Cover of Darkness (2 page)

The American ambassador returned to his seat with a secretive smile and passed her a roll under the table. She accepted it with a conspiratorial wink and tore off a piece, and popped it discreetly into her mouth, listening carefully while one of the ambassadors discussed the positions of the different political factions in and around Beirut and the rest of the war-torn country. Her father, ever the analytical businessman, saw the necessity in maintaining strong ties with the United States. While many of his countrymen hated America and all it represented, Jamul knew his country needed U.S. assistance to survive. A necessary evil, if you will. She kept silent, missing nothing, and during a lull in the conversation turned part of her attention back to the strangely behaving waiter across the room.

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He'd moved next to the window facing the front of the building, and as she watched, he darted an anxious glance down at the street below. When he looked up, their gazes locked for an instant. She could have sworn he froze for a split second, then jerked his eyes away and hurried into the kitchen out of view.

Weird, she thought, taking a sip of champagne. Something was bothering that guy. He looked almost frightened. The forerunners of unease prickled up her spine. She was definitely going to keep a close eye on him, and if he kept behaving strangely, she'd quietly say something to one of the security guards. Better to look like an alarmist than sit and do nothing.

Responding to the conversation where necessary, taking it all in, Bryn remained vigilant for that waiter. He reappeared a few minutes later and stayed close to that same window, wiped his perspiring face twice, three times, dark eyes shifting this way and that, avoiding her gaze. She stared directly at him, instinct shrieking at her that something was wrong.

Anti-American sentiment was at an all-time high in the region. Beirut itself had its share of known terror cells and many more that were yet unknown. Security was extremely tight in the city, especially around its government institutions and officials. Her own father lived in his compound-like house with bodyguards and other security personnel. Cameras scanned the grounds, and snipers took shifts protecting the property. Many groups would love to see Jamul Daoud dead because of his desire to maintain political relations with the 16

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U.S. Maybe others would love to see it happen because he'd had a daughter with an American woman.

Another waiter, taller with a small scar bisecting his chin, came and stood next to the first one, then leaned down to murmur something to him. The tight anxiety on the small man's face melted away, replaced by acute relief. He shuffled away to the kitchen and moments later came back with a covered silver dish. With what seemed to her like the utmost concentration, he placed it ever so carefully on the buffet table against the far wall, then hurried out of the dining room without looking back. The last piece of him she saw before he disappeared was his sleeve as it wiped across his forehead.

Odd. What was he up to? Why the nerves? She glanced to either side of her to find out if anyone else had noticed the strange behavior, but everyone seemed engrossed in their own conversations. Maybe she was making too much of it.

She turned her attention back to the second waiter, still positioned by the window. A flare of shock hit her when she realized he was staring right back at her. Those dark eyes seemed to burn right through her, brimming with hatred, paralyzing her. Then he smirked. An evil smirk, one that sent a cold wave of fear up her spine. He knew she'd been watching them. Still holding her gaze, he drew his finger across his throat in a slow slitting motion as he walked away.

The implication of the gesture chilled her blood.

She shot to her feet, panic grabbing her. "Somebody stop him!" she cried, and the waiter jolted forward at her words.

Everyone at the table stared up at her in shock. "That waiter, stop him!"

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Her father frowned at the unseemly interruption, set his silverware down. His brows lowered. "What—"

The waiter was almost past the guards now.

"That man, get him," she continued, shoving her chair back and almost tripping on the hem of her gown as she pointed impotently after him. Why wasn't anyone
doing
anything? Her alarm must have been obvious, because the others at the table had grown silent, staring at her.

"Get security after him." With her heart in her throat, she struggled to get past the ambassador, gesturing wildly to the security guards. Why didn't they see her? She was waving and yelling like a crazy woman.

A terrible thought occurred to her. Were they in on it? Was that why no one was doing anything? Dread made her breath shorten.

Her father dropped his napkin on the table and shot to his feet, his face concerned. "Bryn, what are you doing?"

"Just stop him, quick!" She couldn't afford to wait and explain, so she rushed toward the two Marines standing guard as fast as she could in an evening dress and four-inch heels.

They finally glanced at her, posture stiffening at the alarm on her face. God, why was everything happening so slowly?

Her father barked a quick command and they'd just gone out the doors after the waiter when the power went out.

Heart pounding in the sudden blackness, Bryn skidded to a stop amidst the gasps of the stunned dinner guests. Shouts and three distinct gunshots rang out from down the hall.

Pandemonium erupted around her.

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"Get down! Everybody get down!" More security agents rushed in, yelling instructions.

Bryn hit the floor and crawled under the nearest table, breath heaving in and out. What the hell was going on? Some kind of terrorist plot?

A second later the explosion ripped through the room, shattering glass and sending a wall of orange fire through the air. The force of it threw Bryn backwards and slammed her into the wall. She lay there, winded and disoriented. Her head spun. People screamed and sobbed around her, men shouting in English and Arabic, rushing around. She could barely see in the darkness.

Strong hands grabbed her under the shoulders and yanked her roughly out from under the table. Too weak to protest, she moaned as her rubbery legs gave out and she was dragged across the glass- and debris-strewn carpet, crying out as jagged shards sliced at her skin. The man helping her was speaking in rapid Arabic. It took her a moment to focus on the words, but when her brain processed them, she realized what he was saying. He had the 'traitor's daughter.'

He was not her savior, but her kidnapper.

Well, he had picked the wrong target. She would not go quietly, no matter how dazed she was.

She struggled frantically in his hard grip, managed to land an elbow to his ribs, and he swore. Twisting free, she crawled forward a few feet, her damned dress tangling around her legs. Someone else grabbed her and she flipped onto her back with a cry of rage, lashing out with all her strength and using her high heels as daggers. Her feet hit nothing but air, 19

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and when she tried to gain her equilibrium, a thick arm wrapped around her throat, cutting off her breath. She tried to jerked her head back, but it only bounced off her assailant's chest, so she slammed both fists upward, making solid contact on bone. The instant the pressure around her throat lessened, she fought her way free and lunged forward.

Smoke burned her eyes and throat. She coughed and blinked rapidly, blinded by the dimness and her watering eyes.

Amidst the burning wreckage of the room, people still scrambled around. She couldn't see her father as she weaved toward the sliver of light coming from the broken door leading to the hallway. Where was he? Was he hurt? Chest heaving, lungs burning with the effort, she crawled over to claw at the heavy wooden door, desperate for some light so she could see in the ruined room. Hands wrenched her backward.

Someone hit her hard across the back of the neck and something sharp stabbed into her shoulder. She had only a second to register the burn of the needle before everything went black.

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Day 1, Off the Lebanon coast

Evening

Seated in the officers' mess hall, Navy SEAL Lieutenant Declan McCabe took another sip of his blessedly hot coffee and tried to figure out the last clue to complete his crossword puzzle, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. It was damned good to have some downtime after spending the past four months in and around Iraq, deep in enemy territory. He and his team had earned this leave coming to them, and everybody was looking forward to going home in the next day or two. Hard footfalls on the linoleum made him glance up.

The approaching Navy captain's face was grim.

"You'd better come see this," he said.

Dec rose, already on alert because of that serious expression. "What's up, sir?"

"CNN's broadcasting a bombing at the embassy in Beirut,"

the captain replied as he led the way down the hall.

Dec's muscles tightened. Beirut was only miles from where the carrier was patrolling. If a SEAL team was needed, they'd probably get the call. Entering the media room, his eyes locked on the flat screen TV anchored on the far wall. The embassy was in flames. The explosion had been big, killing at least three and wounding dozens more. Several terrorist groups were suspected, but none had been positively identified. Dec ran through the immediate possibilities.

Hezbollah came to mind. So did Hamas, Fatah and Al Qaeda.

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One report said a Lebanese official had been kidnapped, along with an American civilian. A hostage extraction like that had SEALs written all over it, and since they were the closest team, he prepared himself for the call. His training had him scanning the burning wreckage for entry and exit points, places where a sniper might take refuge. He searched the crowd for faces he might recognize, but didn't see anyone familiar.

The captain looked at him over his shoulder. "Guess you boys won't be going stateside yet."

"No sir, guess not." Another mission was about to be dropped into their laps. Dec studied the footage a minute longer, then left to find his team and give them the heads up.

Day 1, Syria

Late evening

In his Damascus hotel room, Luke Hutchinson picked up the remote to turn up the volume on the TV and then placed it back on the nightstand next to his loaded Glock. The Al Jazeera anchor outlined the bombing and possible kidnapping at the U.S. Embassy in Beirut.

Dammit, he'd
known
his target had been about to do something big. No one else had considered the threat credible, however.

He bet they were sorry now.

As for the city the attack had happened in...God, he fucking
hated
Beirut. He'd served two long tours in that shit-hole back in the eighties and still considered it the worst deployment he'd been on. He'd seen and done a lot of ugly 22

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things in his fifty-one years, but Beirut had surpassed them all.

He listened dispassionately to the report, taking in the images of people being rescued from the building, their clothes and faces covered in smoke and soot. A high-ranking Lebanese cabinet minister had been at the embassy for a state dinner when the bomb had gone off. Information was sketchy, but so far at least two deaths had been confirmed.

One source said the cabinet minister was unaccounted for.

Another placed his daughter at the scene, now missing as well.

Tension spread through his gut. Jamul. He could have been at the embassy for the dinner. And he had a daughter. A half-American daughter who visited him each summer. A perfect target if you were a terrorist who wanted some international attention and a whole lot of ransom money to fund your activities. Like Farouk Tehrazzi.

His cell phone buzzed against his hip. He stared at the caller ID screen and his stomach squeezed tighter when he recognized his son's number. Even though they'd half-assed patched up their rocky relationship a few months back, Rayne wouldn't be calling at this hour just to say hi. No doubt he'd seen the coverage on CNN and feared his friend was in trouble.

Shit, sometimes he hated being right.

He hit the talk button. "Hey, Rayne."

"Sorry to call so late—"

"I wasn't asleep." No surprise there. He hardly slept at all.

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"I'm watching CNN right now and there's been a bombing—"

"I know. I'm watching it too."

His son sighed. "Think it might be Bryn? Mom told me she was flying out early this week to visit her dad, and now they're talking about this politician's daughter possibly being kidnapped."

"Yeah. I'll find out what I can, okay? I'll call you when I know something." He didn't have to tell his son he couldn't say where he was, or what he was doing. As a former Marine and son of a Navy SEAL, Rayne had known from an early age there were certain things he could never know about his dad.

"I'd appreciate it. Think there'll be a rescue attempt?"

"SEALs, probably." His own SEAL team had done many a hostage extraction, and he knew American officials would already be scrambling to put a plan together. If they went in, Luke bet he knew who would get the job. One name kept coming up from the SEAL community based in the Middle East, the rising star within its ranks: Lieutenant Declan McCabe. "Bet it's in the works right now. I mean, she's an American citizen, daughter of a Lebanese official who happens to be a big U.S. ally. Plus her story's all over CNN."

"Any chance you'll be involved? We're all really worried about her."