Targeted (FBI Heat) (5 page)

E
arly Monday morning, clouds of dust billowed behind Ameen’s truck as it raced down a dirt road in the Tijuana slum. The brilliant sky heralded another scorcher. Marissa scanned the surrounding neighborhood but couldn’t spot the cell’s hideout or the abandoned building where the dead bodies lay. She glanced nervously at Ameen.

“Don’t worry, Baheera. I know the way. I must always hide my truck because Samir’s men have seen it at the mosque,” he explained. After parking behind a dilapidated house, he peered directly into her eyes. “Are you sure you want to go back?”

“I must.” She pointed to the knife and other items. “I can’t have these things with me. Will you keep them for me?”

“Of course.”

“Never turn on the phone.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t show them to anyone.”

“Of course not.”

“Someone may—”

He gently placed his finger on her lips. “Relax. I know what to do.”

She exhaled against his finger, and his eyes darkened.

Marissa gulped. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They left the truck and jogged down two long, foul-smelling alleys, then turned left and arrived in the alley behind the hideout. The area finally looked familiar to her.

She pushed Ameen against the wall of the vacant shack next to the small house and planted her palm on his chest. “Thank you for bringing me back and for your help last night. You must go now.”

Ameen stared down at her delicate hand on his broad chest. “No. I need to be sure you’re safe. I’m going in.”

His eyes twinkling with mischief, he flexed the muscles beneath his T-shirt. Instead of jerking her hand away as he had probably expected, she caressed the firm bulges until she found his nipple and tweaked it. Then
he
jerked away. She peeked up at him through her eyelashes before patting his chest playfully and rolling her eyes.

“I must go in alone first. I’ll yell if I need you. If I don’t come back in five minutes, leave.” She stepped away, stopped, and turned back. “Show me I can trust you, Ameen Ali.”

She draped the
niqab
over her face before scooting around the corner. Remembering that Omar had been in the alley when she’d escaped out the front, she hoped to find the back door unlocked. Flattened against the side of the adjacent building, she surveyed the hideout and area for any signs of activity.

All quiet.

When she reached the back door, it stood ajar with the open padlock dangling from the inside latch. She pushed the door open an inch and peered into the room.

Looked. Listened. Nothing.

She slipped inside. Still nothing.

The place was undisturbed. Even the lamps were still on. Her purse sat on the floor where she’d left it. The boxes of electronic parts remained in a neat line. Nothing suggested anyone had been in the room since Samir and Omar had raced outside after her.

She hurried through the narrow archway into the front room. The bathroom door, which she had pulled shut, now stood open. She snickered at the image of Samir and Omar too fearful to open the door on a Muslim woman in the bathroom. The ploy had yielded extra minutes in her escape attempt. But they’d still caught her. She shuddered at the memory.

The front door hung open a crack. She leaned against the wall and strained to hear. No sounds came from the deserted street. She peeked through the opening at Samir’s truck. He always locked it so she decided against venturing outside the house to inspect it. She had to deal with things that were more urgent.

After closing the door, she trotted into the bedroom and found the bolted cabinet intact in the closet. She released a sigh of relief. The lights must have served as a deterrent since the unlocked doors would have certainly been an invitation to thieves.

She yanked the
niqab
off her head and grinned. The story she’d formulated was plausible, but she had work to do before the other members of the cell showed up looking for her, Samir, and Omar. And they could arrive at any minute.

Marissa rushed into the back room just as Ameen raced through the rear doorway with his gun drawn. “Ameen, no!”

He froze. “Five minutes. You didn’t come back,” he said, lowering the gun.

“And you were supposed to leave, not come barging in here. What if I wasn’t alone? What if the others were with me?”

He waved off her concerns and stuffed the gun in his waistband. “I would have dealt with them. Sorry, but I cannot forget the image of Samir’s knife above your neck.” He turned slowly in a circle, surveying the room. His attention landed on the cardboard boxes, and he said almost to himself, “So these are the boxes the nervous men in scarves deliver.” Frowning, he glanced at her before approaching them. “What’s in the boxes?”

“Ameen, I cannot answer your questions. Remember?”

He didn’t respond but stooped to flip up the top of the first box. He studied the contents before moving to the next one. As he inspected them, his frown deepened. At the end of the line, he bent down to see the small address label on the side.

“Abdul-Jaleel Electronics,” he read aloud and turned to Marissa with a puzzled expression. “What’s all this stuff for?”

“No questions, Ameen. You need to leave. They will be coming to see why the three of us never came home last night.”

“I understand,” he said, rubbing the muscles at the back of his neck. “Abdul-Jaleel Electronics is where Khaleel works. I should warn him that someone is stealing from the company.” He caught her surprised expression before she could erase it. “What?”

Her face now emotionless, she shook her head and was careful not to overreact. “You can’t tell anyone about this. Or about me. You really must leave so I can prepare.”

Reluctantly, he dragged his attention away from the boxes. “But I want to help. I believe we share the same goal.”

She hesitated. She didn’t know how much time she had. Maybe he could help.

“Okay. Make it look like someone broke in the back door. Crack the doorframe on the outside. Destroy the doorknob, the latch, and the padlock. And hurry.”

“On it,” he called over his shoulder as he ran out.

Marissa tossed the veil onto the table and turned to the boxes. She dumped the electronic parts from the first box onto the floor and spread them around with her foot. Ameen’s assault on the back door jolted her while she was dumping the third box. She raced to the front door, opened it a crack, and peered out. As far as she could see, the street was still deserted, and the noise wasn’t attracting attention.

After closing the door, she leaned her forehead against the worn wood. The house had not cooled off overnight. The dry, dusty air was already stifling. The long, black
abaya
trapped the heat around her body, sapping her energy. Her physical activity only made it worse. Pushing away from the door, she squared her shoulders and swiveled her head from side to side to loosen the muscles in her neck. Tension, in addition to heat, was building.

Her next stop was the cabinet in the bedroom closet. Snickering, she spun the numbers to the combination lock that she had memorized without Samir’s knowledge. He had been careless in many ways. She grabbed an AK-47, checked for a full magazine, and slung it over her shoulder. She also snatched a handgun similar to her Glock.

Ameen stood in the back doorway when she returned. His disapproving gaze bore into her, but she didn’t acknowledge it. She laid both guns on the table and figured the way she handled the weapons told him she was no stranger to them. But it couldn’t be helped. Neither spoke while she dragged a folding chair next to the table.

When she bent to retrieve her purse, a wave of lightheadedness washed over her. Heat. Tension. Black invaded her vision, and she stumbled. Before she could grab onto the chair, Ameen was beside her, his strong arm around her shoulders. He held her against him for only a moment before lowering her onto the seat.

“Hot, too hot,” Marissa murmured.

“Stupid clothes,” he muttered, pushing her head down between her knees. “Don’t move.”

Stripping off his shirt, he stepped to the filthy kitchen sink. He saturated the blue T-shirt with the brackish water and wrung it out. She sighed when he squatted in front of her and draped the cool, wet material across the back of her clammy neck.

“Better?” he whispered.

“Mmmm. Stupid clothes,” she agreed.

“Not used to them, are you?”

“Ameen, please. I don’t have the time or energy to…to tangle with you.”

“Is that what we’ve been doing?”

“Uh huh.”

He chuckled, then lifted her head and used the wet shirt to wipe away the sweat from her forehead and cheeks. He stared a few seconds too long at her lips before dabbing the sweat from above them. “I don’t think the tap water is fit to drink. Is there anything else liquid in this hellhole?”

She shook her head.

“Those idiots. I’ll go get you a—”

“No.” She caught his hand. “You must go now.”

His troubled eyes fastened on hers. “I know you’re a brave woman, but I don’t want to leave you here alone. If the others get suspicious, they could hurt you. I want to keep you safe, Baheera. I can—”

“No, you can’t do anything more. I’ll be safer if you leave. Believe me, please.” Her chest tightened. She’d been so alone in her undercover role. That part of her wanted him to stay. A bond, a connection, had formed. She felt it but didn’t want it. Now was not the time for…

“Baheera…,” he started again but gave up.

She released his hand, and he stood reluctantly. She watched him struggle to let go of what he felt he must do. Finally, he fished his wallet and a pen from his pants pocket. After writing on a dollar bill, he handed it to her. He’d scrawled two phone numbers.

“At least take this. The first one is my cell. The other, the mosque. Speak only to me.”

After stuffing the information into her purse, Marissa pushed herself to her feet. Still unsteady, she gripped the back of the chair. “Thank you. Promise me you’ll tell no one about any of this.”

He cupped her face. “Only if you promise to call me if you need help.”

The crunch of approaching tires on broken asphalt ended the conversation instantly. Marissa jerked her thumb toward the back door.

Cursing under his breath, Ameen ran.

With a groan, she settled the hated
niqab
back on her head and covered her face. With far more enthusiasm, she hoisted the AK-47 off the table and assumed a firing position.

Four car doors slammed. Anxious Arab voices shattered the morning quiet. The front door burst open.

The moment of truth had arrived. Had Samir and Omar warned the cell about the fake Baheera?

Marissa leveled the gun.

FBI Special Agent Wahid Jabbar snored loudly, with his head resting on the desk in the Joint Terrorism Task Force’s secret offsite in San Ysidro, California, within spitting distance of the Mexican border. When a tune blared from the cell phone lying beside his ear, he opened one eye and glared at it. His brain took several seconds to convince his hand to pick up the phone.

Too exhausted to check the screen, he put the phone to his ear and answered with a generic, “H’lo.”

“Wahid, is that you?”

“Jamila?”

“Yeah. You sound awful. You okay?” his girlfriend, FBI Special Agent Jamila Zafar, asked.

Wahid rubbed his eyes and roused himself enough to sit up. “Not really.” He yawned and shook his head hard to clear it. “What’s up?”

“You first. Sounds like you had a tough night. How’s the op going at your end?”

“Like shit.”

“That good, huh?”

He propped his elbows on the desk and cradled his forehead with one hand. “Damn it, Jamila, we lost her.”

She gasped and went silent. “Marissa’s dead?” she whispered several seconds later.

He exhaled. “We don’t know. She’s just gone. Vanished without a trace.”

“What happened, honey?”

“We tailed them to the Tijuana hideout and set up to listen as usual. Samir was farting around inside with a goddamn knife he’d bought. He got a call on the sat phone. Then, out of the blue, Marissa’s on the phone. Obviously, we could only hear her side of the conversation, and it was seriously…weird. After Marissa hung up, she said she was going to the bathroom. We even heard the bathroom door close. Next thing, the phone rang again. Then all hell broke loose. Samir was hollering for Omar, yelling something about infidels. All that crap. At first, we thought maybe some Mexicans had broken in, but we never heard any unidentified voices speaking Spanish.”

“Strange.”

“Yeah. And Samir and Omar started cursing Marissa because she was in the bathroom. Then it sounded like they—the guys, not her—ran out the front door, and their voices faded away, but we never heard a word from Marissa after she went into the john. The situation didn’t feel right so we left the car and started scouting around the hideout while I called in to get authorization to intervene. By the time I got through to Rawlings, we heard two shots down the road. There’s always gunfire around here, but—”

“Oh my God.”

“It gets worse. Rawlings was at the NSA call center. Husaam had just blown Marissa’s cover during that weird call and then phoned back to order Samir to kill her. I reported the gunshots, and he told us to fucking find her. Then it got really freaky. We hit the hideout, hoping like hell we didn’t find her dead in the john. No one was home, but her purse with her Glock and phone was still there. The guns and bomb parts were still locked up, but Samir’s knife was gone. We worked our way down the street toward where the shots had come from, trying to figure out where the hell everyone went. Eventually, we found this butchered dog outside an abandoned building. Inside, we discovered Samir and Omar’s bodies. Shot to death. Omar had been stabbed too. Their wallets and the sat phone were gone. No guns, no knife. And no sign of Marissa. I mean, not a trace.”

“Oh, Wahid. How awful. But I’m confused. If Marissa’s and the terrorists’ guns were still at the hideout, who fired the shots?”

“Yeah, exactly. We don’t know.”

“Were they attacked and robbed?”