The Defiant Hero (2 page)
Including smuggle weapons into the Kazbekistani embassy, intending to kidnap or—if it looked as if she couldn’t get her target out—to kill.
That target was a man named Osman Razeen, the leader of a rival terrorist group known as the GIK—the Islamic Guard of Kazbekistan. The Extremists hated the GIK and thought Razeen disloyal to their cause and deserving of death. They wanted to bring him back to K-stan for a public execution. But they’d settle for his assassination right here, right now.
And the Extremists seemed confident that Meg, in order to protect her daughter, would be capable—if she had to—of pulling that trigger and ending his life.
Meg didn’t know for sure that this Osman Razeen was really here, inside the embassy. But the thought that he could be here, that the leader of the GIK might have worked his way so thoroughly into the political trappings of his country’s government, was mind-boggling.
Still, at this moment, she didn’t give a damn if the K-stani government had been penetrated by spies or terrorists or even the Easter Bunny himself.
At this moment, she wanted only to save Amy and Eve.
And to do that, she had to find Osman Razeen.
She couldn’t get help without the Extremists finding out. There was no one inside the embassy that she could speak to, no one she could trust.
She couldn’t even dare to approach the Americans that were here at the embassy on business. One of them could just as well be the Extremists’ inside man.
Meg looked back at the K-stani guards standing at the foot of the stairs in their ornate formal uniforms. Despite the bright colors and the flash of gold braids, those uniforms weren’t half as resplendent as the U.S. Navy’s dress whites.
No, there was no one and nothing that could compare to an officer of the U.S. Navy when he was dressed to shine. . . .
Meg gripped the banister, stopping short at the top of the stairs. She needed help—there was no doubt about that. There was no way in hell she could do this alone. And in a flash of clarity, she realized exactly whose help she needed, and how she just might be able to get it.
But first she had to find Osman Razeen.
He was believed to be a tall man, about six-one or -two, dark hair, brown eyes, about forty years old. The Happy Terrorist from the parking garage had shown Meg a blurred and faded photograph taken a good fifteen years ago. It was apparently the only picture in existence of the elusive Razeen.
She’d studied the photo, memorizing his chin, his nose, his light brown eyes and his rather unremarkable face, praying that she’d recognize this man when she saw him.
In the picture, he didn’t glare the way a terrorist was supposed to glare. He didn’t have a heavy, furrowed brow or thin, cruel lips. In fact, his lips were rather full, and he smiled crookedly, charmingly, at whomever was taking the photograph.
And now he was fifteen years older. His hair might be gray. It might be gone. He might’ve gained fifty pounds, might’ve aged into someone unrecognizable.
And to add to her problem, Razeen could be virtually anywhere. He could be in the kitchen, disguised as part of the serving staff, cutting lamb into cubes for shish kebab for tonight’s dinner. He could be the aide to the ambassador. God, he could be the new ambassador. . . .
Then Meg saw him. It had to be him, didn’t it? Osman Razeen, only slightly heavier than the man in the photo, dressed in a dark business suit, deep in conversation with three other men as they headed together down the hall. But she wasn’t sure. How could she possibly be one hundred percent certain it was him?
He was about the right age, the right height, the right coloring.
His companions were speaking in Russian as they passed, one of the men, heavyset and balding, making a cruel joke about Putin.
All four men laughed, and it was the smile, that same slightly crooked smile that was in that photo, that convinced Meg.
She’d found Razeen.
As she watched, he went into the men’s room with the other three men. And she knew. It was now or never. She couldn’t have asked for a better location.
Meg crossed the hall, heading directly for the ladies’ room, right next to the men’s. She pushed open the door and went into a stall, where she pulled up her pant leg and reached into her boot for the gun.
She took off the safety the way the Extremist had shown her, slipped the compact weapon into her jacket pocket, finger wrapped around the trigger.
Pushing her way back out of the stall, Meg purposely didn’t look at the big mirror above the sinks. She refused to look at the reflection of her face, pale and grim, refused to think about the fact that these next few moments could well be her last. By pulling out that gun, she would be making herself a target, damn near begging to get herself shot and killed.
But she’d do it. She’d kill Razeen if she had to. And if and when it came down to it, she’d even die herself. For Amy.
Yes, the Extremists knew quite a lot about her.
But they didn’t know everything.
They didn’t know about John Nilsson.
She yanked open the door, hung a sharp left, and went directly into the men’s room.
Alyssa Locke missed her uniform.
She hated waking up each day and staring into her closet. She despised having to decide which pants to wear with which blouse and which blazer.
And then there was the matter of accessories. Locke wished she could wear a tie, but unfortunately the Annie Hall look had come and gone before she was out of grade school. So she also had to worry about whether or not to tie a scarf around her neck for a splash of color. Would that make her look too feminine, or would it counteract the message sent by her extremely sensible, flat-heeled shoes?
Yes, she missed her uniform.
She also missed the order and regulations, and the inherent respect that was so often absent in the civilian sector.
But that was about all that Locke missed since resigning her commission as an officer in the U.S. Navy.
What she didn’t miss was the frustration. Frustration caused by the knowledge that despite her talents and skills, despite the fact that she was the best sharpshooter in the entire U.S. military, she was destined to be kept far from the real action. Despite the fact that she could meet the fitness requirements, there was no chance in hell she’d ever be welcomed into the hallowed ranks of a spec-op group like the U.S. Navy SEALs.
Simply because she’d been born without a penis.
Not that she particularly wanted one.
Locke smiled as she got into the elevator and headed skyward toward her office. Now, that wasn’t entirely true. She did happen to want one. At times, she wanted one quite badly, in fact. Unfortunately, though, penises came attached to men. And therein lay one of her biggest problems.
Men wanted to own her.
Alyssa Locke was a beautiful woman. She could state that without any ego involved. Why should her ego have anything to do with it? It was pure genetics that gave her green eyes, flawlessly smooth mocha-colored skin, and a face that combined the best features from all of her various African American, Hispanic, and white parents and grandparents.
Sure, maybe she worked out to keep the body God gave her trim and in shape, but the basics were there to start with.
Now, her skills as a shooter . . . That was something about which she could be extremely egotistical. And rightly so, because she was as good as it got. She’d honed that skill with hard work and endless practice, until hitting a target dead-on became as natural and effortless as taking a breath.
Yeah, when it came to shooting, she was all that, and more.
The FBI wouldn’t have sought her out for their top counter-terrorist unit if they didn’t think as much, too.
And when the FBI recruiter said the magic words field work, Locke shook hands on the deal, resigned her commission, and went out shopping for black business suits and a pair of dark sunglasses.
The elevator opened onto her floor, and she moved briskly down the hall, keeping eye contact with the mostly male agents to a minimum. She’d give a nod of acknowledgment if she knew them on a first-name basis. But God forbid she smile. The male interpretation of a friendly smile in the hall was somewhere between “I’m extremely interested, let’s have a drink after work” and “I want to jump your bones right here, right now.”
She’d stopped smiling at a man—unless he was a close friend—right about the time she’d turned fifteen.
She breezed into her office, opened the drawer of her desk, and dropped her fanny pack inside.
Jules was already in. He’d poured her a cup of coffee and left it steaming in a mug atop her desk, bless his strange little soul. Even though it wasn’t morning, their day had just begun.
He stuck his head in the door, and today it was quite a head. FBI Agent Jules Cassidy had gone blond. Garishly, glaringly blond, with dark brown roots.
The dye job and the new cut made him look about seventeen years old, which was exactly the idea. With his handsome baby face and vertically challenged stature, he could gain access to places more traditional FBI suits could never get into.
“Any word?” he asked.
Locke shook her head, settling behind her desk. “Nothing yet.” And she didn’t want to talk about it. “That nose ring real or—”
“Nah. You think I would risk scarring this face?” He took it off as he came all the way into her office. He was wearing a silk shirt and leather pants that were impossibly tight. Amazingly tight. If she had a thing for gay seventeen-year-olds, she’d be in big trouble. “I was doing the club circuit—the early happy hour crawl—searching for Tony Ghilotti. I forgot I had it on.”
“Find him?” she asked.
“Nah. Son of a bitch’s long gone. I’m sure of it. But try telling that to the boss. . . .” He gazed at her, his brown eyes concerned. “I’m the one doing double shifts, but you’re the one looks like shit. Sleep much lately, girlfriend?”
With anyone else, she would’ve lied. But this was Jules, so she shook her head. Over the past few months, they’d worked too closely together too often to keep any secrets.
He watched as she took a sip of her coffee. “You know, it’s got to happen soon. And your sister’s going to be all right.”
Locke nodded and smiled because he wanted her to nod and smile. “It’s the waiting that’s killing me,” she admitted.
“Maybe you should take some time off,” Jules suggested. “Go hang out with her—”
“Bad idea.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He ran his hand across the top of his head. “So. You hate the hair.”
Locke had to laugh. “You are so vain,” she told him. “You know exactly how gorgeous you look, Mr. Fishing-for-a-compliment.”
He grinned, turning to give her a view of his backside. “Check out my ass in these pants.”
“Already did, thanks.”
“And . . . ?”
“Thanks for the coffee,” she said. “Get out of my office.”
“Hands up! Move it! Come on, hands high—up where I can see ’em!”
Two of the men were standing by the sinks, two—Osman Razeen and the heavyset man—were still over by the urinals. They all looked up in surprise as Meg burst into the men’s room.
“What is this—”
“Freeze!” she shouted, holding the gun in both hands, the way she’d seen on cop shows on TV, shifting her aim from one group of men to the other. “Don’t move, don’t talk, don’t do anything but put your hands in the air! Now!”
Oh, God, was she really saying this, really doing this?
It worked. Four pairs of hands went up, and the heavyset man peed on his shoe.
His pants were unzipped and . . .
Oh, this was just perfect.
She waved her gun at the men over by the sinks. First things first, then she’d deal with . . . other issues. “Get over with the others. Move it, let’s go!”
They moved.
The K-stani embassy men’s room was much larger—at least five times more so—than the women’s room. The walls were covered with blue tile, the floor a paler shade. Urinals lined one wall, the stalls were across from the sinks. There were no windows and only that one door.
It was the perfect location for holding off a siege.
“Keep your hands high.” Meg quickly checked to make sure there was no one else in the room, no one hidden in one of the stalls.
“Do you mind if I—”
“Yes.” She cut the heavy man off. “Keep your hands up.”
She wanted to apologize. So sorry for the humiliation but I can’t let you lower your hands, not even for that. . . . But she knew she couldn’t risk coming across as weak. She had to keep them believing that she knew how to use this gun, that she would use this gun if they threatened her.
And she couldn’t let them lower their hands. Not if she wanted to stay alive.
Sure, the ambassador’s staff weren’t supposed to carry weapons in the embassy. But there was also a rule stating that she wasn’t supposed to have a gun, either. And here she was. Fully armed and dangerous.
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