The Protector (22 page)

A light knock at the door dashed that fragile hope. His heart began to pound, his jeans to grow suddenly snug. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

The doorknob slowly turned. His mouth turned dry as she poked her burnished head into the room. “Ike?” She was looking toward his empty bed.

“
Here.
”

As she eased inside, he was relieved to see she’d put on some clothes, having pulled on her pink sweat pants. “I had a bad dream,” she announced with a hitch in her voice.
  

Concern edged his lustful thoughts aside. “It was just a dream,” he said, meaning to reassure her.
 

“But it seemed so real.” She hugged herself. “The taxi driver that killed
Itzak
brought me to this cabin, only it was different, creepy and dark with chains on the walls. He locked me up. And he—he hurt me,” she finished, her voice trailing to a whisper.

Ike’s stomach clenched at the violent image she’d so delicately depicted. “He won’t find you here,” he promised, fighting the impulse to cross the room and haul her into the reassuring embrace he knew she needed. He gripped the chair he was sitting in until his knuckles ached.

“I know, but…” She weaved on her feet a moment. “Can I please sleep in your bed?” She gnawed her lower lip as she waited for his answer, a sight that nearly did him in. “This isn’t—I mean, I just want—”

“—to sleep,” he finished, understanding perfectly. He knew about nightmares. But putting her in his bed was as rash an idea as kissing her to shut her up. “Go ahead,” he heard himself say. Idiot!
  

With a whisper of thanks, she pulled back the blankets and wriggled under them. As he watched her curl into a ball to warm
herself
, he felt himself being torn right down the middle.
 

“Don’t you ever sleep?” she asked, stifling a huge yawn. She fluffed his pillow, cozied into it.

Don’t think I’d sleep much over there.
“Later.”
 

“
Mmmm
.”
At last, she ceased her shivering and went quiet.

In the next instant, he was certain he heard her soft snore.

He shook his head, incredulous.
Seductive and sweet and not opposed to being taken advantage of.
Jesus.
And he was no better than the terrorist in her dream for wanting to keep her here all to himself. Only it was pleasure, not
pain, that
he wanted to inflict on her. Pleasure like she’d never experienced.
    

To think that someone wanted to
destroy
her in the most horrific and violent way imaginable.
It turned his stomach. In his line of work he’d been forced to watch several taped executions. The victim remained conscious for several seconds
after
the head was severed from the body.

Ike’s ardor evaporated. What if the terrorist was never caught? What if there was a whole network of the fuckers, each determined to finish her off? Then
Eryn
was doomed to nightmares and looking over her shoulder for the rest of her goddamn life.

The realization shook the bars of something caged deep inside of him. He had to do something.

I already am
,
he told himself. I’m toughening her mentally, teaching her to shoot.

Not good enough.

Then he’d teach her to defend herself, damn it. He’d bite the bullet and do it for her sake.

And let
Eryn
fight the terrorists? What kind of man does that make you?
 

Reprimanded by his conscience, Ike threw himself out of the chair, and went into the living room to feed another log into the woodstove. He then sat on the couch and dropped his face into his hands. Winston got up, padded over, and nudged him.
   

Ike petted him absently.
Eryn’s
fate wasn’t his problem. The War on Terror was not his problem. There were others who could hold the line. Safeguard the innocent.

Then why did he feel so damn responsible?

**

Using Google Maps,
Farshad
studied the street view of the address given to Shahbaz by the informant.
Her father thinks she is safer here with his friend, the Colonel,
Shahbaz had written in their shared online account.

Safer how?
Farshad
mentally scoffed. The dwelling was situated in a neighborhood within walking distance of the brownstone where he lived with his second cousins. The lot was deep, with plenty of trees and shrubs for a killer to hide behind. The windows were extensive and uncovered.

So near, so easy,
Farshad
thought. The Commander had to be mocking him. Had his daughter not nearly lost her life twice already? What was to stop him from planting a bomb like the last one at this location, to wait until he knew she was close, and then detonate it? There would be little satisfaction in that.
 

It smelled like a trap, even more so than the other safe house. Might the FBI, now suspicious of an intelligence leak, have purposefully disseminated false information?
 

I will soon find out,
Farshad
determined.

**

Eryn
awoke to sunlight and birdsong. She looked around, surprised to find
herself
in Ike’s bed, but then she remembered the nightmare and how she’d crept downstairs looking for consolation. He had offered her the sanctuary of his bed, which had kept the dream from recurring.

Not that she would ask to sleep here again. It would leave her pride in tatters to be ordered back upstairs, like some kind of tramp.

She stretched, enjoying for a moment the play of light across the ceiling and the worn softness of his sheets. But then she heard Ike’s voice in the yard, and she threw back the covers.
 

Clear skies greeted her as she pushed outside. Last night’s storm left the mountain with a freshly-washed look and smell. At the sound of the screen door falling shut, Ike broke away from training the dog. “Morning,” he said, coming closer.

“Hi, no running today?” she asked, crossing her fingers.
 

“Not today. I’ve decided to teach you self-defense.” He looked away when he said it.

It took
Eryn
a second to recognize her victory. Goose bumps sprouted on her arms. “What made you change your mind?”

“Decided it couldn’t hurt,” he said, glancing at her quickly. “Go put some clothes on,” he added, on a surlier note. “And find something to eat. You’ll need the energy.”
 

Eryn
dashed inside, eager to get started. So, Ike had decided he could teach her how to fight while not betraying her father’s trust. Practicality fled in the face of her sudden anticipation.

We’ll just see about that, she thought.
 

**

The ringtone on Brad
Caine’s
cell phone startled all three agents awake.

Jackson was halfway out of the motel bed before realizing the sound was not an alarm summoning the Marines to the site of a car bombing. He wasn’t even in Iraq. He sat back down on his side of the bed, letting his adrenaline subside, and listened to
Caine’s
end of the conversation.

“Did they bring him in for questioning?” He sounded excited.

Jackson’s scalp prickled. It sounded like a terrorist may have fallen for the trap.

“What do you mean, he’s not the guy. How do you know that?” Silence followed as
Caine
listened intently.
 
“Like hell, it was a mistake. Sir, the kid was Afghani, right? Trust me, he’s one of them. They’re all kids.”

On the other end of the line the Supervisor in Charge must have spelled out why the boy in question had been released.
 

Caine
dropped his face into his hand. He stayed on the phone a few minutes longer,
then
put it away.
 

Jackson waited for him to collect himself before asking, “What happened?”

“Some pizza boy showed up at the mock safe house,”
Caine
muttered with disgust. “The boxes made the agents nervous and they jumped him. Only the kid has no apparent ties to the terrorists. The request for pizza came from a disposable cell phone that was used just once to call in the order.”

“Nothing links him to the Brotherhood?”
 

“Nothing.
Our asset says he knows the kid and that his parents are third-generation moderates. You can bet an extremist called in the order, though. Bet he was watching the whole goddamn time. Now they know the place is crawling with agents!”
 

Jackson swallowed his disappointment.
    

Ringo
, who’d been pretending to sleep levered himself on one elbow. “It’s worse than that,” he declared.
 

Caine
and Jackson turned to look at him.

“Our asset may have just lost his credibility. Why would the terrorists trust another word he says?”

Caine
snatched up his cell phone and placed a brief call. “Tell Mustafa to watch his back,” he warned.

**

If Ike found it as difficult to train a female as he alleged it would be yesterday, he didn’t show it.
 

Disgruntled,
Eryn
blew away the tendril of hair sticking to her cheek. Every time he repositioned her to correct her form, her pulse accelerated and her nerves jangled. Ike’s set expression told her he suffered no such reaction. The man was all business.
  

“You kick like a girl,
Eryn
,” he commented as the sun edged higher, making her
perspire
in her pink sweat suit.
 

“I am a girl,” she muttered. Today he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he gave her detailed instructions on how to wallop the thick pad he had secured to the base of the oak tree. “Pack some punch behind it. Envision the taxi driver.”

She didn’t want to even think about that man. She wanted Ike to look at her the way he had last night, like he was holding himself back by a thread. He might not be Mr. Right, but for some reason, that didn’t seem to matter at this time in her life. He could be Mr. Right Here, Right Now if he took the initiative, only he didn’t. He was too intent on molding her into a martial artist.
 

Plucking the sticky tank top from her damp chest, she
panted
with frustration.

“
Eryn
.”
Ike’s short tone had her drawing up guiltily. .

“What?”
 

“Are you listening or daydreaming?”

“Um…” She licked the sweat off her upper lip.

“I said to practice the sweep.”

“Oh.” She thought for a moment, but all the moves he’d taught her had blurred into one indistinct waste of energy. “How do you do that again?”