Seduced by His Target (13 page)

But Rasheed already knew who she was. He’d revealed his undercover work to her. And she knew he’d understand.

“It was scary,” she admitted. “I was only seventeen.”

“Where did you go?”

“Baltimore. It was the closest big city to D.C., which is where we lived. I figured I could disappear there. But life on the streets...” Goose bumps rose on her skin despite the heat. “It was awful. Terrifying, really.” The criminals, the drug addicts, the predators preying on unsuspecting girls.

“I got lucky, though. I met up with two other girls right away, the ones I told you about. Haley and Brynn. We became best friends. They’re a few years younger than I am, so I was the leader of our little group.”

“You watched out for them.”

“I guess. Some guardian I turned out to be, though. I didn’t have a clue about how to survive. But neither did they. We muddled along together, figuring things out.”

“You said you witnessed a murder?”

She nodded, the memories of that horrific day rushing back. “Brynn did. She’d gone into an abandoned warehouse to take some photos. She wanted to be a photographer, so she was always taking pictures of people and things. Haley and I went with her, but we were too scared to go inside. There was a gang that hung around there, the City of the Dead, and we were afraid they’d be inside. So we waited for her on the street.

“It turned out that we were right. They were in the warehouse, executing a man. Brynn caught the shooting on film. The killer chased her. He chased us all.” She hugged her arms, remembering the terror of their escape, the awful paranoia that had plagued them for years. “He’s been after us ever since.”

She shook her head. “Ironic, isn’t it? I left home to escape the violence, but what I found on the streets was even worse.”

A wave crashed over the beach. A sandpiper lifted his leg, waiting stoically as the water swirled around him and raced back into the sea.

“Anyhow,” she continued, “we stayed on the move after that. After enough years went by, we started setting down roots. I went to medical school and moved to New York. Haley opened a shelter for pregnant teens in Washington, D.C. Brynn became a photographer, a famous one, actually. She lives in Alexandria, Virginia now.”

“You weren’t afraid the killer would find you?”

“We figured he was probably dead by then. Gang members tend to die young. But we’ve been careful. Even if he’s not around, we all have other reasons to hide.” The same reasons that had caused them to run away from home.

“And that’s why you need to contact them?”

She nodded. “I need to warn them, just in case.”

He pulled a piece of paper and pen from his pocket, and handed them to her. “Write down their phone numbers, and I’ll pass them to my contacts. I’ve already asked them to check on Henry, too.”

Grateful, she jotted down the numbers, then gave the paper back. He tucked it into his pocket, but his gaze lingered on hers. Uncomfortable with his inspection, she tipped her head. “What?”

“You take care of everyone—Henry, Leila, your friends. The battered women you help. I just wondered who looks out for you.”

For a moment, she couldn’t speak. She gazed into his inky eyes, the dark potency luring her in. And without warning, she had the strongest urge to curl up in his muscled arms, to take refuge in his embrace, and let him shelter her from harm.

Startled, she looked away. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t depend on Rasheed. No matter who he was, no matter how much she wished life could be different, that was a risk she couldn’t take. She knew darned well that only the strong in this world survived.

“No one,” she said. “I don’t need anyone looking out for me.” Rising, she nodded toward the guard closing in on them. “We’d better go. We’re about to have company.”

And they still had a terror plot to foil.

Not waiting for an answer, she led the way down the jungle path. A dragonfly buzzed past. Birds flitted through the trees, their plumage as bright as the tropical flowers peeking through the leaves. But the scene didn’t seem as peaceful now.

Because the truth was, the temptation to lean on Rasheed had left her shaken. It had opened the door on a yearning she’d buried for years—the need to have a partner in her life, the hunger to find a man who would share the burdens and joys and pains.

The cottage came into view, its fuchsia bougainvillea spilling over the clay tile roof. Rasheed pulled her to a stop. “I’ll come back later this afternoon with the agent I told you about. He wants to talk to you.”

“All right.”

“I’ve been assigned to guard you again tonight. Not that it matters. Everyone on the island is loyal to the cartel. If you try to escape, no one will help you leave.”

“I figured that.” And she was used to relying on herself.

But as Rasheed strode away, a wistful feeling seeped through her heart. Because for the first time, she
wanted
to lean on him.

And that was the scariest thought of all.

* * *

He was in trouble.

Rasheed knocked on the cottage door several hours later, a drum of anticipation making his muscles taut. He’d tried to convince himself that this was all about the case, that the restlessness gripping his nerves was due to the urgency of the upcoming attack, but even he wasn’t buying the excuse. His feelings toward Nadine were growing personal. Sexual. He was having a hard time thinking of her as anything except a woman he desired. And the longer he hung around her, the more he learned about this amazing woman, the worse the craving got.

And that was wrong on too many levels to count. He had a job to do. He couldn’t get involved with a woman he had to protect. And even if he wanted to ignore that reality, Nadine wasn’t the casual-sex type—and he wasn’t a long-term man.

She swung open the cottage door. He drank in the amazing sight of her—her smooth, tawny skin, her slumberous green eyes, the alluring fullness of her soft lips—and his good intentions crumpled to dust. Her snug T-shirt hugged her breasts to perfection. Her loose, drawstring pants rode low on her hips, emphasizing the curve of her slender waist. Her black braid shimmered in the light, and a small crease crossed one cheek, as if she’d just awakened from a nap. Her eyes were heavy lidded, adding to the sleepy look.

Lust arrowed through him, the sudden image of her lying naked beneath him directing all his blood straight south. With difficulty, he tamped back the surge of arousal, determined to keep his mind in line.

The answering heat in her eyes didn’t help.

Suddenly remembering the agent standing behind him, he cleared his throat. “Can we come in?”

“Of course.” She stepped back, and he brushed past her, trying not to inhale her enticing scent. He signaled for her to stay quiet as the CIA agent followed him through the door, carrying a leather bag.

Disguised as one of the island’s gardeners, his fellow operative wore a grimy ball cap, a dirt-stained, sleeveless T-shirt and baggy jeans. But unlike the other gardeners, he kept a pouch filled with high-tech equipment hidden in his wheelbarrow beneath his tools. Opening it, he pulled out several gadgets, then methodically scoured the room, sweeping it for cameras and electronic bugs. Several minutes later, he stopped.

“The room’s clean,” he announced. “No one is listening or watching that I can tell.”

Nadine frowned. “You’re sure?”

Rasheed spoke up. “Don’t worry. He knows what he’s doing. This is Felipe Ochoa, by the way, the agent I was telling you about.”

Ochoa, a Hispanic man of medium height in his thirties, walked over and shook her hand. Nadine gestured to the table, and they all took their seats.

“So how much has Rasheed told you about the upcoming attack?” Ochoa asked her.

“Not much, just that you think my family’s involved.”

“That’s right.” He glanced at Rasheed, and he nodded for him to take the lead.

“To be honest, we don’t have a lot of information right now,” Ochoa said. “Rasheed is keeping watch on the terrorists. We’ve got people monitoring the internet chat rooms, teams dedicated to looking for clues, but we haven’t been able to learn that much. All our informants have suddenly clammed up.”

“Why don’t you arrest my brother? If he’s here on the island, doesn’t that prove that he’s involved?”

“Not necessarily. In fact, we think that’s why he brought his wife here for surgery. It provides him with an excuse to be on the island. He can claim he didn’t know the other men would be here, that it was a coincidence. We can’t prove otherwise.”

“We can’t arrest the others, either,” Rasheed told her.

“Why not? If you know they’re going to do something dangerous—”

“They might not be the only cell involved. Or there could be a contingency plan if these guys fail. We can’t make a move until we’re sure. And we don’t want to blow our covers too soon, either. We still need to work out the money trail. If we can stop the flow of money, we can shut the entire group down for good.”

Her lips pursing, she seemed to process that. “I still don’t see how I can help.”

Ochoa leaned across the table toward her. “For starters, we need your insight into how they think. We don’t even know why they’re planning this attack. The easy answer is that the U.S. is a popular target, and the Rising Light is an extremist group. So on the face of it, it makes sense.

“But the U.S. and Jaziirastan are allies. If they bomb us, and if we can tie the attack to high-level people like your father, our government’s going to rethink those ties. And Jaziirastan has a lot to lose if we do.”

Rasheed stirred in his seat, drawing her gaze. “Do you know Senator Riggs?”

Frowning, she shook her head. “Not personally. Why? Should I?”

“Your father contributes to his campaign. He also acts as a liaison between the senator and some American Islamic groups. In return, the senator does a lot of favors for Jaziirastan, like brokering weapons deals between them and companies in the U.S.

“Right now, Jaziirastan is lobbying for the right to buy E-13’s. That’s an experimental weapon that isn’t on the market yet. Walker Avionics makes it. You might have seen some of the drug cartel members carrying them around.”

“Not really. But how did they get them if they aren’t on the market yet?”

“A shipment got stolen last month. It was supposed to go to the army for testing, but it went to the drug cartel instead. It was a payment, part of the deal they made to bring this terror cell into the States.

“The point is that Senator Riggs is on the Senate Arms Committee. As soon as these weapons go on the market, he can influence which foreign governments are allowed to buy them. And if Jaziirastan is linked to this attack...”

“They don’t get the guns.”

“Right. Everything changes. Senator Riggs’s influence won’t help them anymore. So Jaziirastan has a lot to lose.”

She nibbled her lip, her green eyes troubled now. “I can’t explain it, either. I know he’s a fanatic, but my father likes living in the U.S. I don’t think he wants to go back to Jaziirastan again, at least not permanently. He doesn’t have as much status there.”

“I thought he was a member of the royal family.”

“He is. But he’s a minor one. That’s why he tried to marry me off. The marriage would have increased his standing, strengthening his connection to a powerful man. But in the States, he’s more important than he is back home. I can’t see him doing anything that would jeopardize that, like financing this attack.”

Rasheed slumped back in his chair. “And yet, here we are.”

Still frowning, she rose and went to the minibar. “Does anyone want water?” she asked. When they both declined, she poured herself a glass, then returned to the table.

Rasheed watched her drink, following the movement of her slender throat, noting the sheen of moisture forming on her tempting lips. Trying to keep his thoughts from wandering down that distracting track, he pulled his gaze away.

“So what
do
you know about my father so far?” she asked.

“Not that much about him personally, but we’ve amassed quite a bit of data about his bank. We’ve been investigating it for years.”

The edge of her mouth tipped up. “Give me the cheat sheet version, then.”

He nodded back. “All right, the gist of it is this. Your father is one of the primary shareholders in a bank holding company, the Royal Jaziirastani Holding Group. So is his good friend, the ambassador.”

“The man he wanted me to marry.”

“Right. We think he invited your father in. The holding group owns several banks, including Jannah Capital. I told you that we started detecting suspicious transactions there years ago, and that a lot of that activity involved a bank called First Bangladesh.

“I was a financial analyst at the time. I went to their main branch in Dhaka to investigate. My job was to track the money coming in from those Jannah Capital accounts and figure out where it went. The problem was, it went all over, to multiple accounts in different banks all over the world. First Bangladesh is only its first stop. But we think the money eventually ends up at a charity, the Islamic Foundation of Jaziirastan. They’re the ones funneling it to the Rising Light terrorists. The charity’s name, and your father’s, keep coming up in our interrogations. But we can’t make the link to shut them down.”

“Do you know anything about his bank?” Ochoa asked her.

“Not at all. I told you, I haven’t been around him in years. And even when I lived there, he never discussed business with me.”

Ochoa leaned forward, his expression suddenly intent. “Is there any chance he keeps bank records in his house?”

She shrugged, causing her thick braid to slither over her arm. “I don’t know. He used to run his
hawala
out of his home office, so he might still do business there.”

Rasheed blinked. “Wait a minute. Your father’s a
hawaladar?
”

“He used to be. But he shut that down a long time ago, when I was still in elementary school.”

Rasheed exchanged a glance with Ochoa, the agent’s obvious excitement echoing his own.
Hawalas
were ancient financial remittance systems common in a lot of countries, particularly in the Muslim world. They operated parallel to the banks—not exactly underground, but off the record and exempt from government control. Funds were transferred without formal documents, based on personal connections and trust.