Targeted (FBI Heat) (12 page)

W
hen the cell phone on the nightstand rang, Kevin Rawlings reached for it without raising his head from the pillow. “Rawlings,” he mumbled, opening one eye to read 3:58 a.m. on the alarm clock.

“Sorry to wake you, sir, but we have a situation,” an anxious female voice explained curtly.

In his world, the word “situation” could mean just about anything so Rawlings was upright and wide-awake by the last syllable. “What is it, Special Agent Zafar?”

“Baheera Abbas, the al-Qaeda woman. She’s gotten much worse.”

“Define ‘worse.’”

“She’s…bleeding…,” Jamila Zafar started hesitantly.

“Bleeding? Did she fall? Cut herself?”

“No, sir. She’s bleeding…vaginally. Heavy.”

“Goddammit! Could it be a miscarriage? Did she tell us or did we check to see if she was pregnant?”

“No indication of pregnancy, Mr. Rawlings. She’s also…vomiting blood…”

“Jesus.”

“And screaming in pain. The medics have already administered morphine, but it doesn’t seem to be helping.”

“Son of a bitch. Have her taken by ambulance to the hospital. Immediately. Send all the security personnel that are on duty with her and call for backup. I don’t want to take any chances. I’ll meet you there. I’m on my way.”

He kissed his wife and told her he was leaving. He’d gotten home at midnight, and now he was on the move again at four. In the last two weeks, he had not slept for more than five hours in any one night, and tonight was no exception.
This is Tuesday morning, right?
He grimaced. He couldn’t lose track of time even if the long days and short nights blurred together.

Not taking time for a shower, he pulled on his clothes. He scowled at the reflection in the mirror while combing his hair. Had he aged a decade in the last few months?

As he barreled down the stairs, he ticked off a mental list of calls he would start making from the car. Beginning with the White House.

A sharp rap on the bedroom door woke her. In the dark, Marissa rolled over to check the clock before responding. The numbers mocked her. Her body still begged for sleep, but it was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

“Baheera, we are going to the mosque for morning prayers,” Fateen called from the other side of the door. “Masoud will stay here with you.”

The mosque. Ameen
.

“Wait, Fateen. I’ve heard you speak of the women’s prayer room. I’m going with you.” Marissa scrambled out of bed. She yanked off her nightgown and grabbed her blouse and pants.

“What? You have never gone with us before.”

“Another one of Samir’s stupid decisions. Don’t you think I should thank Allah for protecting me in Tijuana Sunday night?”
I should thank Allah for sending Ameen to protect me from your fanatical Samir.

“Of course, we will all thank Allah for keeping you safe,” he said. “And we must remember to pray for our martyred brothers, Samir and Omar.”

She shook her head in disbelief. She would never understand how terrorists—intent on killing thousands of innocent people—perceived themselves as devoutly religious.

“Give me ten minutes to get ready.” She grimaced when she looked down at her clothes and realized she would have to wear the long, black
abaya
and
niqab
to the mosque. She certainly didn’t want to attract attention to herself by dressing disrespectfully. With a sigh, she put on the Muslim clothing over her wrinkled garments.

The squat, flat-roofed mosque was located barely a mile away and sat among single-family houses and small apartment complexes in a lower-middle-class neighborhood. Nicely maintained grounds surrounded the aging, white stucco building, but the wood trim needed paint. Outdoor walkways provided access to most of the rooms. Only the crescent-moon-and-star symbol next to the main office door identified the building as a mosque. Although it had a name, no sign announced it.

The four men escorted Marissa to the women’s prayer room. As soon as they left, she surveyed the handful of women and scooted out the door. Hoping to find Ameen, she hurried along the walkways. She couldn’t involve him in the operation, but that didn’t lessen her desire to see him. Not a good sign.

Marissa had just walked past a closed utility room door when she heard it open behind her. Before she could turn, a large hand covered her mouth through the veil, and a strong arm snaked around her waist, lifting and yanking her into the dark space.

The door shut. The lock clicked.

A muscular, male body pressed her back against the wall. She struggled to ram her knee into his genitals, but he pinned her legs. She swung her head from side to side, trying to free her mouth to scream or bite her attacker.

“Baheera, stop. It’s me, Ameen,” he whispered roughly in her ear. A gasp caught in her throat and she went limp. “I’m going to remove my hand. Okay?”

She nodded. He slid his hand away and lessened the pressure on her body, although he didn’t step aside as he could have.

Marissa’s eyes found his in the darkness. “This is unwise, Ameen. But since we are here, I should apologize for seeming ungrateful yesterday. You saved my life, and I want…I need to…I don’t know how to thank you.”

After living with the enemy for two weeks, she was starved for the touch and taste of compassion. Marissa lifted the veil from her face, then cupped his cheeks and brushed his lips with hers.

Ameen stiffened but didn’t resist, so she molded her mouth more firmly against his. God, she wanted to part his lips, slide her tongue inside, and taste this man. Almost as much as she wanted to be tasted. She fought the temptation but moaned with the effort.

Even through the cumbersome robe, she could feel his hard muscles and masculine strength. The heat radiating from his body seemed to spread through her, wrap itself around her, and hug her closer.

The urgency burning through her kiss must have dissolved his defenses, for his lips softened and moved against hers. His hands rested on her shoulders and massaged gently. His touch relaxed and reassured her. His warm lips melted the iciness of being alone for so long.

She needed him to wrap her in his arms and…
Not happening
. She groaned and pulled her mouth away.

When they separated, her head rolled to the side, and she grimaced. “I’m sorry. I realized last night that I never properly thanked you for saving my life. But it is wrong for me to kiss you, completely inappropriate behavior for a decent Muslim woman,” she whispered.

“Why do you worry, Baheera? You are
not
a Muslim woman.”

She leaned back and studied him for a long moment. “But I must behave as one. Be careful what you learn about me, Ameen.”

“That is not what worries me.” He lifted her chin. “The men will be finished soon. We don’t have much time. I have news.”

She frowned. “News?”

“Yes. Yesterday morning, after I came back from Tijuana, I spotted a Mexican man loitering in front of the mosque. He was dressed like a drug dealer, and I feared he was here to sell drugs to our young people. When I went outside to get rid of him, he asked if I was Samir.”

Samir’s note.
Marissa kept her expression impassive and didn’t respond.

“The guy was brash, cocky. He said Samir was supposed to meet him. I offered to give Samir a message, and the punk said he’d give Samir one more chance to meet him here at ten today. If Samir didn’t show, the deal was off. Does this mean anything to you?”

She hesitated, then took the plunge. “Juan Gonzalez, eleven o’clock Monday. I found the information and a phone number in Samir’s stuff.”

“Is the cell dealing drugs to raise money?”

“Possibly, but I don’t think so.”

He waited as if hoping for more explanation. When it wasn’t forthcoming, he sighed. “What should I do if he comes back this morning?”

Frantically, Marissa evaluated. Did she dare let Ameen get more involved? She knew it was never a good idea to let a civilian into an op, but maybe she could use him…this one time. “Call him ‘Juan.’ Tell him someone will phone him at noon. We still want the deal.”

“Baheera, you’re playing with fire.”

“Then pray I don’t get burned.”

He shook his head impatiently. “How will you get away from the others to call him? And I have the sat phone.”

“The cell is no longer my shadow or my handcuffs. I have Samir’s truck and one of their burner phones, so I can call from anywhere.”

Ameen peered straight into her eyes. “Would you like to call from my place? You would be safe there.”

She smiled. “I would like that very much, but it would not be wise. Giving my message to Juan is the best way for you to help me. I must go now.”

Their gazes, intense and worried, remained locked. Ameen tentatively stepped toward her. Grasping her shoulders, he pulled her close and brushed his lips across hers. He hesitated and then kissed her again. Longer. Deeper. She wanted so much more.

“I’ll go out first,” he said. “If it’s clear, I’ll say, ‘The restroom is that way.’ You go right, and I’ll go left.”

“Be careful, Ameen.”

“Allah be with you, Baheera,” he said and slipped out the door.

A moment later, he gave the signal, and they departed in opposite directions.

Ameen’s kiss still fresh on her lips, Marissa repositioned the
niqab
as she hurried along the outdoor walkways toward the exit. Less than a minute later, the others arrived.

Red-faced and bristling, Fateen stomped in front of her. “Why did you not wait for us in the women’s prayer room? You should not walk unescorted in public,” he chastised her in Arabic.

“Speak English,” she responded, ignoring his complaints. She turned on her heel and headed for the car parked at the curb.

By the time the group of five reached the sidewalk, they were arguing about where to go for breakfast. Marissa’s mind was miles away, thinking of Juan Gonzalez and the unknown deal. When the four men stopped suddenly, she realized someone was yelling at them.

“Yo! Hey! Excuse me,” the man called, waving his arms. “Stop a minute. Wait up. I’m lookin’ for someone.”

Marissa spun around so quickly that she stumbled, and Masoud caught her arm. She jerked away and stared at the man jogging toward them. He wore a Padres T-shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap. When he stopped a few feet away, Marissa studied his unshaven face partially hidden in the shadows of his hat. She bit her lip and blinked rapidly.

“Mornin’, guys. Thanks for stoppin’,” the man said with a friendly smile and a warm Southern drawl. But his cool gaze moved slowly around the group as if memorizing each Arab face. “I’m lookin’ for a dude named Ameen Ali.”

With that announcement, his blue eyes connected with Marissa’s, and his right eye twitched or winked—it was hard to tell. Unspoken thoughts passed between them. She pressed her lips together and swallowed the words she longed to say. She fought the sting of tears. He tore his gaze away, but hers followed his face.

“Any of you guys Ameen?” He stared again at the terrorists.

Fateen stepped forward. “No. Ameen works in the mosque office,” he said brusquely.

“Oh, sorry, dude. I’m gonna convert to Islam, and I’m supposed to talk to this Ameen fella about it. He sounds like a real great guy. Ya know, the kinda dude you can
trust
to do the
right
thing. I’m sure he’ll
help me
do what I need to do. Sorry to bother y’all. Have a nice day.” His eyes flicked to Marissa’s once more before he turned and ambled toward the mosque.

Ben stepped around the corner of the mosque and peeked back at the group. His hands clenched at his sides, he watched until they drove away. Seconds later, a black sedan pulled out of a side street and followed.

“Don’t turn around,” a deep, harsh voice behind him ordered.

Ben tensed for battle.

“Those are evil men. Stop them before they hurt Baheera.”

Surprised, he waited for more, but there was none. When he looked over his shoulder, a plastic shopping bag and a huge knife lay on the ground. Although Ben had never heard a single footstep, the man with the warning was gone.

Still stunned, Marissa sat silently with the four terrorists in a large booth at a nearby restaurant while they stuffed themselves with food and chattered in Arabic. She didn’t even bother to remind them to speak English. She picked at her breakfast and pretended to listen as her mind raced. Something much more important needed her attention.

Oh, my God. Benja’s involved in the op. How could he have found out about it?
Her breath caught. She recalled screaming his nicknames when she thought she was going to die.
Could he…? Impossible, but still…
She exhaled slowly and brought her thoughts back to reality.

His message about Ameen was clear, but how did he know she’d requested intel on the man?
Benja must be in contact with Rawlings.
Even stranger, why had Rawlings allowed him to make personal contact instead of her handler delivering the news?
Unless Rawlings doesn’t know…

Marissa realized too late that she was smiling broadly, and the men had stopped talking to stare at her. “Morning prayers have rejuvenated me,” she said, bestowing her smile on each of them. “Finish eating. We must go soon. I have much work to do today.”

The last part was true. The feeling she was running out of time weighed heavily on her. She had to get away from the cell to make her phone calls: one to Juan Gonzalez, whoever he was, and the other to her handler. Hopefully, Washington had some answers for her. She had important new information and, as always, many questions. Had they found the pig? How close was Husaam on her trail?

She tried not to think of the time in the utility room with Ameen. People did strange things under extreme stress. She wanted to explain the kisses that way. Under different circumstances, she would have admitted there was more of a connection but not today. Ameen had proved useful, but now she needed to keep him at a distance.

“Baheera,” Tareef said, yanking Marissa from her thoughts.

All eyes were on her.