Targeted (FBI Heat) (2 page)

H
igh-tech listening and recording equipment filled the dimly lit room located deep in the bowels of the National Security Agency facility near Washington, DC. People sat in front of the machines, their ears encased in headphones. Other than a few whispered conversations, most worked without a sound.

Kevin Rawlings paced behind the men and women like a general motivating his troops on the battlefield. He knew these dedicated individuals were as committed to fighting terrorism as he was. But he also knew that since most of the Arabic conversations they monitored contained no information useful to the US intelligence community, boredom and complacency represented very real risks. After a while, all the technicians became numb to the hate-filled, anti-American rhetoric spewed by the Islamic extremists. However, everyone in the room was keenly aware of the ongoing, high-level, covert operation in San Diego. Any calls related to that op came through at the highest priority.

Sighing and leaning his shoulder against a wall, Rawlings scanned the translated transcripts of dozens of wiretapped calls. He rolled his eyes.
Same old shit. C’mon, assholes, tell us where it is. Tell us something we don’t already know.

Suddenly, one of the techs shot to his feet and waved his arms, interrupting his boss’s reading.

“Holy shit! Husaam’s on the sat phone with
her
. Listen,” he shouted to the others. He flipped a switch, and the voices of a man and a woman speaking Arabic filled the air.

Rawlings tensed and straightened away from the wall. A suffocating silence enveloped the windowless room. No one moved. They listened, shocked.

Unable to understand the language, all he could do was watch the expressions on his people’s faces. But he didn’t need a translator to tell him something catastrophic had happened.

Two gunshots exploded in the darkness.

Omar groaned and staggered backward, releasing his grip on Marissa’s hair. Instantly, she rolled to the side.

Samir’s knife hit the concrete floor with a loud clang seconds before he crashed to the ground.

Scrambling, Marissa snatched up the knife and sprang to her feet.

Blood pouring from his chest, Omar stumbled before regaining his balance and teetering toward her. After only a nanosecond of hesitation, she lunged forward and skewered his gut. With a scream, he collapsed, landing with a thud.

In one fluid motion, she freed the blade, spun in the direction of the shots, and raised the bloody knife.

A tall man stepped through the doorway and stood silhouetted in the moonlight. He lowered the gun to his side and pulled down the scarf that covered half his face.

“I don’t know what you have done, but you do not deserve
this
. Allah would not condone the barbarism of these fanatics. Come. We must leave,” he said calmly in Arabic.

“Who are you?” Marissa demanded, not yielding her aggressive stance for a second.

“My name is Ameen. I will not hurt you.” He strode forward and picked up her veil off the floor. “Please, come with me to a safer place.”

Inside her, adrenaline still screamed, “Move. Act. Attack. Defend,” but she stopped and stared at the stranger for a long moment. The man waited, feet planted wide, restrained violence evident in his body language. Unfortunately, his face was hidden by shadows so she couldn’t read any emotions in his expression. The man…Ameen…had saved her life, and she sensed no hostility toward her. To the contrary, he exuded confidence, control, and concern.

Options blurred as they sped through her brain, and none would come into focus. She drew several cleansing breaths, trying to calm her racing pulse and to silence the adrenaline.

Her gaze locked on his gun. She lowered the knife, but grasped it by her side while she leaned down and grabbed Omar’s wallet. Keeping a wary eye on the stranger, she moved to Samir, plucking the sat phone and wallet from his pants pockets. She straightened, squared her shoulders, and steeled herself before cautiously approaching Ameen.

“Praise Allah for sending you to save my life. Thank you,” she said in Arabic as she accepted the veil from his outstretched hand.

“Will you trust me?” he asked.

Marissa studied his face. Solemn. Worried. Her instincts said he wasn’t a terrorist. But he also wasn’t part of her team. So, who was Ameen?

She exhaled and nodded.

“Good. Follow me.”

“No. I should…” What
should
she do? Husaam had apparently broken her cover and ordered Samir to kill her. But Samir and Omar were dead. Before coming after her, had they warned the other members of the cell that Baheera was an imposter? Were the remaining six men already on their way from San Diego? What did the mysterious Ameen know about her and the cell? And how had he found her…in the nick of time?

Intuitively, she knew Ameen would not let her just disappear into the night. No, this Good Samaritan would insist on staying with her to insure her safety. Therefore, finding her tail or calling her handler would be unwise since those actions would expose too much to him. If Ameen returned with her to the hideout, the terrorists might kill him when they came looking for the fake Baheera.

Husaam’s discovery might have destroyed the whole covert op, but until she knew for sure, she didn’t want to compromise the operation. She needed to buy some time to accurately assess the situation. Yes, the best option was not to reveal her true identity, but to stay undercover and improvise.

Decision made, she conceded. “All right. I’ll come with you.”

Ameen studied her for several seconds. Then he wrapped his scarf around his arm and hand before using his gun to knock the remaining glass out of one of the broken windows. After stashing the pistol and scarf in his waistband, he formed a stirrup with his hands and boosted Marissa up so she could climb through the window. Once she was clear, he dove through the opening and somersaulted to his feet.

They sprinted silently through the night, always on the lookout for violent drug goons who wouldn’t hesitate to kill them simply for the fun of it. Ameen kept his gun raised and ready. Only once did he have to slow his long strides when she tripped on her
abaya
. His arm encircled her shoulders and hugged her body up hard against his to prevent her from falling.

Marissa noticed his curious expression when he peered down into her upturned face, their lips separated by mere inches. For several heartbeats, their chests rose and fell in tandem. Abruptly, he released her and turned away. They ran down multiple alleys until they dodged around one last corner and collapsed against a white Ford truck.

After a moment’s rest, he unlocked it and they climbed inside. The engine roared, and the truck barreled down the road. Once the slum was behind them, Ameen slowed to a normal speed.

Marissa kept one eye on the silent stranger driving her to an unknown destination as she tried, unsuccessfully, to memorize the circuitous route through Tijuana. One of her hands grasped the handle of Samir’s knife, the tip of the long, bloody blade resting on the floor by her feet.

The sat phone rang, startling her and Ameen. She glared at it for a moment before switching it off and removing the battery. Someone, somewhere, could be tracking the phone’s GPS chip. And that someone could be Husaam Abbas.

She forced a calm demeanor even though her mind raced through a myriad of questions.
Who is this man? Should I trust him? I know I can defend myself, but where is he taking me? How could he shoot Samir and Omar so accurately in the dark? How did Husaam break my cover?
The questions stopped when a stark realization hit her.
Beheaded. I was almost beheaded.
The shocking truth shattered her thought process. An icy shiver washed over her, and she swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

While the truck carried her farther and farther away from her near execution, Marissa stole sideways glances at her rescuer. His expression grim, he focused on the road, but twice she caught him studying her. His muscular arms were taut, and his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. But he didn’t speak. A muscle in his jaw twitched as if chewing on his rage.

“Who are you, Ameen? And I want more than just your name,” she finally said.

Ebony eyes shifted slowly to hers. “I was waiting for you to ask. I’m sure my answer will be much easier—and truer—than yours. I am Ameen Ali. I live in San Diego and work for my uncle, Abdullah, who is the imam at a San Diego mosque.” He frowned. “Is it a waste of my breath to ask who you are and why you were with those men?”

“Yes.” She pressed her lips together to hide a faint smile.

He shook his head in frustration. “Will you at least tell me your name?”

Her defensive instincts tingled. She repositioned the
niqab
on her head and covered her face before she answered. “I am called Baheera.”

“Baheera,” he echoed. “Just Baheera?”

She didn’t respond.

His piercing gaze seemed to penetrate her veil. Without hesitation, he switched to English. “In Arabic, Baheera means dazzling, brilliant. The name fits, although I doubt it is what your parents named you.”

“Perhaps not,” Marissa replied in English. She would have to be careful with this man.

Thirty minutes passed before Ameen parked the truck in front of a house in a much nicer neighborhood of Tijuana. He sat for a moment, staring at his hands resting on the steering wheel. When he turned, his dark eyes were filled with concern.

“I promise, Baheera, no one is going to hurt you. Will you trust me and wait here?”

She rolled down the window and scrutinized the house. Small, but neat. The moonlight revealed a well-maintained yard and flowers in pots on the front stoop. “Who lives here?”

“My good friends, Khaleel and his wife, Safiya. I hope they will let us spend the night.”

She hesitated and then agreed. “Fine.”

Ameen nodded once before climbing from the truck. Several minutes after he knocked, the porch light came on. Marissa heard a quiet exchange between him and someone inside the house. Finally, the door inched open, and a man peeked out. Then, a woman, dressed in traditional Muslim clothing, appeared at his side. Unlike the man, she smiled and welcomed Ameen warmly.

He leaned closer and continued to speak in little more than a whisper. The couple glanced toward the truck. Safiya cocked her head and stared, but when Khaleel stomped his foot, she turned back to him.

Unmoving, Marissa hid behind her veil. She could hear the voices speaking Arabic, but couldn’t distinguish their words or imagine what story Ameen was telling his friends. An unmarried Muslim woman alone with an unrelated male would raise many unwelcome questions. When the three friends stepped inside the house, she carefully slid the knife under her clothes and tied it to her leg with Ameen’s scarf. She stuffed the sat phone and wallets in her pockets. Last, she checked the
niqab
to be sure it completely covered her face and hair.

Ameen reappeared beside the truck and swung open her door. “Safiya and Khaleel have agreed to let us stay. Will you?”

Marissa read the relief in his expression. Once she nodded, he grinned.

As she climbed out, he scanned the inside of the truck. His smile faded. With his steady gaze fixed on her veiled face, his eyes told her that he knew she was carrying the missing items, specifically the knife. She waited for his questions or reprimand.

Instead, he only muttered, “If you must.”

The couple was arguing on the couch when Ameen ushered Marissa through the living room. Khaleel stood up abruptly, blocking their path, and glared at her with hateful, suspicious eyes. She stared back from behind the black veil, analyzing what and how much danger the tall man represented. The sticky blade of Samir’s knife against her leg provided reassurance.

Safiya laid her hand on her husband’s arm and smiled up at Marissa. “You are welcome in our home. We are pleased to help a Muslim woman in need.”

Khaleel shook off his wife’s hand and stormed out of the room.

Hastily, Ameen guided Marissa down the hall into a bedroom.

“Do not mind Khaleel. He doesn’t trust strangers and wants only to protect his wife. I’ll be close by. You are safe here,” he said as he left and shut the door behind him.

Marissa wasn’t so sure.

Holding her breath, she listened with her ear pressed against the bedroom door. Ameen’s voice was intent but quiet; she could barely hear his words. Khaleel ranted about the risks of sheltering a strange woman. Safiya spoke in a soothing voice of reason, trying to temper her husband’s tirade.

Marissa listened for any mention of the earlier violence, but heard nothing about knives, guns, or killing. Could she trust Ameen not to tell his friends what had happened? Not to share even her name. Would Safiya throw them out if she learned the true circumstances of their meeting? Was Khaleel more of a danger than Ameen realized? Those and a hundred other questions kept her ear glued to the door until all three voices became whispers and defeated her eavesdropping.

Sighing, she surveyed the tiny bedroom. The furniture was sparse and cheap, but the room neat and clean. The one window was large enough to allow escape. Unfortunately, the door had no lock. Marissa yawned and decided she really had no better option than to spend the night. She glanced warily at the door. If necessary, she would defend herself.

She slipped the knife, phone, and wallets under the covers. Exhausted, she removed the veil, crawled between the sheets, and stared at the ceiling.

Almost beheaded.
Her skin turned clammy. Her whole body began to shake. Shock? Adrenaline crash? Sleep seemed impossible, but she had to try.

“Whatever possessed you to bring that infidel to my home?” Khaleel hissed.

Ameen considered him calmly. His friend had changed since moving from San Diego to Tijuana several months ago. His Islamic beliefs and practices were more fundamentalist, more extreme. The man’s personality had also grown aggressive and almost paranoid. Ameen wished he knew what was bothering his friend so he could help. He’d talk privately with Khaleel and attempt to identify the problem as soon as he could. But right now, Baheera was the pressing problem. “How do you know she’s an infidel?”