Targeted (FBI Heat) (18 page)

As she scrutinized each terrorist, Marissa struggled to keep her hatred from showing. Gone was their uncertainty, replaced by fiery determination. And they were firmly under her control.

The alarm clock on the nightstand read 11:30 p.m.
Tomorrow is a big day.
Still wired, Ben slid carefully under the covers. He felt the heat from Amber’s naked body, but tonight, it didn’t arouse him because he was still too angry from his call to Rawlings. He’d been unable to convince the son of a bitch to order Marissa to come in. Rawlings seemed worried enough, but that wouldn’t help Marissa if something went wrong. And there were so many things that could go wrong.

At least Rawlings had updated Ben on the latest information. The Tijuana police had relinquished the bodies of the two terrorists without asking any questions when the usually dicey diplomatic dilemma would’ve been a huge time-suck. The ballistics tests on the bullets extracted from Samir’s and Omar’s bodies had yielded no useful information on who killed them. Not that it really mattered. The men had
not
been killed with Marissa’s Glock or any of the terrorists’ weapons kept at the hideout. Since she’d never explained to anyone what had happened the night she was almost beheaded, everyone had assumed she’d shot her way out of the jam. Apparently, an erroneous assumption. Rawlings and Ben had already reached their own conclusion, but they sure as hell wouldn’t be putting it in any report. As Rawlings moved on to the next subject, Ben silently thanked Ameen Ali.

Rawlings had also advised Ben of the details of Marissa’s plan. They wanted to capture the terrorists and the Herat bomb tomorrow afternoon in Otay Mesa, long before and far from the targeted, Wednesday night Padres’ game at Petco Park—
if
everything went according to Marissa’s plan.

“If” was such a fucking frightening word.

Ben had gone still while Rawlings continued to talk. Amber worked in downtown San Diego, and she planned to attend the Wednesday baseball game with a girlfriend since he couldn’t go. The idea of Amber being in the targeted area had haunted Ben all the way home to his Coronado apartment.

Now his gaze rested on Amber’s golden head, and he swallowed hard.
If
something went wrong, terribly wrong, there was a possibility the bomb could make it to the ballpark.
If
one of the terrorists escaped with the bomb and eluded them, he could detonate it at another downtown location earlier in the day.

Ben rubbed his hand across his eyes, then gently shook Amber’s shoulder.

“Amber.” No response. “Amber,” he said louder and sat up.

“Oh, you’re home,” she said groggily.

“Wake up, babe. I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk.” She burrowed deeper into the pillow.

“I know it’s late, but this is important.” When Ben pulled on her shoulder, she pushed his hand away. “Amber—”

“You didn’t call.”

He leaned closer. “What?”

“You didn’t call to tell me you weren’t coming home. I made your favorite, beef stroganoff.”

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. It was such a hellish day, I never even thought about dinner. I don’t remember eating, so I’d love some stroganoff now. Would you sit and talk with me while I eat?”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“I threw it away.”

“You what?”

“Threw it away. I was really hurt…and angry.”

His own anger flashed, but he instantly realized the absurdity of it. “I’m sure you were, and I’m really sorry. You know, Amber, sometimes with my job, I can’t just—”

“I was afraid you were…with Marissa.”

Ben blinked.
Shit.
He had been with Marissa part of the night, but not in the way Amber was imagining. In the time they’d been together, she had never questioned his love or fidelity—until now.

Amber must’ve mistaken his silence as confirmation of her worst fear. She rolled toward him, her face puffy from crying earlier, and fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. “Were you?”

She wasn’t prone to drama so her fear was real.
Wrong,
but real
.
Well, damn.

“I can’t tell you anything, babe, but it’s strictly work. Nothing personal is going on with Marissa.” His fingertips brushed at her tears. A flicker of indignation burned as he remembered the one chaste, only-friends kiss in the church. Nothing like the passionate ones they used to share. “Don’t you trust me?”

Her watery eyes held his. “I thought I did.”

“Look, Amber, when this op is over, I can tell you some of what’s been happening. You’ll see there was nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” he said emphatically.

They gazed at each other silently for several moments before Ben got up the nerve to speak.

“I still need to talk to you about something important. Can you put up with me for a few more minutes?”

She wiped her cheeks with the sheet and sat up next to him. “Might as well. I’m wide awake now.”

He braced himself. “I don’t want you to go to the Padres’ game tomorrow. I want you to call in sick in the morning and drive up to LA.” The words flowed from his mouth in a torrent. “I’ll call when it’s safe for you to come home.”

Her eyes and mouth opened wide. “Screw you. Ian was right. You want to…to hook up with Marissa.”

“Shit! I do
not
want to hook up with her. Jesus, Amber, gimme a break.”

He reached for her arm, but she yanked it away. He grabbed her by both shoulders and pulled her against his chest. His arms encircled her in a bear hug. She struggled for a moment and then went still, but stiff.

“Safe?” she whispered against his neck.

“Yeah, safe.”

“What’s—”

“Damn it, I can’t tell you ‘what.’ Just trust me. I
need
you to be safe. I want you out of San Diego because I love you, not because I’m screwing around with Marissa.” He cringed. “Do you believe me?”

She smiled faintly. “A little.”

Ben blew out a relieved sigh. “So you’ll go?”

“It depends.”

He frowned. “On what?”

“On how passionately you make love to me tonight.”

“Really? Is this a test of my love?”

“Might be.”

“Have I ever told you that I’ve never once failed a test of any kind?”

“Hmmm. Hard to believe. Better show me.”

His lips came down hard on hers. His knee wedged between her thighs as he lowered her onto the sheets and followed her down.

A
faceless man burst through the doorway, the gun in his outstretched hands swerving from side to side. “Don’t move, Baheera, or whatever your real infidel name is,” he growled at the woman sitting on the floor of an empty room.

“I thought you were going to miss the party,” she replied calmly, moving to shield a briefcase with her body.

“You think you are so smart.” He cocked his head. “I’m trying to decide whether I should shoot you first or let you feel the blast of the bomb as it tears your body into little pieces.”

“As it will also tear yours.”

“Yes, but Allah will reward me,” he snapped.

The woman lunged for a nearby rifle.

A gunshot exploded. She screamed.

Pain. Blood. Gunshots. Clattering noises.

A heavy weight slammed her into the floor.

More gunfire. More blood. More pain.

Darkness, and then nothing.

Marissa jolted upright in bed, her heart hammering and her breath coming in jagged gasps.

“Baheera, are you all right? We heard you scream,” Tareef called from the other side of the bedroom door.

She coughed to find her voice. “Yes, I’m all right. Just a nightmare. Go back to bed.”

After a few moments, his footsteps retreated.

Was it only a nightmare or one of her premonitions? A warning. She shuddered.

Have I just seen my own death?

Stars were still visible when Ameen unlocked the door to the mosque office Wednesday morning. On his way to work, he had driven by the cell’s apartment but resisted the urge to stop. The men who were supposed to protect Baheera sat in their car, drinking large cups of coffee. In his opinion, they did a poor job of hiding themselves.

His uncle and the secretary had not yet arrived, but Ameen knew they would be there before morning prayers. He set up the coffeemaker, realizing his sleep-deprived brain required caffeine but knowing his stomach would object. As the coffee started to drip, he unlocked the door to his office and switched on the light. He dropped into the chair behind the desk. The stack of papers waiting for his attention taunted him. Instead, he stared out the window into the darkness, his thoughts on Baheera.

What did he really know about this woman who was connecting with him in a way he’d never experienced? She wasn’t Muslim—that was obvious. He smiled at the memory of the incident in the dressing room. He could still feel the warm, soft skin of her breast under his fingers. And her lips were the most responsive he’d ever kissed. He closed his eyes and saw her holding his hand against her breast. He’d known what she was going to say before he kissed her. That’s what scared him the most: He shared the desire. Would he be strong enough to resist temptation? He opened his eyes and grimaced at his swelling dick.

The coffeemaker buzzed in the other room. He got up stiffly and wandered out to fix his coffee. While he poured, he glanced at his uncle’s office door. He and Abdullah were very close, and they rarely kept secrets from each other. Guilt pinched his conscience.

They had shared the same concerns, the same fears, when Samir and the others had shown up at the mosque. When Ameen had contacted the authorities, they’d blown him off. So he and Abdullah had monitored the cell as best they could and were relieved when they finally discovered they weren’t the only ones watching. The imam was content to let the authorities handle the problem, but Ameen had made it his personal responsibility to see the cell…terminated. Was he a lawless vigilante? No. He was an honorable man, willing to act to save innocent civilians and his religion.

Deep in thought, Ameen savored the pleasant aroma of the coffee and swallowed a long, energizing gulp.

His uncle would like Baheera, even if she wasn’t Muslim. Ameen could feel her good soul and heart; Abdullah would also feel her goodness. Another pang of guilt. He must tell his uncle of his feelings for her, because the imam would know the right words from the Koran to give him strength.

Since Sunday night, Ameen had hardly spoken to Abdullah. He’d not yet confessed the killing of Samir and Omar, but he knew his uncle would understand the necessity to save Baheera. He didn’t care what she’d done. Nothing could justify such a barbaric act.

He carried the coffee back to his office. What else did he know about Baheera? She and the others were definitely intelligence agents, probably FBI or Homeland Security. The terrorists planned a bombing, and Baheera was in the middle of it.

His stomach churned, but it wasn’t from the coffee.

When the cell phone rang in his pocket, the sound took a moment to register. He tensed when he saw the number. “Good morning, Khaleel. Praise Allah. You are up early. Going to prayers?”

“
Allahu Akbar
. No, I’m on my way to work. I’ll pray there. How are you, Ameen?”

“Fine. How is Safiya?”

“Good, but she hates that we must live in Tijuana. She feels isolated.”

“Your Spanish is very good. Have you taught her?”

Khaleel snorted. “She is a woman and cannot learn such complicated lessons.”

“She must not be happy when you have to work very late.” Ameen waited, his jaw set.

“I haven’t—” Khaleel stopped. “I haven’t worked late very many nights. Why? Did you talk to her?”

“No. I must get ready for prayers soon. Did you call for something?”

Khaleel cleared his throat. “Yes. Safiya and I have been worried about the woman you brought to our house Sunday night. I apologize, but I have forgotten her name.”

Ameen frowned and lied. “She didn’t tell me her name.”

“Really? I thought it was Baheera or something like that.”

“No. She didn’t give her name,” Ameen insisted.

“Why did you leave so early and without a note? We have been worried.”

“We needed to leave. I’m sorry I didn’t call and thank you for providing her shelter. She was very grateful.”

“Have you seen her since?”

Ameen hesitated. “Yes.”

Khaleel gulped. “Safiya is very hurt you wouldn’t tell us why this woman sought shelter in our house in the middle of the night.”

“Should I call your wife and apologize?”

“No, no, that is not necessary. But if you would tell me, we would both feel better.”

“
Friends
trust
friends
, don’t they, Khaleel?”

“Of course.”

“Then trust me that you don’t need to know this woman’s name or her problem. I must go now, Khaleel.
Allahu Akbar
.” He hung up and pounded the desk with his fist.

“Nephew, is there a problem?” Abdullah Ali asked from the doorway.

“Uncle,” Ameen said, startled.

Abdullah’s dark, expressive eyes—so like Ameen’s father’s—drew him in. “You are tired…and troubled, Ameen. Shall we talk?”

Guilt surfaced. Ameen averted his gaze. “Yes, I need to talk with you very much. May I, later?”

“Always. Will you be helping with morning prayers?”

“Yes. I need Allah’s guidance as well as yours.”

He endured Abdullah’s solemn scrutiny for several moments before the old man walked away.

Kevin Rawlings never made it home. At 7:00 a.m. Wednesday morning, he called his wife and asked her to pack a clean shirt, underwear, and socks in a bag and to drop it off with the security guard at the entrance. With words of encouragement and the patience of Job, she agreed, even though she’d hardly seen her husband in the past several weeks. Rawlings knew he was lucky. Not many women lasted long as wives or girlfriends of men in his profession.

He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and pondered the events of the last several hours. After Panuska had checked in late last night, he’d arranged for a conference call. At 1:30 a.m., every other man on the call had been home, had been asleep. But not one complained about being roused in the middle of the night.

They came to a unanimous decision: Panuska’s plan was the best option. With no mistakes, they could bag all the terrorists and the entire bomb. Unfortunately, no op ever went off “with no mistakes.”

Rawlings couldn’t help but worry. Panuska’s handler had reported that she seemed edgy, off, during the last update. And then he’d confided his personal concerns. Earlier in the op, she’d been more controlled and objective. Now emotions clouded her communications.

All understandable human reactions after two weeks of living with the enemy
.
But all dangerous reactions for successfully completing a strategic op.

Special Agent Ben Alfren had also called to remind Rawlings of his earlier warning that Panuska might not come in when she should. As if Rawlings would ever forget such a warning.

Yes, he had a lot of reasons for being damn worried.

Frowning, he studied the computer screen. The details were neatly organized: timing, manpower, equipment. Risk assessment. His fingers tapped a staccato rhythm on the desk. He calculated, recalculated. He would make no mistakes. Rawlings clicked on the manpower number and doubled it.

Before dawn on Wednesday, Marissa waited for the knock.

“Baheera,” Tareef called softly.

“I’ll be ready,” she answered.
Tomorrow, I’m going to sleep until noon if I…
She didn’t finish the thought. Promising herself a shower after morning prayers, she crawled out of bed, dressed in another new outfit, and put on the hated
abaya
and
niqab
.

They piled into Yasir’s car and drove to the mosque in silence. The four men escorted her to the women’s prayer room and left. She waited a minute before slipping out the door without disturbing the handful of women.

She prowled the walkways, searching for Ameen. She thought she caught a glimpse of him praying with the other men, but when she peeked inside again, it wasn’t Ameen. The secretary in the office peered at her curiously when she inquired about him, but the lady didn’t know where he was. Marissa kept looking.

The utility room door was a magnet. On the third pass, she tugged at the doorknob. Locked. She willed it to pop open, revealing Ameen eager to drag her inside and kiss her. Maybe more. But nothing happened. When she walked past the sixth time, a male voice called her name quietly from behind her. She whirled around to find Saleem trotting toward her.

“Baheera, we’ve been looking for you.”

“I felt like…wandering.”

Saleem stepped in front of her, blocking her path. He looked directly into the veil, which was unusual for him. Marissa tensed.

“Baheera, I admire your soul and your courage. I am not strong enough to do what you are going to do. Allah will reward you greatly. I-I just wanted to tell you that.”

Marissa glared from behind the veil. Hate burned in her chest, and her fists clenched at her sides. “Thank you, Saleem. When you remember me and what I am about to do, also remember that my soul and courage showed me the
true way
. We should go now. There is much to do.”

Ameen had spied on Baheera as she searched for him, but he hadn’t trusted himself to speak to her, to touch her.
Coward
. He clung to resistance by only a thin thread, fought temptation with every heartbeat.
Damn
.

From his shirt pocket, he pulled the piece of paper with the phone number and room number. He wasted none of the information he’d overheard from Baheera’s phone calls at his condo. A quick call to the number identified the Mission Valley Rio Hotel. When she was going there and why were a mystery. And who was Dr. Jabbar and why did Baheera need a doctor?

Ameen stuffed the paper back in his pocket and turned off the light in his office. As he closed the door, he overheard the secretary’s irritated voice. She spoke Arabic, which she preferred not to do.

“I am sorry, sir, but I cannot tell you anything about Samir. I understand your concern, but we have privacy rules.” Ameen strode to her desk and flashed her an inquisitive look. “Hold on a minute, sir. I will be right back.” She pushed hold and rolled her eyes. “This is Samir’s brother, Dawud. He’s looking for Samir, and he’s being very disrespectful.”

“Let me handle it,” Ameen said over his shoulder, rushing back to his office. He shut the door before he picked up the phone. “
Allahu Akbar
. Maybe I can help you,” he said in Arabic.

“
Allahu Akbar
. I hope so. I am looking for my brother, Samir.”

“Samir, yes. I know him well, but he has not mentioned a brother to me.”

The caller didn’t miss a beat. “I am not surprised. We lived together before he moved to San Diego, and we argued about his decision to leave. I know Allah would not be pleased with this break in our relationship. We are true brothers and—”

“Where are you?”

The man hesitated. “Los Angeles. I have been calling Samir for days, but he has not returned my calls. I am very worried. I want to drive down to check on him today, but I do not have his address.”

“I have not seen Samir at prayers since last weekend. That is a reason to worry too.”

“Yes, he would not miss prayers unless something was wrong.”

“I agree. Dawud, I cannot give you the address from our records, but if you come to the mosque around noon, I will personally take you to his apartment so I can also check on Samir.”

“May Allah bless you. How will I find you?”

“Come to the mosque office and ask for Ameen.”

After giving Dawud directions to the mosque, Ameen slowly laid the phone back on the charger. His brain assimilated the call. Then he opened the door and spoke to the secretary.

“Dawud will be here about lunchtime. Find me and I will help him. Do you have Samir’s information card in your file?”

“Of course. You want it?”

“Please.”

She appeared at his desk a few minutes later with the card in hand and an uneasy expression on her face. “I know the other men have been around, but I don’t think I’ve seen Samir lately. Or another one. Omar, I think. Have you?”

Ameen drew his brows together in what he hoped was a concerned look. “No, so I can understand his brother’s concern.” The secretary grimaced. “Don’t worry. You handled the call correctly. In today’s climate, you are always wise to protect our people’s privacy. Thank you.”