Avenged (Hostage Rescue Team Series) (Volume 5) (30 page)

If Ayman survived the attack, he’d be heading south for a chance at freedom across the border. If he didn’t…then it was Allah’s will.

He darted a glance toward the living room of the borrowed house. Darwish was stretched out on the couch, flipping through channels with the TV remote. He paused and sat up suddenly. “Look at this,” he called out in Arabic, turning up the volume.

Ayman got up with the others and entered the next room. The moment his gaze fell on the TV, his stomach dropped.

His father was on screen talking to the news anchor, dressed in his janitor uniform, his face drawn with worry. It must have been recorded previously because from the angle of the sun it appeared to be midday. The headline at the bottom of the screen read
The FBI is asking for help in locating 19 year old Ayman Tuma, from the D.C. Metro area. Anyone with information is asked to call 911
.

Ayman couldn’t look away, could barely breathe as the camera rolled, his heart bashing against his ribcage.

“What would you like to say to your son right now if you knew he was listening?” the anchor prompted.

His father’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and looked into the camera, his face haggard. “I would tell him to come home,” he said in heavily accented English. “Please, just come home and turn yourself in. We are so worried.” His gaze dropped, his shoulders sagging. “So worried,” he repeated in a lost voice.

Ayman ruthlessly blocked the pain and guilt tearing at him. He would
not
allow himself to feel such things now. The only way to protect his family and be free of The Brethren was to take part in the coming attack. He started to turn away.

“Don’t you dare leave.”

He froze at Darwish’s cold voice, turned back to meet that icy gaze head on. Darwish shut off the TV and swung to face him with an accusing glare. “He’s going to ruin everything—the attack’s scheduled only hours from now!”

“No, he won’t,” Ayman insisted, trying to ignore the terror forking inside him. “The police and FBI have been searching for me—us—for days now, and they haven’t caught us yet. Mahmoud gave me his word that no one would touch my family, no matter what they’ve done. You all heard him.” He looked at the other two men for confirmation and they both nodded. He allowed himself to relax a fraction. As long as he carried out the attack, his family was safe from The Brethren.

The digital tones of a phone alarm suddenly filled the room, severing the quiet.

The first phase of the operation would be underway any minute now.

Ayman glanced at the man closest to him, who silenced his phone. The eldest of the group, at thirty-two Tarif was even more experienced than Darwish, having seen combat in Syria and Iraq as part of a secret militia group. He was far more religious than the rest of them, motivated by the need to serve Allah. Ayman was driven by the offer to get paid a sizeable amount of money to attack the country he blamed for his family’s—his people’s—woes.

“Time to pray,” he said. Tarif had also shaved his beard into a tidy goatee in a bid to decrease suspicion in the morning. Those dark eyes watched each of them in turn as they unrolled their prayer mats and knelt upon them.

When everyone was in place he began the evening prayer, calling on Allah to protect them. “We are not afraid to die, only that we will fail in our duty to you,” he went on, eyes closed. “We pray that you grant us the courage to do what must be done, and the protection of your benevolence.”

Listening to the words, Ayman mentally suppressed a shiver of unease. Over the past few hours he’d made peace with the fact that he would likely die tomorrow. That didn’t mean he’d given up hope. God willing, the American whore would die by his hand, then he’d make his escape.

Whatever happened, he’d inflict as much death and suffering on his enemy as possible. If he was to die today, then he would go out fighting, resolute in his decision that had started him on this path. That was his only comfort, and it would have to be enough to sustain him through the long and difficult hours ahead.

In the back of the armored SUV, Taya released a slow, deep breath and tugged at the hem of her pencil skirt. Her palms were damp as she smoothed the gray fabric into place. The closer they got to the courthouse, the higher her anxiety spiked. Thoughts raced in her mind. The security threat hanging over this trial, taking the stand, giving the best answers to the questions posed to her.

Facing Qureshi again after all this time.

Up front in the passenger seat, Duncan swiveled around to speak to her. “We’re going to circle around and approach from a different route, just like we talked about.”

Taya nodded. She knew the plan because they’d gone over it several times before leaving the safe house. One vehicle was in front of them and another behind, to provide extra security.

On arrival out front they would rush her to where the exterior perimeter was set up, get her as close as possible to the security checkpoint where more agents from the Department of Justice and the FBI were stationed. Some in uniform, many more in plain clothes. Sniffer dog teams and sniper teams were also in place, scattered in various positions around the area. Once she got out with Duncan, he and two other marshals would rush her through to the inner perimeter and from there straight inside the courthouse.

“Everybody’s ready and in place,” Duncan continued. “You good to go?”

“Yes.” Her heart was thudding hard as the driver took the final turn and brought them in front of the courthouse. An imposing long, two-story building constructed of gray limestone with Corinthian columns spanning the façade. A huge crowd had gathered outside the exterior perimeter. Media crews and civilians carrying signs.

Qureshi was in there.

It had been five years since she’d last seen him. The thought of meeting that cold, dark gaze head on was both vindicating and terrifying. She straightened her spine. He was the one in chains now. There was a certain poetic justice to that.

The driver slowed as they reached the edge of the crowd lining the area where the security forces had pushed back the onlookers. “Here we go,” Duncan murmured.

Taya shifted in her seat to face the door, fingers on the latch of her seatbelt. The second they stopped and Duncan gave the signal, she had to move fast.

The driver stopped in front of a pair of FBI agents armed with rifles. Duncan burst out of the vehicle and opened Taya’s door as she released her seatbelt. He grabbed her arm and pulled her out. Immediately two other marshals from the tail vehicle surrounded her, acting as a living shield, ushering her straight through the security gate with a wave of their ID. The moment they cleared the metal gates the three vehicles took off. Taya didn’t look back.

A sudden flurry of movement erupted on both sides of her. Media crews, hungry for a juicy story, began to converge toward the gate. Agents and cops blocking the way held them back. The crowd’s noise seemed to grow louder, until she could hear some of the shouts distinctly over the mingled voices.

“Burn in hell, Qureshi!”

That one she agreed with.

“Bring the girls back home!”

Even though she’d been prepared for this day, that one hit home. It made her think of all the other women who’d been married off to Qureshi’s soldiers and then left behind when Hassan took Taya and fled. Guilt clawed at her insides but she shook it off.

There was nothing she could have done for the others back then, and she’d been doing her best to help them ever since. Lobbying government officials about their rescues. Speaking to audiences all over Europe and North America about their plight and the evils of human trafficking.

And once she stepped through those tall doors ahead of her at the top of the third flight of steps, she would seek justice for those she hadn’t been able to save.

Several reporters were straining against the metal barriers as she walked past, sticking out their microphones toward her. “Taya, tell us how you’re feeling right now, about to confront Qureshi after all this time.”

“How does it feel to confront the man responsible for what you went through?”

They recognized her, even with her wearing sunglasses and her hair being styled so differently. That, and she was the only one arriving with a human shield.

Taya kept her head held high, studiously ignoring the reporters and the crowd. She lengthened her strides to keep up with her guards, her high heels clicking on the pavement as they rushed her toward the second perimeter. Far fewer people lined the security barriers here; a few media crews surrounded by more cops and FBI agents. She tuned them all out, kept her gaze fastened to the entrance to the courthouse where more guards waited.

They reached the inner perimeter fence. Duncan and the others flashed their badges. The guards had been expecting them, but still checked their ID before allowing them inside. She’d just stepped through the opening in the metal railing when a commotion broke out behind them.

Duncan’s head whipped around. His arm tightened across Taya’s back. Startled, she glanced over her shoulder to see a knot of people moving just beyond the first barrier. People shouted, several tripping in their haste to get out of the way. Security was converging on someone just out of view.

A warning tingle slithered up Taya’s spine.

“Move,” Duncan commanded, his voice terse.

She whipped back around, started jogging, intuitively knowing she had to get away from that first gate.

“Taya!”

The frantic edge in the female voice sent a bolt of alarm through her. She faltered, her body reacting automatically to the woman’s fear and desperation. The way she called her name was personal. The voice sounded familiar.

“
Taya
!” The scream made the hairs on her nape stand on end.

Despite herself, she looked back.

Twenty yards away, a woman was being surrounded by security personnel. She bowed under the strength of the arms grabbing her, pushing her downward. Her knees hit the pavement.

But her eyes stayed locked on Taya.

Light blue eyes stared back at her, huge and wide in a pale face, beseeching her not to look away.

It had been five years since they’d last seen each other but Taya sucked in a shocked breath as recognition slammed through her.
No…

“Chloe,” she breathed, and automatically tried to pull from Duncan’s grip.

He was still dragging her, overriding her need to help her friend. She dug in her heels, tried to wrench her arm away. Her friend wasn’t dead. She was right there, Taya had to help her. “Chloe!”

“Taya,” Chloe cried out in a choked voice, her face filled with abject terror. “
Help
me!”

A warning buzz built at the base of her spine. Something was terribly wrong.

Ice flooded Taya’s veins. Her eyes shot to her friend’s torso, hidden by a bulky jacket. A jacket far too heavy for the warm spring day.

The hair on her arms stood on end.
Oh my God, no.

Duncan cursed and grabbed her around the waist. “Bomb!”

The whole world seemed to still.

He threw her to the ground as people screamed behind her. Her elbows, ribs and hips hit with a bone-jarring thud, her chin cracking against the pavement. Then Duncan’s weight landed atop her, knocking the remaining air from her lungs. She could hear the panic in the crowd behind them, hear people shouting and yelling.

Fighting to draw in air, she struggled to free herself from Duncan’s grip. Trapped. She was trapped and her friend was in terrible danger.

Duncan cursed and pinned her down, his muscles straining with the effort of keeping her still. Taya bucked and twisted, shouting at him to let her go, to help Chloe.

Need to help her. Have to—

An explosion rent the air. A wall of heat and noise blasted over her, searing the exposed skin on her face, arms and legs, the pressure compressing her chest and eardrums.

Duncan grunted and held her tighter, his grip bruising. In the vacuum of silence that followed all she could hear was the roaring of blood in her ears while her heart tried to pound its way out of her chest.

Chloe!

The instant Duncan’s weight shifted, Taya struggled up onto her battered forearms and knees, then swung her head around to look behind them.

Carnage met her stupefied gaze.

Chloe was gone and so were all the security personnel, the bystanders who’d been close to her. All reduced to nothing more than slippery red and pink gore that covered the ground for dozens of yards in every direction, flames licking at what was left of their clothing and body parts.

Beyond the inner blast zone, people were writhing on the ground in pools of blood, some missing arms and legs.

Taya’s stomach lurched, the horror of it penetrating her brain.

Strong arms hauled her upright and she realized belatedly that Duncan was screaming at her. She looked up into his face, blinked as his mouth moved, not understanding a word. Her arms came up to grab onto his shoulders as he lifted her and began to run. The panicked crowd was fleeing now, running for their lives.

Taya flinched when a second, larger explosion detonated to her left. Her gaze shot to the huge orange ball of fire that burst into the sky at the far end of the courthouse. Seconds later, another explosion erupted on her right.

A siege.

She was shaking, trembling all over, her heart rising into her throat. Levering upward on Duncan’s back, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Duncan was running full out toward the courthouse doors, the other two marshals flanking him. Guards on either side of the door had their weapons up, aimed at something beyond her and her security team, and opened fire.

Taya jerked and shut her eyes as bullets tore past her, every muscle in her body locked tight. More screams, more gunfire, the rounds whizzing all around them like a swarm of angry hornets.

Gritting her teeth she gripped the back of Duncan’s shirt and held on as he raced for the safety of the building that was now their only hope for survival.