Collateral Damage (12 page)

Saleem Al-Jabar aka Rashid (Rash) McGuire furrowed his brow into a worried frown as if he was insecure about his audacity. Living deep undercover for Uncle Sam didn’t often have a reward, but this time he was sure he’d hit on the right target. Andreas was a little too over the top, a little too giddy, a little too willing to be led. And somehow just a little too familiar to him. He’d seen this man’s eyes before, though everything else was wrong. Rash suspected that something was rotten somewhere besides Denmark and he aimed to find it. Now if he could just remember who in the hell this guy was and what he might be up to now, then Rash might—

What?
his conscience demanded. Look into having a real life? Even after ten years the failure gutting his soul was all consuming. He didn’t deserve a life. He turned his attention back to his prey and made a slight subservient motion with his hand. “Was I too blunt, my friend? Let me pour you some tea. And, please, let us continue with our meal and I will better explain the Sheikh’s sentiments.”

Chapter Thirteen

Fayetteville, North Carolina.

“You know what to do.”

Jack’s voice mail. Lt. Col. Roger Weston hung up the phone, leaving zero evidence that he didn’t know where Jack was, and silently cursed the man for putting him in this position. Jack left AMA to go AWOL and Weston was currently IGNORING protocol he was sworn to uphold. Why in the hell had he told the hospital admins that Jack was with him, and to stand down in filing an official report?

You know why, you SOB
, his conscience quipped, lashing out from the bed of guilt it had been lying in for weeks now. He scrubbed his hands over his face, sure he had to be losing his mind. He wasn’t alone in that. Ninety percent of the world was with him and the other ten percent were on the brink. Global paranoia was fueling an east to west societal meltdown on an apocalyptic scale, as if all sanity hinged on the toppling oil market.

Anarchy was but a slick away.

The roots of what was happening now went deeper than that the recent events. Years deeper. Worldwide, the insidious misinformation seeded by religious and political factions over time in their agenda-driven rather than principle-guided campaigns had now bloomed and no one was capable of seeing reason.

It pained him to include the stars and stripes he served in that crime. But he had to. The US held some responsibility for leading the world down this path. They sure as hell hadn’t fought it in the very least, nor had they been any sort of a lit beacon to shine through the maelstrom of lies.

It used to be simple. There was good. There was bad. And a man knew where he stood without politically correct bullshit clogging up the pipes. Now the lines were so blurred, nobody knew where they were. Or who they were in some cases.

Oh, the rearing of extreme evil—of the serial killer variety—was still discernable. At least in most places, but the rest was a roiling dark cloud of confusion.

For once Roger didn’t envy his cousin, Paul Anderson, the sitting President of the United States. Growing up, he had, though. Paul had been the star of every show from top scholar to ace quarterback. He was a legend in their hometown and the impossible example that every male and more subtly every female born in the family after him was expected to match.

Roger’s mother, Paul’s aunt though only a decade older than him, made no pretenses about it. She expected her sons to follow her nephew’s shining path and still did. Roger had towed the line to some degree, but his brothers had rebelled. And depending on one’s perspective were either lucky or unlucky enough to be world-wide adrenaline junkies. There wasn’t a mountain they hadn’t climbed, a wave they hadn’t conquered or a cave they hadn’t spelunked. Currently, they ran a treasure hunting operation in the Florida Keys and hired themselves out as personal guides in extreme adventures.

Roger just about wished he was there with them, downing an icy beer rather than dealing with the hot items burning him alive at the moment. Jack being one.

What was he going to—? Roger’s cell rang and he snatched it up, expecting Jack had come to his senses. Neil Dalton’s name flashed on the LED and Roger’s heart came to a crashing standstill as a fresh tidal wave of guilt and reality washed over him.

Major Neil Dalton formerly of the 75th Ranger Regiment and one of the best damn men in Delta was dead. His blood was on Roger’s hands. And his pregnant widow was on the phone.

“Weston.”

The jagged breaths coming across the phone wrenched Roger’s heart. Mari’s dam of unbelievably tight control over any public display of emotion must have burst. From the moment he’d knocked on her door to tell her Neil wasn’t coming back, he’d yet to see her cry, but knew she did. Her red-rimmed eyes were a constant testimony to her grief. He’d told her to call if she needed anything at all. Yet, he was still surprised she’d finally reached out for help.

“I’ll be right there,” he told her though she hadn’t said a word.

“Help me, please. I’m not at home.” The desperation in her whisper sent a chill down his spine.

“Where then?” He stood and walked out the door of his house. He’d left the post an hour ago to think at home about all the crap coming down the pipe.

“Food mart. Highway 87. South of airport.”

Roger opened his mouth several times then clamped it shut before he could demand to know what in
the hell
she was doing there. A loud banging vibrated the line followed by the most profane string of derogatory hate that Roger had ever heard and that was saying a lot. Mari cried out, “Please hurry.”

“What
the hell
was that?” Roger demanded, unable to keep his cool any longer. He slid into his car and was pushing past the speed limit in six seconds, determined to make the ten minute drive in five.

“Angry man. Wants to…kill me. I’m locked in the bathroom.”

He didn’t know what was going on but the frustration of not being able to immediately help had him twisted onto a massive knot of seething rage. “I’m coming. I’ll call the police and call you back.”

“I’ve called them.”

“Okay. Then talk to me. Do you think he can break down the door? You have to arm yourself and hide if you can.” Roger hit Interstate 95, heading toward Highway 87, his speedometer past ninety.

Nothing about his surroundings registered except if it blocked his path. He could hear the man yelling at Mari again but the phone crackled. Then he heard Mari gasp. “I think I hear a siren.”

Roger sucked in air, realizing he’d forgotten to breathe. “Good. Tell me what happened.”

“I needed food. I didn’t want to go any place where…where I’d been with Neil and just drove around then saw this place. I was fine until the Doritos.” She exhaled hard. “Then I couldn’t finish. I had to leave and I opened the door too fast and hit this man with the door. He went crazy. His friend tried to get him to leave, but he wouldn’t. Not until he punished me. He pushed the clerk into a pickle stand. I think the clerk was so upset that he had a heart attack. Then the man came after me…he…he…Allah help me. He tried to make me touch him, but I stabbed him with a piece of glass and ran in here.”

It was a miracle the steering wheel didn’t crack beneath the force of Roger’s grip as he exited onto Highway 87 and floored the gas pedal. His gut and his heart were stuck somewhere in his throat, making it hard to breathe or speak. He forced the question through his clenched teeth. “Did he hurt you? Hurt the baby?”

“No. Please. Not like before. I escaped this time. No shame. Please. They will not send me back, will they?”

Before? Neil had mentioned that Mari had suffered a traumatic experience in Afghanistan, but hadn’t revealed what. Dear God. Had she been raped? “Nobody is going to send you anywhere. Don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure of it.”

“But I hurt the man. Won’t they make me pay for that?”

“You were defending yourself. Is the man still there?”

“I think he left. The sirens are closer. He said he was going to kill me.”

“He won’t get near you. I promise. I see the police pulling into the parking lot now. Just hold on.”

The police were already out of the car with their Glock 22’s drawn when Roger pulled into the parking lot. Glass from the double doors to the food mart lay in a shattered pile on the sidewalk. One officer turned his pistol toward Roger and shouted something. Mari was still on the phone talking so Roger missed what the officer said.

Roger shoved the car into park and held up his hands, showing the officer he was unarmed. He pointed at the phone then rolled down the window. “There’s a woman trapped in the bathroom. I have her on the phone. She’s the one who called 911.”

The officer stepped closer, pistol at the ready, but barrel pointed to the side. “Who are you?”

Delta didn’t wear uniforms or regulation haircuts. They did little to set them apart from any regular Joe on the street. He held up his Fort Bragg ID pass.

“Her husband’s military commander, Officer Cain.” Roger noted the man’s name. Though young, the man seemed calm and in control. “There were two men involved and I’m sure the clerk inside needs an ambulance. I’ll wait here until you check the place out.”

The cop nodded after a hard stare and rejoined his partner, who was plastered against the wall outside of the store. At the same time they rushed through the front door, one dropping low, the other high, then they disappeared inside.

“Stay where you are,” Roger told Mari over the phone. “The police are checking the store out now.”

“I can’t come out,” Mari said. “They can’t see me. I’m indecent.”

“He ripped your clothes?” A dizzying rush of rage sliced through him. What had she been through?

“My h
ijāb.
He took it. He tried to choke me with it. It is improper to be seen in public without it.”

Roger let his head fall back to the headrest and mentally counted to regain his equilibrium. He was one hundred percent positive that if Mari’s attacker walked out the door at that moment, Roger would strangle him with his bare hands, police or no police.

“Are you there, Mr. Weston?”

“Yeah.” His voice grated hoarsely. “Call me Roger, so the police know that you know me.” He glanced through his car for something she could use and produced a clean towel from his gym bag. He could hear a multitude of sirens growing closer. People were stopping on the street to look.

“The police want me to come out,” Mari said. “I can’t.”

“Hold on. I’ll be right there.” Roger exited and locked his car then slowly approached the front of the store and called out. The scent of pickles tickled his nose. “Officer Cain. Can you hear me? It’s Lt. Col. Weston.”

“I hear you.”

“Mari won’t come out until she has this towel. The bastard took her headscarf. He tried to choke her with it. She’s Muslim.”

A moment of silence followed. “Don’t touch anything. You can bring it here.”

Roger crossed the threshold, his eyes quickly adjusting to the lighting. The clean and orderly set up of the food mart was violated by the remnants of violence…and death, he thought as he ran his gaze over the elderly man lying in a bed of glass, pickles and blood. That it could have easily been Mari in the pile as well burned in his gut. He moved to the back of the store and storage room with a grim determination to nail the bastards responsible. He crossed the hazardous sea of nuts on the ground and joined the policemen.

The officers had their guns drawn, and were situated outside the bathroom in defensive stances. They were still in full alert mode. Roger knew Mari wasn’t a threat, but they didn’t. Roger held up the towel and his hands to assure them he was unarmed. “Let me talk to her and give her this.”

Officer Cain nodded. “Go ahead, but tell her to come out with her hands where we can see them. Until we know what went down here, we aren’t taking any chances.”

“You can’t these days,” Roger agreed. He moved over to the door. “Mari, it’s Roger. I have a head covering for you. You can open the door. It’s safe now.”

Roger heard a low moan then the clicking of a bolt. The door cracked open and, oh shit, a paper towel wrapped bloody hand stuck out. Several drops of blood plopped onto the floor. His stomach flipped.

“You’re hurt! Move back.” Screw propriety. Sometimes there were more important things. “I’m coming in.” Roger glared at the cops, daring them to argue with him. They lowered their Glocks and nodded.

Roger slid into the bathroom. Mari turned from him with a cry. She faced the wall with her head bowed as if shamed. He plopped the towel on her head, covering the thick mass of wavy, impossibly long hair the color of black lacquer. He was damn certain he should be wrapping her cut hands instead. He moved around to face her and crouched down to look into her haunted amber-gold eyes. “I don’t know what you have to do, or how you have to think of me in order for it to be acceptable with your beliefs for me to help you, but whatever it takes, do it or think it because that’s what’s going to happen. Understand?”

His breath hitched. In the two years he’d known her, Mari had always been covered with only her eyes visible, and all too often her gaze had remained downcast during any short conversation. He’d never actually seen her before. Roger had supposed shyness and her religious upbringing dictated her interactions and he had always made sure he was as kind and as respectful as possible. Now as he looked at her and realized just how secluded and hidden she constantly lived, he found himself really questioning why. God didn’t create beauty and bury it in the dirt. Nor did God mean for the human heart and spirit to be hidden from the world. Lights were meant to shine in the darkness. Frightened out of her mind, disheveled, blood smeared on her honey-cream skin, she had to be the most stunning woman he’d ever seen.

“The ambulance is here,” Officer Cain called out.

Roger didn’t wait for Mari to answer; he swept her into his arms and carried her out to the paramedics. But the way she exhaled and let her head rest against his chest was answer enough.

Chapter Fourteen

Atlanta, Georgia

Lauren released the steering wheel, her hands cramping from the intensity of her grip. She had just lived the longest, most agonizing ten minutes of her life, and now that she’d finally made it to Angie’s neighborhood, she realized her angst had only begun. Seeing Angie’s car in the driveway, parked exactly where it was sixty minutes ago was not a good sign. During the multiple unanswered calls Lauren had made on the drive over, she had desperately prayed that Angie had taken the boys out to eat and had forgotten her cell phone at home.