Avenged (Hostage Rescue Team Series) (Volume 5) (3 page)

He and her brother, Kevin, were the only reason she’d declined to enter the WITSEC program after returning to the States. She’d insisted Kev look after their father while she was gone. This was hard to do alone, but it had to be done. She was testifying not only for herself, but on behalf of the others who had suffered at Qureshi’s hand. People who hadn’t been as fortunate as her during her captivity. And others who hadn’t survived the rescue attempt.

Like Hassan.

All these years later, Taya still had deep and conflicting feelings about him. He’d treated her well, at least when compared to the other kidnapped women handed out to Qureshi’s men. Given the risks he’d taken to get her out, he deserved justice as much as she and the others did. Whether their suffering was by Qureshi’s own hand or through others acting on his orders, didn’t matter. As a key witness for the prosecution, her testimony would be a critical part in getting the terrorist convicted. And hopefully result in him getting the death penalty.

Rounding the corner, the escalators leading to baggage claim came into view. Duncan pulled his phone out of his pocket, gave the screen a cursory glance before tucking it away. “Everybody’s in place and waiting for us. We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

She appreciated their professionalism, and that he seemed to understand her unease of being out in the open in this kind of environment. The airport was safe, but the embassy in Kabul should have been a safe place for her too, and it hadn’t been. “Okay.”

She already knew they wouldn’t be stopping at baggage claim. Someone else would wait for her suitcase and bring it to her hotel later on. Once she and Duncan got downstairs to meet the two other marshals assigned to her detail she’d be taken straight out to a waiting vehicle parked at the curb. From there her security team would drive her to her hotel downtown, where she’d meet with the prosecution team.

Duncan slanted her a grin, the change in his remote expression making him look years younger than the late thirties she’d had him pegged at. “You’ve been a champ so far,” he said, a note of approval in his voice.

“Well, I’m tougher than I look.” Lucky for her.

“I have no doubt about that,” he murmured, his alert gaze moving back and forth, scanning the area around them while they kept their brisk pace toward the escalator. When they reached it, Duncan put a hand on the middle of her back and set her in front of him. “They’re over at the far left, against the wall at the bottom. Both wearing jeans and leather jackets,” he murmured so only she could hear. “See them?”

She spotted the two men, who were dividing their attention between the escalator and the people in the baggage claim area. “Yes.”

“One will lead the way outside and the other will follow us.”

“Okay.” She felt perfectly calm as they descended the rest of the way. Three trained, armed men were watching out for her. Even if someone was looking for or following her, they’d never get close enough to be a threat.

As they reached the bottom of the escalator, the blond marshal glanced their way before pushing away from the wall and heading for the door. Taya followed, noting when the brown-haired marshal stepped out behind Duncan.

People swirled around her but she didn’t look at any of them, focused instead on the agent in the lead. She saw his lips move and knew he was speaking via his earpiece to whoever was waiting for them outside. At the automatic sliding doors out front, he paused. Taya stopped a step behind him.

On the other side of the door, a group of five people were heading toward them. The man in the lead was carrying what looked like a guitar case over one shoulder while juggling a heavy suitcase and carryon bag.

A bronze-skinned man at the back of the group suddenly stepped out to pass by the slower passengers. Then his gaze locked on Taya.

His eyes lit with recognition. A ripple of unease shot through her.

She stared back at him, frozen, barely aware of Duncan’s strong hand closing over her right shoulder.

Before she could move, the blond marshal veered in front of her. The bronze-skinned man’s face tightened. He rammed his shoulder into the passenger carrying the guitar case, causing it to swing around, knocking over its owner and making the others around him trip. The man’s dark eyes stayed glued to her.

Taya took a step back, instinctively started to whirl. In her peripheral she caught the flash of a weapon appear in the man’s hand.

“Gun!”

Duncan’s shout reverberated in her ears as he tackled her to the ground. Her elbows and knees took the brunt of the impact on the hard, cool tile. Frightened cries rose around them. She caught a flurry of movement ahead of her as the other two marshals tackled the man with the gun.

Pop, pop, pop.

Three shots rang out in rapid succession. The blond marshal screamed and grabbed his thigh, his body tangled with the attacker. Blood pumped out from beneath his hands, flowing onto the granite floor while his partner smashed his fist into the gunman’s face. Panic erupted around them.

People screamed and started running, some diving to the floor and covering their heads. A mother lay curled over her young son outside the automatic doors, her terrified gaze locked on the gunman as the wounded marshal lurched up to help his fellow agent subdue the shooter.

“Come on,” Duncan barked at her. He lifted up just enough to grab her beneath the armpits and started dragging her over to the far wall. Taya scrambled to her feet and ran with him, her heart pounding an erratic rhythm against her ribs. A second later he had her flattened against the wall, shielding her with his body as he relayed rapid-fire updates to someone about what was going on.

Her legs began to shake. It was just like the embassy all over again.

But there were no more shots, no more gunmen storming the building. Duncan pulled her back toward the escalators. She risked a peek around his shoulder.

People were either huddled on the floor or running away from the doors, some shouting. Security officers rushed toward the attacker. He was still fighting the marshals, screaming garbled words as they pinned him down and kicked the weapon from his grasp. It skidded away from them. Blood slicked the tiled floor, covering the man’s hands, his chest. At least one of those shots had come from the marshals.

“Team’s about to storm the entrance,” Duncan warned her, the solid grip on her upper arm propelling her to move faster.

From across the room the man’s dark stare snagged on Taya. Her steps faltered. His eyes were glazed with pain, burning with hatred. She stared back at him, frozen, heart drumming in her ears. Who was he?

His movements faded and his voice grew weaker, carrying through the brittle silence filling the air. It took a moment for his words to penetrate the haze of fear fogging her brain.

He was speaking in Pashto, the language of her captors in Afghanistan.

You will still die, American whore!

The words slammed into her like a sledgehammer, and her blood went cold.

Four well-built men burst through the automatic doors, weapons drawn and trained on the gunman. More marshals, probably the ones who’d been waiting outside with the vehicle.

Standing over the attacker, now immobilized on his stomach with both arms wrenched behind his back, one of them looked up at Duncan and nodded.

“Let’s go,” he bit out, his fingers curling around her upper arm in a hard grip as he rushed back toward the escalator. Taya’s shoes pounded over the tile.

Airport security guards were converging on them now from all directions. One of them raced over to them, listened while Duncan showed his ID and explained who she was, then escorted them to a side entrance.

Duncan shoved the release bar and stayed her with an upraised palm while he ducked outside, weapon in hand. Once he’d verified it was clear he reached back to grab her by the arm and push her toward the black SUV with tinted windows idling at the curb. “Get in.”

The right rear door popped open. Taya ran for it, scrambled across the seat a second before Duncan jumped in beside her and slammed the door. “Go,” he ordered curtly.

The driver shot away from the curb and drove toward the front of the terminal, only to slow in the snarl of traffic out front. Emergency vehicles were already on scene and she could hear sirens approaching in the distance. Taya swallowed as the SUV neared the door where the shooter was, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Duncan had his weapon in his hand and he was watching around them like he half expected another shooter to materialize out of the crowd.

The driver stopped when a uniformed cop blocked their way. He showed his ID and the cop waved them through. “To the hotel?” he asked Duncan as he drove past the terminal.

“Not yet.” Duncan swiveled in his seat to scan behind them. “Drive south for a while first, then double back. I want to make sure no one’s following us.”

Shaken, Taya couldn’t help looking out the rear window. Was someone else out there, coming after her too? Her throat was dry, tight.

“Got it.”

The SUV picked up speed as they cleared the terminal, leaving the chaos behind. Taya darted a glance at Duncan, who was frowning as he dialed someone on his phone. “What about the other marshal, is he—”

“Medics are already treating him on scene, he’ll be okay.” He paused in dialing to meet her gaze. “Feds are coming to secure the scene. Did you recognize that guy?”

Taya shook her head. “No.” But she’d never forget his face or the look in his eyes. Pure hatred.

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly chilled to the bone.
It’s not like last time. You’re okay.

Except the nightmare just kept following her. Sometimes it felt like she’d never escape it.

She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Who the hell was that guy, and how had he known she was flying into Dulles this afternoon? He’d come to shoot her down in cold blood. He had to be connected to Qureshi somehow, or at least the trial.

Her story had been in the media again lately because of it. The unwanted attention was proving to be yet another threat to her security. That man had to have known she’d be here with federal protection. Which meant he’d clearly been willing to die for the chance to kill her. The realization sent a fresh wave of cold through her.

“How did he even find me?” she said when she trusted her voice.

“No idea,” Duncan muttered. He put the phone to his ear, his expression grim. “But I know someone who can find out.” He spoke to someone for a few minutes, giving a condensed version of what had just happened. “Yessir. I’ll stay with her in the meantime.” After ending the call he looked over at her. “That was my boss. They’re sending some Feds to the hotel to meet with you. Gonna beef up your security detail for the remainder of your time here in D.C. I’ll stay with you until they get everything set up.”

Turning to stare out her window at the passing scenery, Taya wondered if she’d ever feel truly safe again.

****

Ayman Tuma checked his phone messages as he gathered his mail from the apartment building’s mailroom. He’d just gotten off work.

There was a call from his mother, asking him when he would be able to come over for dinner. One from his eldest sister, asking him the same. He erased both of those and listened to the third and final message—from a contact here in D.C. The call he’d been waiting on for the past five days.

“I’ve found what you’ve been looking for,” the man said in heavily accented Arabic. “Gets in to Dulles this afternoon at one-twenty. I’m meeting her.”

Ayman jerked his left arm up to check his watch. Damn. He’d missed the chance to be part of the welcoming committee by almost two hours.

Ignoring the three other people at the mailboxes—just as they ignored him—he turned and jogged up the stairs to the fourth floor, since the derelict apartment’s elevator was broken yet again. At the end of the hall he turned left and unlocked the door of the third apartment from the end.

The traffic noise here was loud and the living space was in bad shape, but it was only a few blocks’ walk from the Italian restaurant he worked at where he made enough to split the rent with his roommate, Jaleel. His parents weren’t happy about him moving out on his own two months ago—they worried he would get into trouble. One more reason why he needed space from them.

They were right to be concerned. Ever since moving out he’d been training with Darwish, a lethal operative of The Brethren. The ironic part was that he hadn’t become “radicalized” until he’d come to America. He was now an expert shot, knew how to handle explosives and was good at hand-to-hand combat. Darwish had taken him out on several operations already and deemed Ayman ready to begin hunting targets.

Ayman couldn’t wait for the opportunity. He was nineteen years old, a full-grown man who no longer had to answer to his father, even if his family didn’t see him that way. His father had dragged Ayman, his mother and two sisters here three years ago to escape the constant warfare in Syria, and Ayman hated it.

They’d come here, to America, a place Ayman despised, because his father insisted it was the best move to provide opportunity for his children. Instead, they’d all been reduced to taking menial jobs that paid only minimum wage, and subjected to a cost of living that ate up every cent they earned. It didn’t matter that they all spoke passable English or that all but his mother and youngest sister had gone to college back home.

They’d gone from a life of affluence and respect in their homeland to becoming yet another poor immigrant family in the land of “liberty”. Everyone thought America was a beacon of hope and prosperity, but Ayman knew that was all bullshit.

The only opportunity he’d found since coming here was through his mosque, meeting like-minded people who were sick and tired of letting the United States call the shots. It sickened him that he had to live here, in the very country that had declared war on Islam and had killed hundreds of thousands of Muslims around the world with their constant meddling.

Something had to be done, and Ayman was determined to be a part of the answer. Though he hated to cause shame for his parents, he wouldn’t back out now. This was his chance to make something of himself and even the score against the country that had given him and his fellow Muslims nothing but misery. He stood to make a good bit of coin, too. If he pulled off this job he’d get a hundred thousand dollars deposited into his account, from an offshore company filled by donations from supporters of The Brethren around the world.