Tactical Deception: Silent Warrior, Book 2 (9 page)

He wasn’t as mad as she thought he would be either.

It wasn’t as if her choosing to leave the post didn’t matter. She could see that he was clearly upset and worried about her. But it wasn’t how she’d thought it would be. Her father would have—

Roger wasn’t her father. Never would be. But he wasn’t the easygoing teddy bear Neil had been either. In some ways Roger was like a fierce warrior. Dangerous and remote. She’d seen the deadly anger in his eyes when it came to Dugar. She had no doubt that Roger would kill Dugar with his bare hands if he had to. She’d also seen a haunted darkness in him too. Roger had deep secrets that she instinctively knew he’d never let another person near.

Neil had been different. There wasn’t a part of him he didn’t openly share with her. It wasn’t that he didn’t keep information from her. There were things about his job he couldn’t tell her and things she would never ask him. But his soul and heart had wrapped warmly around her as accepting and loving as a puppy. He’d never said anything to curtail what she did, but then, she’d never ventured beyond the strictures of her upbringing. It was two years before he could talk her into going to the store alone.

It wasn’t until she met Holly that Mari started thinking about doing things outside of the rules, about getting an education, a job, learning to shoot a gun, and yes, one of those things was standing without her abaya before a man who wasn’t her husband, her brother or her father. A man who said she could be
her own woman?
What did that mean?

“Okay?” Roger angled his head to look into her eyes as he set his hands on her shoulders.

She nodded. Her tongue was tied in the gratefulness clogging her throat and in the fire burning through her senses at his heated touch. He’d made this whole big problem and the fiasco of the day all so simple. So easy to let go of and move forward. At least she thought he had. Currently her mind reeled, making coherent thought debatable. His nearness and intensity had her blood racing places her mind couldn’t go yet.

He released her and stepped back. “Hungry?”

“Yes.” She drew in a much-needed breath of air. She thought about grabbing her abaya and putting it on now. Considering the way he made her feel, it would be safer.

“What do you want to eat for dinner?” He started walking out of the bedroom, but his gaze fell on the rumpled bed and she cringed. It looked as if a tornado had struck it, she’d tossed and turned so much.

She rushed over to straighten the bedcovers. “Whatever you want will be fine.”

She didn’t dare look at him. What he must think. He’d loaned her his bed and she couldn’t even leave it neat. Leaning forward with her knees against the mattress, she fixed the blanket and threw the pillows back up to the headboard. She stood back quickly and hit a hard, hot body—an unmistakably aroused, hard, hot, male body. His arm wrapped around her when she teetered with surprise and a visceral shock wave of want hit her hard.

He groaned, deep and guttural.

She gasped and turned to face him, feeling his hand slide along her back and settle on her hip.

He looked fierce, his nostrils flaring as he breathed heavily. His blue eyes penetrated so deep into her that it almost hurt to look into them, a pleasure/pain she couldn’t seem to embrace nor turn away from.

“No ‘whatever you want will be fine’ responses,” he rasped. “Don’t fuss with the bed. Don’t hide behind politeness. Don’t worry if something is going to please me or displease me. I want the real, honest you. I want your opinion. I want to know what your wants and thoughts are. What your feelings are. I want to know the woman you are. And right this minute, I want to know what you are hungry for.”

The word
you
rushed into her mind—forbidden, dangerous.
I’m hungry for you.
She nearly cried out from the confusion and pain inside her. He was so close, so dynamically real. She could practically feel everything about him in the touch of his hand on her hip, his heat, his supple strength, his gripping passion.

“Pizza,” she shouted before anything else she was thinking could escape. “Pizza with cheese and onions and lots of vegetables.” She had to force the words out. Almost shout them and her adamancy surprised her. “What do you want?”

He paused and just stared at her for a moment. His fingers flexed on her hip.

“Meat. I’m a meat lover. I will settle for pepperoni, sausage, ham and…chicken. For now.” He stepped back like a soldier at attention then turned and literally marched stiffly from the room.

Mari frowned. Why was that settling?

Chapter Ten

River of Blood Camp

Union County, Georgia

2000 hours

Ahmed hadn’t felt Allah’s approval in many years. Life had not been good. He’d had many failures and few successes since the Americans invaded his homeland. He’d lost respect, honor and wealth, but that would all change now. Allah would now surely turn blessings Ahmed’s way now.

His son-in-law had done well. In just one day, Salaam’s plan had brought terror into the heart of every American home, but unlike the jihadist of 9/11, Salaam’s soldiers had only just begun. Fewer died at one time, but the terror would be greater.

Ahmed had those who’d remained in the compound gathered together. Everyone watched the multiple news broadcasts reporting on the horrific events of the day. A school bus on its side, mangled and broken in the nation’s capitol. Students had been injured. Three were now dead. Two entire interstates in Texas had been shut down most of the day. The truck drivers shot had caused deadly pileups. Times Square was a ghost town after the sniper attack. Killing a judge in his Chicago high-rise office had been brilliant. Businesses and restaurants were shutting down. People were afraid to even drink a cup of coffee. All of Rodeo Drive had closed and, best of all, the President’s fund-raiser scheduled at the Beverly Hills Wiltshire Hotel for next week had been canceled. No one felt safe anywhere.

Not everyone shot had died, but Salaam would be pleased.

Tomorrow was a crucial step in their plan. That kill had to go well because their ultimate goal hinged on one man’s death. It was so important that Salaam had left the camp to oversee the task. There was—

Ahmed jumped up, shocked at what, no,
who
he saw on the television screen being filmed in the middle of a rioting crowd. He searched quickly for the news affiliate. Fayetteville, North Carolina. It was completely impossible, but the woman was unmistakable. He looked at his son, wondering if Fahran saw her too. But Fahran had his nose in the Qur’an. Ahmed rushed over and jerked the book away, then pulled his son to the back of the room and whispered, “Fahran, look. What do you see?” Ahmed pointed at the shameless dark-haired woman on the television screen.

Fahran frowned. “Maisa? But that is impossible.”

Ahmed smacked Fahran’s arm. “Whisper. No one must know this.”

Fahran turned dark red, but lowered his voice obediently. “It looks like Maisa, but she is here. I just spoke with her and mother twenty minutes ago.”

“It’s not Maisa. It’s Maryam.”

Fahran shook his head. “Impossible. She was left years ago to die in—”

Ahmed gave his own chest a punishing blow. “Did she die though? Did I do my duty and see to our family’s honor? Or did I give in to the pleas of my accursed wife to let Allah take Maryam’s life without violence? I left her locked in a cell, but I did not see her die. That worthless servant Fila and her son Asa who stayed to protect the house must have freed Maryam after we left. Now Allah is punishing me. All that we have worked for is threatened because I did not kill Maryam. This is your last chance to prove to me you are worthy of being my son. You must find her and bring her to me, Fahran. Take Maisa. She will trust Maisa, but don’t tell Maisa of my intent. Tell her I want to forgive Maryam. Go quickly. You must return before Salaam does. Maryam must die or Allah will destroy us all. Do not fail me, Fahran. There is no room for failures in our future plans. You must prove yourself a soldier willing to do all for Islam, for Allah. A man my grandson can look up to.”

Chapter Eleven

Atlanta, Georgia

The downtown police station looked as if it had been ridden hard and then left out in the cold to flounder. Make-do furniture on its last leg, burnt coffee and faded dime-store décor surrounded a divided force. From what Rico could tell half of the cops wandered around in an ineffectual what’s-the-point stupor while the others charged like Dirty Harrys after Hannibal Lecters. Rico ended up with a Dirty Harry aiming for an Oscar.

He preceded GBI Special Agent Brett McKay into a room, feeling the man’s Eastwood gaze bore holes into his back. He wasn’t sure if he liked the SOB yet or not. He did begrudgingly respect the man for his relentless drive, even though Rico had borne the brunt of it.

Something had gone seriously wrong in the hours since the shootings at Piedmont Park. He didn’t know what, but it was big. The GBI was on board and Rico had overheard McKay give his partner the heads-up that a hard-ass from Quantico was on the way.

Shortly after Rico had arrived at the police department, McKay had interrupted Officer Carver’s Q&A session and had taken the reigns of the investigation. McKay started out by confiscating Rico’s ID, supposedly until they had verified his military status and witnesses had corroborated his story about the shootings. Things had gone downhill from there.

McKay had pumped Rico full of coffee and had repeatedly hammered for every minute detail of what had happened since he stepped off the plane that morning. He was surprised at how many things he had noticed even though he’d been wrapped up in Angie’s…everything.

But after four hours of interrogation with his shoulder throbbing like a son of a bitch, he was past the point of steel control and stood a breath away from telling McKay and everyone else exactly where they could go, how they could get there, and what they could do to themselves on their way down. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help, but he was damn tired of being the caged animal in their going-nowhere investigative circus. Not to mention that the woman he came hundreds of miles to see, the woman who’d turned his world upside down, was at the hospital dealing with crap and he wanted to be with her.

The way they were treating him, he might as well have been caught carrying the sniper rifle—something they’d yet to find.

Rico was sure he could find it if they’d let him go look. There weren’t that many places to hide a rifle from the sniper’s nest to where Rico had caught up and fought with him.

Hours later, after verification from Fort Bragg and witness testimony attesting to his whereabouts and actions during the shooting, Rico still wasn’t a free man. McKay and his interrogating pals had taken particular interest in Rico’s recent injury. They’d grilled him forward and backward about what had happened. How it affected him. How he felt about that. Was he angry? Who did he feel was responsible for what happened?

It was a subject that Rico
hated
to talk about, because the outcome of everything was completely up in the air. When it came to his injury, he was standing in quicksand with no escape and could only pray to God his grip on the branch he held didn’t slip. As a result, his conversation with McKay about his injury had not gone well and he’d finally told McKay where he could go. The bastard only shrugged and said he’d be pissed too if someone was rubbing his nose in a possible career-ending injury.

They sent an agent over to Grady Memorial to question Angie, her mother and Franz. So Rico knew secondhand where Angie was and that Franz would apparently be all right. But he’d yet to speak with Angie. Now they wanted him to see if he recognized any of the men in a lineup.

“Guy on the far right is your man,” Rico said. He knew it in a glance even though the man didn’t have fatigues on now and his demeanor was calm.

“Interesting,” McKay said, sounding as if there was something Rico should know.

“Why?” Rico studied the guy one more time to be sure. He was positive and he’d had it with this whole place. “That’s the guy. You’ve got your man now and I’d like to go to the hospital to see about Angie. She’s been through hell.”

“No can do.”

“What do you mean?”

“NCS has you red flagged. So until the suits arrive, you’re here.”

“National Clandestine Service? Why?” Rico wondered if the nightmare could get worse. McKay ignored Rico’s questions.

“Ever met that guy in there before?” McKay asked.

Rico looked back at the man he’d picked out of the lineup. “No.”

“You’re both men of unusual talents.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you join me and I think you’ll understand.”

Rico followed McKay. This time Rico was on the other side of the mirror, looking into the interrogation room. Special Agent Dave Farrell, whom Rico had met earlier, led the man Rico had identified in the lineup into the room. They sat at the table. The man appeared tense, and clasped his hands tightly together as if to stop them from shaking. He was pale and sweating hard like a man on a bad drug trip.

“Relax,” Special Agent Farrell said to the man. “Why don’t we go through what happened today again? Start with who you are.”

“Sergeant Blake Johnson, Special Troops Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment. Fort Benning, Georgia.”