Targeted (FBI Heat) (9 page)

Once he was cleared to cross into the US, he kept a smile pasted on his face as he drove away slowly, checking in his rearview mirror for Baheera and the gang. One officer was still questioning them in the inspection area while a second was searching the trunk. They’d probably be tied up for another thirty minutes at least. He shook his head in frustration. How many times had he wished the terrorists would be arrested at the border? It would make his life a lot easier. But obviously, the cell had been trained not to break any immigration laws to avoid endangering their main mission.
Whatever the hell that is
.

As Ameen sped north on Interstate 5, he remembered the paperwork awaiting his signature at the mosque this morning. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since dinner the previous evening. He’d have just enough time to swing by the mosque to take care of business and then grab some fast food.

He knew the terrorists and Baheera would head straight to their San Diego apartment.

And he’d be waiting.

An hour later, Ameen rushed into the small, cramped cluster of offices in the mosque and greeted the fiftyish secretary warmly in Arabic. “Those documents you need me to sign—”

“Are on your desk,” she replied efficiently and smiled. “You didn’t beat me in this morning. Late night? Hot date, I hope.”

“Late, but no date.” He shook his head with amusement. “A devout Muslim woman like you shouldn’t be thinking of such things. And would you quit trying to marry me off?”

“Well, you need someone to give you a gentle push, like a mother—” She stopped, reddened. “Sorry, Ameen.”

He shrugged. “No problem.” Her gaffe didn’t bother him. Rage had long ago replaced grief.

He disappeared into the tiny office that was barely large enough to accommodate a man of his size. Opening the window to enjoy the breeze after his pressure-cooker morning, he squeezed behind the desk and pulled the papers in front of him.

He had just finished reading and signing the documents when a black Suburban blaring Spanish music drew his attention outside. The vehicle parked at the curb in front of the mosque. A young Hispanic man wearing gang-style clothing emerged, surveyed the area, and then leaned against the side of the SUV. He lit a cigarette, fidgeted, and checked his watch three times within a couple minutes. His eyes were in constant motion, darting from place to place.

Ameen’s instincts rocketed to high alert. He didn’t want the man loitering near the mosque. The last thing his uncle needed was gangs dealing drugs to young Muslims.

On his way outside, Ameen stopped to hand the signed documents to the secretary. Leaning down, he directed her attention out the window to the man. “I’m going to take care of the punk. If things get out of hand, call the police.”

Her eyes widened. “Out of hand? What does that mean?”

He grinned. “You’ll know it if you see it.”

Ameen scanned the area for any other signs of trouble before he sauntered down the sidewalk toward the SUV. Nothing else looked unusual. He approached the man confidently, but cautiously. No reason to ask for trouble.

“May I help you?” Ameen said calmly in English.

“You Samir?” the younger man asked.

Ameen tensed. “No, but…I know him…well.”

“Where the fuck is he? He was supposed to meet me here ten minutes ago.”

“I haven’t seen Samir today, but he comes often for prayers. Can I give him a message for you?”

“He better not be screwing with me. Tell the motherfucker I’ll give him one more chance. Tomorrow morning at ten. If the asshole doesn’t show, the deal’s off.”

The guy threw his smoldering cigarette on the sidewalk near Ameen’s feet, swaggered around the Suburban, and climbed inside. Ameen’s hands clenched into fists, but his training restrained him. He stood rigidly until the vehicle disappeared down the street.

Another piece of the puzzle. Where does it fit?

Forty minutes later, Ameen finished eating in his truck as Fateen pulled the car into the apartment complex’s parking lot. He stashed the trash into the fast-food bag and grabbed the binoculars from the glove compartment.

As the three people emerged from the small car, he focused on Baheera. He smiled. Still not wearing the veil.
Good girl
. But she looked exhausted, drained. Lifting her long hair off her neck, she nonchalantly surveyed the surrounding area. Did she know there were two men in a black SUV parked on the next street? Once again, he wondered if she was part of a larger operation. If so, why hadn’t they helped her last night?

Or could Baheera possibly be looking for him? He got his answer when she did a double take as her gaze swept past his white truck. She stared at him just long enough to communicate that she’d spotted him, but not long enough for anyone else to notice.

Squaring her shoulders, she stepped in front of Fateen and Masoud. Ameen laughed at their dumbfounded expressions as Baheera led the way up the stairs and into the apartment instead of following submissively behind.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall in that apartment. But he couldn’t go inside, of course. He could only wait and watch her from a distance.

The endless lines of vehicles at the border were always a frustration, but this morning Marissa had found them particularly exasperating. Ameen’s laser-like gaze had tugged at her from his truck in the other lane even though she couldn’t see him. What part of “no” did the man not understand? If he didn’t back off, she’d need to have him picked up before he got them both killed.

This had been her first crossing without the veil, and the agents had given her a closer look. The CBP officer smiled and nodded slightly as he handed back her passport. They were definitely on the lookout for Special Agent Marissa Panuska.

Rawlings would know by now that she was safely back on US soil. He and the other suits had probably suffered heart attacks with her little disappearing act last night. At the time, she’d been afraid her reasoning was being affected by the trauma of almost being beheaded. Whose logic wouldn’t be influenced by such a heinous incident? But in hindsight, she’d made the right decision. Going with Ameen had given her time in a relatively safe environment to analyze the catastrophic events and reach important conclusions. And as far as she could tell, no harm done. Other than acquiring a Muslim Good Samaritan who was a crack shot and couldn’t take no for an answer.

Now, if she could just get in touch with her handler—she had so much news. Samir’s domination had made the daily check-in call practically impossible from the beginning. On a few occasions, she’d managed to carry her purse into the bathroom. Even then, she was afraid to speak into the Bureau phone and had to trust that her handler understood that just making the call was the best she could do. Marissa also knew she and the terrorists were under constant surveillance, but that knowledge did little to alleviate the feeling of being alone. Terribly alone.

With Samir dead, she would have to establish Baheera as a competent leader worthy of their respect, obedience, and loyalty. Would careful manipulation bring more converts than the coercion Samir had used to control them? He had been a strict, dogmatic, and secretive leader of the al-Qaeda cell, a fanatic to his very core. The details of the deadly mission had only been shared with the other men on a need-to-know basis. They had followed and obeyed him unquestioningly. Whether it was out of respect or fear, Marissa couldn’t tell.

Samir had expected Baheera to fall in line with the others and insisted on submissiveness. He treated Baheera more like a prisoner than a partner. Was it because she was a woman or did he not trust her? For two weeks, she’d fought an overwhelming sense of isolation. Plenty of support existed out there, but that support was faceless, invisible.

Except
him
. Marissa shook her head to clear away the image of Ameen’s strong, handsome face. For a few precious moments, the aloneness faded.

She heaved a sigh of exhaustion when she stepped out of the car. Located in eastern San Diego near San Diego State University, the small, aging apartment complex was run-down and student-infested. Samir had chosen the location partially because of the students, whom he figured would be oblivious to the cell’s presence and activities. The eight-member cell—nine with Baheera—lived in a furnished three-bedroom, two-bath unit. She always slept in the same bedroom, but the men rotated sleeping on the double beds in the other two bedrooms, which meant that many nights they slept on mats on the floor.

Marissa stretched, and nonchalantly scanned the neighborhood. She spotted her tail in an unmarked black SUV on a side street. The sighting should’ve raised a greater sense of relief, but she’d learned a valuable lesson last night: Even a tail who can hear what’s going on may not be there when you need them most. Sometimes, a white knight…

Her head jerked back. Sometimes, a white knight is watching from his white truck parked down the street. She allowed herself to stare at the vehicle for a moment even though she couldn’t actually see the man she knew was sitting inside, staring back at her with those captivating eyes. His presence reassured her in a way her professional tail hadn’t.

Connections
. She sighed again and turned away.

Marissa led the way to the apartment and opened the door. The white and gray blandness of the cheap, functional décor always reminded her of sun-bleached bones. An appropriate decorating theme under the circumstances, but definitely a depressing one. She longed for the bright, vibrant colors of her Georgetown condo.

Immediately after they entered, Fateen and Masoud began recounting in rapid-fire Arabic to the other two members, Tareef and Yasir, the shocking story of what had happened in Tijuana.

“Enough. There is work to do,” Marissa interrupted. “And speak English, even here where we are safe. If you don’t learn to speak it naturally, you will draw attention in public.”

The four men turned annoyed glances her way but didn’t speak.

I have to establish control quickly to deter anyone from trying to usurp my leadership.
She squared her shoulders and glared back at them. “Fateen and Masoud, you will find the extra key and return to Tijuana to retrieve Samir’s truck. Before you cross into Mexico, purchase plenty of supplies for the hideout. The house should be equipped so two of us can be there at all times to guard…our precious assets. No longer will we leave the fate of our mission at the mercy of the drug gangs.”

Frowning, the men seemed to mull over her words but then nodded agreement.

She hid her relief that they were oblivious to her real motive. From now on, she would keep two members tied up in Tijuana day and night. Less terrorists surrounding her meant less opportunity for them to spy on her, and the safer she would be. With Fateen and Masoud gone for several hours on their errand, she’d have to deal with the prying eyes and eavesdropping ears of only two terrorists. For a moment, it almost felt like freedom.

She waited patiently on the couch until one of the men found the key. After a hasty good-bye, Fateen and Masoud hurried out of the apartment. Tareef and Yasir shuffled their feet and shared nervous glances, their uneasiness with Baheera’s new role glaringly evident.

Marissa enjoyed watching the minions squirm. But a yawn interrupted her observations. The traumatic night and lack of sleep were catching up with her. For the moment, the risk level had subsided, and with it, her adrenaline. She needed time, alone, to rejuvenate…and to make an important phone call.

“I’m exhausted from staying awake all night guarding our hideout. I must sleep. Do not disturb me,” she announced.

Tareef’s and Yasir’s eyes widened. Whatever Samir had told the cell to justify the constant surveillance of Baheera had worked well, but Marissa didn’t expect any resistance. These men were underlings, who didn’t think for themselves and simply followed orders. They weren’t strong enough to object on their own.

As expected, they watched in silence as she headed to the bedroom. After locking herself inside, she dug the Bureau cell phone out of its hidden compartment and crouched in the far corner of the room. Although extremely risky, she had to check in. Days had passed since her last contact, and so much had happened.

“Benja,” she whispered, a faint grin emerging despite her stress. No one knew her code word was her pet name for a former lover.

“Secure?”

“Yes.”

“Damn, am I glad to hear from you. You scared the shit out of us,” her obviously relieved handler exclaimed. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I’ll explain when I can, but I’ve got a lot to update.” She drew a deep breath. “Samir and Omar are dead.”

“Yeah, we found the bodies. How—”

“Later. I’m establishing myself as Samir’s replacement. Two Abdul-Jaleel employees are starting the bomb assembly tonight. Research and report to me on Ameen Ali, who works for his uncle, Abdullah Ali, at the San Diego mosque where the cell prays. Baheera Abbas is Husaam’s wife. I believe him to be
the
Husaam Abbas who’s the leader of al-Qaeda of Syria.”

“Agreed. We have confirmed those identities.”

“I had to speak to Husaam…” Her throat tightened. “I believe he’s blown my cover.”

“We were on the call. Your cover has definitely been compromised. Husaam called back to warn Samir that you were an imposter and to order him to kill you.”

“Well, Samir tried…to behead me last night.”

“Good God! How—”

“Later. I don’t think he or Omar warned the others. Did you hear anything?”

“No calls to the men at the apartment. They were quiet and inactive until early this morning.”

“Good.” She gulped. “I believe Baheera is the suicide bomber.”

“Shit! Are you requesting to be brought in?”

“No, of course not. I confiscated the sat phone so I should have some time before Husaam can reestablish contact. Listen closely for that. Also, research a doctor’s role in the plot and report.”

“Already on it. We didn’t understand Husaam’s questions either.”

“Have you located the pig?” Marissa asked hopefully.