Authors: Elizabeth Jennings
Tags: #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Contemporary, #Fiction
Darkness at Dawn (23 page)
“Tens of thousands,” Mohar answered. “Maybe even hundreds of thousands.”
There was utter silence in the huge Orangerie. The living plants absorbed all sound; the lights reflected off their tense faces. Lucy exchanged a quick glance with Mike. They’d both seen the devastating effects of the weaponized disease the cylinders would be carrying.
“Then we’ll have to stop him,” Mike said steadily, tucking the injection gun into his waistband at the back and pulling a sweater over it. “I’ll see that this gets to the right people.”
Absolutely. They would do absolutely everything in their power to stop this man. She and Mike had the might and the brains of the US military behind them. And they were on the side of the angels. She’d seen too much to believe that the angels always won. They didn’t. But this time they would, because the alternative was simply unthinkable.
“Paso, how do we stay in touch?” If she needed to communicate with her friend, she couldn’t very well walk around the palace asking where she was. Not to mention the fact that if Paso was nursing her brother, she would be in the Royal Chambers, closed to those not of direct service to the Royal Family.
Paso frowned. “If we need to contact one another, let us leave a message under the foot of the Dancing Buddha. You remember where that is, don’t you, Lucy?”
Lucy swallowed. Yes, she remembered exactly where the Dancing Buddha was. The Palace was full of statues of Buddha—serene Buddhas, smiling Buddhas, laughing Buddhas—but there was only one dancing Buddha. In the Summer Palace, not ten feet from where her parents had been killed.
“Okay, Paso, we’ll leave each other messages there.”
Mike looked at her sharply. Oh God. Had he noticed a change in the tone of her voice? She wasn’t used to being read so easily.
“Let’s go, Lucy,” Mike said and helped her to stand, hand under her elbow. He turned to Paso and gave a credible imitation of the Nhalan greeting, fist held in hand, elbows out, arms at chest height, head bowed.
Paso gestured toward the huge doors. “You two leave first. Then I’ll go. Mohar will follow.”
Lucy took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the clean fragrance of a thousand species of plants. The corridors outside smelled of ancient dust and, now, treachery.
E
LEVEN
LEVEN
“DO you think you can find the body in all that snow?” Lucy asked, her anxious face turned up to his once they’d made their way back to the room down a thousand differentcolored corridors. Even pale and frightened, she was still so beautiful it hurt the heart.
The sixty-four-million-dollar question.
“Yeah.” Mike reached out and tucked a lock of shiny hair behind her ear then put his hand in his pocket, because the temptation to continue round, cup the back of her head and bring it to his was almost irresistible.
She was worried sick. He was worried sick.
Let’s have sex.
Sex as stress reliever—sounded real good right about now. Her eyes searched his, looking for—what?
God, she looked so very lovely in this room, exotic and remote, somehow fitting right into the lush richness of the décor, like a unicorn in a brashly colored forest. She also looked scared, which put the kibosh on the little sex fantasy that had bloomed instantaneously in his head, a little explosion of sensory input.
He’d been able to see it, almost taste it. Damn straight. They’d had a nasty jolt, something filthy was in the works, and since they couldn’t do anything about it right now, getting sweaty between the sheets would be a great way to work it all off, wake up refreshed in the morning, ready to do battle.
She wouldn’t have to get undressed, oh no. He’d do that for her, nice guy that he was. Up and off with that sweater, down and off with the pants. Taking a long moment to savor her in just bra and panties. Lucy was definitely the kind of woman to have really frilly frothy underwear, oh yeah. He didn’t even particularly care for frou frou, but in this case . . . mmm. She’d be all slender curves, dainty arms and pretty breasts.
Speaking of which, after a moment to admire, he’d help her with bra and panties, by which point he’d be frothing at the mouth, barely in control. He’d want to carry her to the bed, but there wouldn’t be time for that.
No prob. The floors were covered in carpets, thick, multicolored carpets. He’d be a gentleman and go on his back. Watch her ride him, fast the first time, slower the second. And third. Make sure she doesn’t get carpet burn on her knees.
Just move in her slow and easy . . .
Jesus.
Mike pinched the bridge of his nose, to bring himself back to earth.
All those images of a naked, happy Lucy vanished like smoke because the real Lucy, the flesh-and-blood woman, brave and exhausted from having traveled halfway around the world when she was terrified of flying, was standing right in front of him, arms around her waist, looking lost and lonely.
Well, of course she was lonely. She didn’t have him here in the room with her. She had a jackass version of him, drooling over the idea of sex with a woman who was swaying on her feet.
He should be shot.
She was watching his face carefully, pale and exhausted, bruised flesh right under the beautiful blue eyes. Thank God telepathy didn’t exist. He knew that for a fact because if it did, she’d have rightly smacked him in the face.
But she must have sensed something, caught maybe the intense sexual vibes he must have been throwing off, because she was looking at him warily, as if he could jump her at any second.
This was wrong. He was better than this.
He banished every thought of sex from his head, just wrenched those hot images right out, stomped them to the ground.
“You’re tired,” he said gently, and her eyes widened at his tone. Some of the tension left her body, and he felt like even more of a shit. He’d made her uncomfortable and tense. Jesus.
“Yeah.” She was hugging herself a little less tightly. “I am. All of a sudden it all hit me. The trip, what we’re learning here. It’s a little . . . scary, isn’t it?”
“Very.” He did her the honor of not messing with her and not lying to her. It was scary, no use ignoring it. “But we’ve got our backs covered. We’ve got help here in the Palace. It’s not our job to stop this. Our job is just to get as much intel as we can and then scram. So far no one suspects anything. Actually, if I understand the situation correctly, you’re really valuable to Changa. He’s not going to hurt you.”
Or he’ll answer to me.
Jesus, she was messing with his head, big-time. Instead of concentrating on Changa, running over in his head tomorrow’s op, he was flashing on sex with Lucy and then, perhaps even more emotionally intense than the sex, flashing on pulling Changa’s fucking head off if he hurt Lucy in any way.
This was not a good head space to be in, not while in a huge building full of a few friends and many more potential enemies. Not while somewhere up north bad guys were concocting a hellish witch’s brew that could destroy whole peoples.
He needed to keep his shit wired tight.
“We should be getting to bed.” Lucy’s huge eyes never left his face.
“Yeah. While you’re changing, do you want me to ask that guy outside if he can get you some tea? Something warm to drink?”
She smiled, a slight uplifting of her mouth but still a smile. “Already done.” She pointed to a conical cloth on a sideboard, two bowls beside it. He lifted the cloth and found a steaming teapot underneath. He opened the lid and sniffed and closed the lid once again. Gah. Smelled like fermenting hay.
“Come, Captain,” Lucy said, teasing him. She poured them both a bowl and placed one in his hands. “It’s good for you. Detoxifies the system, promotes sleep.”
And ruins libido
, he thought. Hard to think of sex while you were sipping a noxious brew. He brought the cup to his lips and sipped gingerly. It was boiling hot and tasted like crap.
, he thought. Hard to think of sex while you were sipping a noxious brew. He brought the cup to his lips and sipped gingerly. It was boiling hot and tasted like crap.
Lucy delicately finished her bowl, clearly tougher than he was.
“Tastes like fermented hay,” Mike complained.
“That’s because it
is
fermented hay. But no yak butter. Promise.” She laughed and went into the bathroom, trailing behind her something that looked pretty and peach and frothy.
is
fermented hay. But no yak butter. Promise.” She laughed and went into the bathroom, trailing behind her something that looked pretty and peach and frothy.
God. Better get in bed first so when she came out, she wouldn’t see him standing there like a dork with a hard-on.
So he was in his pajamas, lying flat on his back in bed, when she came out of the bathroom, and oh God, she was so fucking pretty as she lifted the heavy blankets on the other side of the huge bed and slipped in. She was incredibly beautiful without makeup, skin fresh and clean, shiny hair brushing her shoulders, as silky as the peach-colored nightgown.
He’d left a small lamp on in the corner of the vast room, a tiny glow in the darkness. It shed just enough light to see her by.
“Can we keep the light on? I don’t like sleeping in the dark in unfamiliar rooms. Can you sleep if there’s a little light?”
“Sure.” He could sleep through a firefight in the blazing sun.
“Okay.” Her voice was growing drowsy. Her eyes drooped. “Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
Inside of a few minutes, Lucy was sleeping soundly. He turned, leaned his head on his arm and watched her. She was a quiet sleeper, barely moving the blankets as she slept. In sleep, the wariness with which she faced the world dissipated, and he could see the girl that she had been. She looked so young, so vulnerable, so pretty. Completely alone.
Tomorrow was going to be a busy day. He needed to sleep, too, but for one of the few times in his life, it eluded him. His mind just kept churning like some vast steam engine.
He tried counting sheep, got to a thousand, and quit. It wasn’t working.
Then he started counting Lucy’s breaths, got to fifty, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
TWENTY NAUTICAL MILES OFF THE LIBYAN COAST MIDNIGHT, LOCAL TIMEShe was the
Star of Orion.
A one-hundred-ton oceangoing fishing vessel. She no longer carried fish in her hold, though. She carried death.
Star of Orion.
A one-hundred-ton oceangoing fishing vessel. She no longer carried fish in her hold, though. She carried death.
She was anchored twenty nautical miles offshore, Bengazi a sparkling blur on the horizon.
The men arrived in four batches of ten in military Zodiacs. The way was clear, they were not stopped. The Libyan government wasn’t sponsoring this act of jihad, but it wasn’t preventing it, either. The same for the governments of Pakistan, Syria and the Palestinian Authority.
Dr. Imran Mazari was on his own here. His wasn’t a movement or a political party or even an organization. Just a handful of superior biochemists, security provided by mercenaries, backed, of course, by all the money in the world.
If he was successful, any number of organizations and countries would boldly claim credit. If he was unsuccessful, well, there would be no telltale clues Western authorities could use to trace the attack back to anyone at all.
Jihad as a virtual company, all elements outsourced. Mazari loved that idea.
The first of the men from the lead Zodiac started climbing up the rope ladder. When they reached the gunwales, most of the men stumbled. God had granted them calm waters this evening, another sign of grace. Jihad’s warriors were the bravest of the brave. No Western military organization would be able to find so many men willing to die a terrible death as his martyrs were. They were the bravest of the brave.
But they were no sailors.
Mazari and one of the crew remained on either side of the rope ladder on deck to steady the unsteady bodies of his warriors, many of whom had never been on board a ship before.
That was why Mazari had spent a lot of money on stabilizers. He had four of them, the most expensive in the world. And belowdecks was completely refitted for all the needs of a
shaheed
warrior. White and calm and quiet. He couldn’t offer the peace and space of the desert, but he could,
inshallah
, offer the maritime equivalent.
shaheed
warrior. White and calm and quiet. He couldn’t offer the peace and space of the desert, but he could,
inshallah
, offer the maritime equivalent.
Quiet, sound-insulated rooms, pristine bunks and prayer mats, fresh fruit and tea. Pure surroundings for the pure of heart.
The last of the men were offloaded onto the ship, registered to a consortium of shell companies, flying a Panamanian flag.
The load was complete. He had taken on thirty men in Nicosia, thirty in Algiers and now forty in Bengazi. They now had one hundred warriors, voted to martyrdom.
Mazari ushered them quickly belowdecks. He wanted to get under way as soon as possible. There was a deadline and it was fast approaching. Before following the men down the ladder, he gave a sign to the captain impassively watching from his perch high above the deck. Immediately, he could feel the powerful thrum of the engines beneath his feet.
The captain was good at his job, as was his crew. Quiet and reliable and efficient. Well worth the hefty sum Mazari had paid them.
His martyrs were ushered into a large room where barbers and tailors awaited them. Each man would receive a haircut in line with the new persona that would be attributed to him. Some would have a sleek short businessman’s cut, some a longer student’s cut. Some would have their hair lightened, some would have streaks put in.
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