked in the machine that morning and no way was she putting her son through more trauma.
Diagnosis was complicated. The doctors couldn’t even agree on whether Michael was autistic or not. The lack of definitive answers made decisions about treatment and schooling even more torturous, but they were muddling through. Coping. Just.
Or, at least, they had been.
She didn’t want to lie to her son about what had happened today. It was important he knew exactly what he’d faced and overcome. The world could be a dangerous place. But she didn’t want to freak him out either.
“Were there many injured?” she asked.
The light in the nurse’s eyes turned bleak and he nodded. “Hundreds of people with minor injuries. About thirty in life-threatening condition.”
She placed a light hand on the nurse’s elbow and leaned closer so Michael wouldn’t overhear. “A woman was brought in. She’d been shot and lost a lot of blood. She had two children with her, a toddler and a baby girl. Do you know if she…?”
The nurse’s brows slid together. “I think I know who you’re talking about. She was in surgery last I heard. I’ll try and find out how she’s doing.”
“Thank you.” She hoped the woman lived. The idea of children growing up without a mother was awful…still, it beat not growing up at all.
The nurse moved on to another patient. Vivi gave Michel another sip of water. He squeezed her fingers tighter for a moment but then his grip gradually slackened. His eyes drifted closed, chest rising and falling steadily. He was asleep.
She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. Then she carefully disengaged his fingers and stood. She wore blue, paper slippers which looked ridiculous. The soles of her feet were covered in small lacerations which had been cleaned and disinfected, but they were starting to throb in reaction to the battering they’d taken and no way could she wear her heels. She stretched out her spine and heard a click as the vertebrae realigned.
She needed to use the facilities and she wanted to see if she could find out any news on the children she’d rescued. She also had to call her ex.
Leaning over Michael, she kissed his cheek and touched the cleft in his jaw, the only thing he’d inherited from his father.
Special Agent Jed Brennan had the same dent in his chin. For a moment, she recalled the burning intensity of his eyes just before he’d gone back inside the mall to rescue Michael. Some of her tension leeched out. She’d been furious with him but he’d kept his promise and gotten Michael out unharmed. The chance of ever seeing him again was slim, but if she did she owed him an apology.
She went over to the nurse and asked him to watch Michael for five minutes. That’s all she’d need because her ex never picked up when she called, so she’d leave a brief message and save them both some angst. Straightening clothes that had looked so smart that morning and were now bloody and rumpled, she limped out of the ward. She had to be back before Michael woke.
***
Pilah lay in bed listening intently. She’d been admitted to the hospital after she’d feigned a swoon in the parking garage and hit her head on the concrete, giving herself a bloody nose. Aside from a slight headache she felt OK. She could walk. She could run if she had to.
The kid in the next bed had been hiding in the toy store? Had he overheard them saying her name? Or Sargon’s? That could blow the whole point of them trying to set up the Syrian Government. She tried to remember what they’d been talking about then but the operation was a blur of gut-wrenching action and deafening gunfire.
They’d been assigned code-names, but Bazal wasn’t the smartest knife in the block and slipped up more than once during the day. Even the fact she was a woman was information she didn’t want out there. Had they mentioned the fact there’d be a second attack?
Sargon Al Sahad had guaranteed her children’s safety if she helped them stage this attack on the mall, but if she was captured? They had never discussed that scenario. Her fingers gripped the cool sheets and her jaw clenched so hard she could feel it click. He would kill her daughters slowly and painfully if he thought she’d betrayed him.
She had to get rid of the boy. She wouldn’t risk the safety of her own children for that of someone else’s.
Her heart pumped rapidly at the thought of what she needed to do. She didn’t have a gun or a bomb. It was much easier to end a life when you didn’t have to look someone in the eye or hold their warm body in your arms as they struggled for breath.
The image of Sabreena, broken and twisted, flashed through her mind and hardened her resolve. Children died all the time. No one cared.
The mother in the cubicle next door asked the nurse to watch the boy for a few minutes, then Pilah heard her leave. This might be her only chance to get him without the eagle eyes of his mother watching over him. You should never leave your babies alone. She’d learned that the hard way.
If she pulled the curtain completely around her bed and smothered the child with a pillow it would be quiet and look like natural causes—at least in the short-term. She’d walk out of here as if nothing had happened.
They’d suspect her eventually of course…
She bit her lip. She didn’t want anyone to suspect her, but what could she do?
The nurse checked a pager and strode out of the ward in a hurry.
Sweat dampened her skin as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet hit the floor and a bolt of cold shot through her. A gentle wave of dizziness made her pause to find her balance. They would have no idea the boy had been smothered until the autopsy, which could take some time given today’s events. She dragged the curtain all the way around her bed. The only person who’d had a view of her was a woman who’d been sedated because she was screaming so much. Only the nurse had paid her any real attention and he must have seen a hundred patients today. Given the general confusion, she bet no one would remember exactly what she looked like or
even suspect her as long as she didn’t panic. She’d have to risk it.
She needed to be brave. Her children’s survival depended on her. Her hand was on the curtain that separated her from the child when the nurse strode into her cubicle.
“I-I thought I heard the boy cry out…” Her voice crackled. Guilt radiated from her in waves that made her cheeks burn.
The man didn’t seem to notice. “That would make a lot of people very happy.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
The nurse came closer and lowered his voice. “He’s mute. Has been for years. The poor little guy can’t speak.”
The heavy darkness that had fallen over her lifted and dissipated with a blast of relief that made her sway. “Poor little guy,” she echoed.
The nurse pursed his lips. “You can sign your release papers at the desk. Any lingering headaches or vision problems and you come back here or go see your GP, OK? You have someone at home?”
She nodded. “My mother.”
“Rest up.” He smiled and moved away.
She groped for her shoes beside the bed. She did not live with her mother. Her mother had died shortly after Pilah came to the US to visit her after she became ill. Adad had made her stay in the US where she was a dual citizen, and apply for visas to get their girls out of danger. But Syrian government forces bombed her home and killed her eldest child before the application came through.
She pulled on her new coat. That’s why she’d helped Sargon do such awful things today, but she wasn’t part of the rebel movement. She wasn’t a terrorist. She’d kept her part of the bargain. No way was she going to lose her two remaining children.
As she left the ward, she didn’t look at the child she would have killed to keep silent. She refused to empathize with someone else’s kin when no one gave a damn about hers. She didn’t think he knew anything of real importance, and she was grateful she hadn’t had to harm him. “All praise be to Allah,” she whispered soundlessly as she walked away, keeping her head down in case of security cameras. Her part in this was almost over.
Cold Pursuit (Cold Justice) (Volume 2) Page 4
