The Defiant Hero (16 page)
“Was there a reason you didn’t search her in the men’s room, Lieutenant?” Bhagat asked.
She had a second side arm? Nils couldn’t believe it. But God, he hadn’t searched her in the men’s room.
“No, sir,” he answered Bhagat. “She’d surrendered her weapon and . . .” And she’d been in his arms, crying her heart out. It had never even occurred to him that he might want to pat her down. He looked at Paoletti. “Are you sure about this, sir, because . . .”
“According to the FBI guard, she held him at gunpoint, took his cuffs, his side arm, too, and locked him in a utility closet. Then she went in and took—”
“The ambassador?” Even as he said the words, Nils didn’t believe it. And yet . . . He could still see that desperation in Meg’s eyes. “After the doctor gave her something to sleep? No way.”
“The doctor gave her sleeping pills.” The look in Paoletti’s eyes told Nils what his CO thought of that doctor. “He left her with a full prescription. It’s now assumed she didn’t actually take any.”
“And it wasn’t the ambassador,” Bhagat informed Nils. “Meg Moore left the premises with another of her hostages—a diplomatic aide named Janko Tuzak. Does that name ring any bells, Lieutenant?”
The FBI team leader still wasn’t convinced Nils didn’t know something. And at this point, with both Bhagat and Lieutenant Paoletti telling him that Meg had conned them all—particularly Nils . . .
The thought that Meg had baldly lied to him, that she’d had a second handgun—probably hidden in her boot—was one Nils couldn’t quite wrap his brain around. He didn’t know something—Christ, he didn’t know anything. Including which way was up.
But Bhagat had asked him a question.
“Janko Tuzak.” Nils shook his head. “No, I don’t know him, sir, don’t know the name.”
“Maybe you’ll know him by his real name—Osman Razeen.”
Oh, fuck. “Are you telling me that Meg left here with a weapon and a hostage, and that hostage is Osman Razeen?” Nils looked at Lieutenant Paoletti and saw the truth echoed in his grim expression.
Bhagat nodded. “I guess that name’s more familiar to you, huh?”
Nils felt the earth listing a little bit more to the side. “Osman Razeen, the GIK terrorist leader . . . ?” It was a stupid question. What kind of answer did he expect? No, Osman Razeen the K-stani ice cream man.
“The one and only,” Bhagat informed him, apparently used to dealing with idiots. “Wanted by the U.S., the Kazbekistani government, and, it seems now, the Extremists. Everyone wants a piece of him.”
“Does Meg know who he is?” Nils asked, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how stupid they were, too. He was batting a thousand here. Of course she knew.
He couldn’t believe this. This was like some awful nightmare that just kept on getting worse and worse. “She told me the Extremists were targeting the new ambassador,” he informed Bhagat and Paoletti. She’d looked him in the eye, and told him. “She didn’t say anything about Tuzak or Razeen or . . .”
Fuck. Meg had lied to him. She’d used him as much as she’d used that second handgun in her boot to get herself and Razeen out of the K-stani embassy.
“How well do you really know Meg Moore, Lieutenant?” Paoletti asked gently. “Is it possible that she has ties to the Extremists? Or maybe to Razeen? Is it possible she was in on this from the start?”
Nils couldn’t answer. How well did he know Meg? Not well enough, apparently. She’d lied to him. She’d used him.
For Amy’s sake.
He closed his eyes and he could see Meg’s face as she sat in that men’s room. He could see her desperation and smell her fear.
He could feel her arms around his neck as she sobbed into his shoulder, see her brown eyes filled with tears as she told him the Extremists had ordered her to kidnap . . . the freaking ambassador.
She’d looked him in the eye and she hadn’t even blinked as she’d lied.
To him.
“I don’t know anything anymore, sir,” Nils admitted to Paoletti, working hard to keep his voice from shaking and his hurt and anger from showing. “I thought I knew her pretty damn well. Ten minutes ago, I would have sworn on my mother’s grave that there was no way in hell Meg would voluntarily get involved with any kind of terrorists. But I also would have insisted that she was incapable of lying to me, too. Obviously, I was wrong about that.”
He looked from Paoletti to Bhagat. “If you’re looking for answers, sirs, you’re not going to find them from me. I’m as clueless as you are. She conned me completely, because even as I hear myself say all that, there’s a part of me that’s thinking I don’t believe any of this. There’s a part of me that’s dead positive there’s been a mistake, that despite the fact that she lied, she’s still the victim here—that whatever she’s done is because she thinks it’s going to help save her daughter.”
Nils stood up, pushing back his chair. “That’s a pretty thorough con job.” He had to get out of here, or he’d start asking Bhagat to make sure his agents didn’t use excessive or—God help him—deadly force when they tracked Meg down. He had to leave before he started trying to convince the FBI that there was no way Meg would ever fire that weapon she had—the one that made her “armed and dangerous” on the APBs that were surely going out. But maybe he’d be wrong about her again, and this time his mistake would cost some of those FBI agents their lives.
He looked at Paoletti. “Sir.”
His CO nodded. “You can go.”
“But don’t go far,” Bhagat added.
The sky was getting lighter in the east, and Meg knew that back in Washington her disappearing act had surely been discovered by now.
She headed steadily south through Virginia on Route 95, still unable to believe she’d actually gotten this far.
The FBI would be looking for her. She was going to have to keep moving. She’d stop for coffee only at fast-food drive throughs, answer the call of nature at the side of a deserted road.
Osman Razeen was snoring in the backseat of the car, proof that the doctor’s sleeping pills worked—particularly when triple dosed.
They’d be looking for her car. It was pure luck that it had still been parked on the street, three blocks away from the Kazbekistani embassy.
She’d racked up $150 in parking tickets, but it hadn’t been towed. And the spare key was still where she’d always left it—in the little hidden box inside the left front wheel well. Her father had attached it there the first time she and Amy had visited, after they’d returned from overseas. She’d rolled her eyes at the time, but she hadn’t argued with him. He’d attached a similar box to the very first car she’d owned, back when she was nineteen and still in college. She was grateful for it now.
Still, it wouldn’t take the FBI long to figure out that her car wasn’t in the parking garage beneath her condo building, and it would take about a second longer for them to get her plate number and put out an APB.
Yes, they’d be looking for her, but her car’s color, make, and model—a three-year-old white Ford Taurus—was a popular one.
And she’d already switched license plates with a similar-looking car that was parked around the back of a cheap motel outside of Fredericksburg.
With any luck, the owners of that car wouldn’t notice the different plates—her old plates—until long after she’d arrived in Orlando.
And exchanged Osman Razeen for Amy and her grandmother.
Meg didn’t want to imagine what would happen to Razeen—or herself—after she made the exchange. In fact, there were a lot of things she didn’t want to imagine.
Including the look on John’s face when he realized she’d lied to him.
Meg looked at the clock on the dashboard. Four thirty. He was probably being told she’d escaped right now.
Despair and fatigue flowed through her in a dizzying wave, and she took another slug of her long-cold coffee.
So what? She made herself sit up taller and rolled her head slightly, trying to release some of the tension from her neck. She’d lied.
It wasn’t as if she’d never lied to John Nilsson before.
Truth was, she’d lied to him pretty much endlessly, starting back in late June, nearly three years ago, starting with the words she uttered after seeing him for the first time in six months.
“John? Oh, my God, I didn’t recognize you!”
Yeah, that had been pure baloney.
Meg had recognized him instantly, even before he called out to her, even just from the flash she’d seen of him out of the corner of her eye.
She’d recognized him from the way he was standing, from the smooth line of his jaw, from the glint of the late afternoon sun on the bit of his dark brown hair that escaped from beneath his hat.
And from his eyes.
U.S. Navy Ens. John Nilsson had average brown eyes. Unremarkable light brown eyes. Meg had spent the past six months convincing herself that several billion other people on this planet had eyes just like his.
But gazing into them again, she knew she’d been wrong.
He laughed at her words, and the Washington, DC, sidewalk seemed to shift beneath her feet. “Yeah, it’s the dress whites. Bet you didn’t think I’d clean up so well, huh?” he teased. “Try not to faint, all right?”
The stupid thing was, she was feeling lightheaded. Dear God, as good-looking as John had been dressed as a K-stani terrorist, he was perfection in his Navy dress uniform, rows of ribbons on his chest along with the gold trident that identified him as a SEAL.
The uniform made him look older—yeah, right. It made him look all of twenty-six.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying not to think of the way his tongue had felt in her mouth, trying not to blush at that sudden sharp memory.
“I’m in DC to make an appearance before an inquiry board,” he told her. “They’re conducting an investigation into that, um, incident in K-stan six months ago.”
She forgot about being embarrassed. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”
He made a face. “Nah. It’s nothing. Some high-powered feathers got ruffled, and as the SEAL team leader, I’ve got to waste a few days explaining why I made the choices I did without going into any of the specifics about the op—the operation.”
Meg wasn’t quite sure whether to believe him. If it really were nothing, he would be in California with the rest of his team, wouldn’t he?
“I was there, too,” she reminded him. “If there’s anything I can say or do or add to your testimony that’ll help . . .”
He smiled a warm, broad, relaxed smile that made his eyes even prettier. “Thanks, but . . .” He shook his head. “There’s no testimony. Honest. It’s really not that big a deal.
“So how are you?” he continued. “I heard you’ve been in DC for a while. Nearly six months, right?”
Call me. Meg couldn’t hold his gaze. She’d thought about calling him, but only at two A.M., during her wildest dreams. “Amy and I left the Pit a few weeks after you did.”
“Just you and Amy?”
She could feel him watching her. He was still smiling, but it was no longer so relaxed. “Yeah. Daniel and I are separated.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She glanced at him—she couldn’t help it—and he snorted and rolled his eyes. “No, I’m not. I’m thrilled. He’s an asshole. Congratulations, Meg. Let’s have dinner tonight to celebrate.”
Meg shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Sure, you can. Bring Amy, too. I’d love to see her. How is she? Probably three inches taller.”
“No, it’s not that.” Meg took a deep breath. “Actually, Amy’s spending the next two weeks visiting my grandmother in England.” As she said the words, she felt another flare of anger at Daniel. “I’m just . . . I’m . . . really busy.”
Another lie.
She had no plans for tonight because Daniel wasn’t due back in town until some time next week.
Daniel’s timing was—like nearly everything else he did—completely self-centered and oblivious to anyone else’s wants and needs. Meg had told him Amy’s schedule for the summer dozens of times. And he still couldn’t manage to schedule his visit to Washington for one of the other six weeks that his only daughter would also be in town.
John was right. Her husband was an asshole.
And yet Meg had agreed to meet Daniel. To discuss reconciliation. He’d spent the past six months in therapy, dealing—allegedly—with his fidelity issues. He claimed that he’d changed. That he’d grown.
He’d been sending her and Amy gifts—surprise packages, flowers, wine. And child support checks that were four times the amount Meg had requested.
He sent her email nearly every day. He wanted his family back. But apparently only on his schedule.
“Even busy people have to eat,” John told her. “Come on, I know this really great little Italian place that’s completely off the tourist route. We can get something quick—a pizza if you want . . .”
Meg wasn’t sure what she wanted, but as tempting as John’s dinner invitation was, she knew that the last thing she needed was to have dinner in a quiet little Italian restaurant with a twenty-five-year-old man who kissed like a dream.
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