Taking Fire (4 page)

6

Talia watched Taggart walk into the bar, glance around until he spotted her, then walk straight in her direction. He looked relentlessly sexy in khaki pants and a snug black T-shirt that emphasized how huge his biceps were. He also looked mad, and he looked mean. A thick knot tightened in her stomach. Had he somehow found her out? Maybe he'd found the tag she'd planted in his phone?

She forced a smile and held back a twinge of panic. “Now,
there's
a scowl that tells a story. Bad day?” she asked when he pulled out a bar stool and signaled the bartender for his usual.

“You were born in the U.S. New York City, specifically,” he began without preamble, and the knot in her stomach tugged a little tighter.

She'd anticipated that he'd go digging. The question was, how deep? Had her cover held up?

“Your Israeli parents—a history professor and a linguistics professor—were quite affluent and emigrated to the States thirty years ago to escape the chaos of the Israel-Palestine conflict.” He stopped when his drink arrived, took a sip, and turned back to her.

“A-plus for research work,” she said, holding on to her calm by a thread. “Which one of us gets the gold star?”

“Drink your wine. I'm not finished yet. You were an only child and were ten when your parents moved to D.C. After you graduated from high school, you left for Israel and attended university in Tel Aviv.”

“Because I wanted to become more familiar with my Israeli roots,” she said, careful not to sound defensive.

“You studied journalism and photography, and once you started working, you made a big name for yourself.”

“I believe that's what I've been trying to tell you.”

“So big,” he continued after another sip of whiskey, “that you've won a ton of awards and are on every major news publication's speed dial. When they need a heavy hitter to cover a war story, they call you.”

“Maybe half a ton of awards,” she said, attempting to defuse the tension with humor. Everything he said was true—and provided an excellent cover that had held up for several Mossad operations. “At the risk of total redundancy, I
did
try to tell you.”

“Yeah,” he said with a long, appraising stare, “you did.”

“So . . . that was an apology?” She made herself hold his gaze.

He scratched his jaw, his hard eyes still on her face, then reluctantly nodded. “Yeah. That was an apology.”

She lifted an eyebrow to disguise her deep relief. “So, then, what's with the mad-dog glare?”

“That's me being ticked with myself for giving you such a hard time.”

She turned back to her wine before she could blurt out something stupid. Like a confession. “So now you know it all.”

“So it would seem,” he agreed.

Yes, he knew it all—except for two vitally important pieces of information that would cause him to hate her. She was a Mossad agent using her journalism credits as cover. And she was using
him
to get to Mohammed al-Attar, the Hamas terrorist who had massacred so many of her people.

She pushed down the recurring urge to feel guilty. She wasn't sorry that he would unknowingly lead her to al-Attar; there would be justice then. She wouldn't be the one to pull the trigger, but she would facilitate al-Attar's death. She felt nothing but satisfaction that this monster would soon pay for what he'd done.

What she
would
be sorry for, she admitted as she silently sipped her wine, was the hatred Taggart would feel toward her if he ever found out she'd deceived him.

“How about we go upstairs?” he said, running the tip of his index finger along her arm and making her shiver. “I'll show you just how sorry I am.”

His wicked grin was pure temptation, and the memory of last night fired through her erogenous zones. She'd follow him up those stairs no matter what the reason. No matter what the cost.

*   *   *

“Dinner? I can't go out like this,” Talia protested when Taggart asked her to go out with him several days later. “I've been out in the field all day. I haven't even been up to my room yet. I need a shower and clean clothes.”

“Then go. I'll wait. I want to take you somewhere special. Someplace we can get a real meal,” he insisted, and that was the end of the discussion—almost.

His eyes were never hard or cold when he looked at her now. They'd softened to warm and intimate when he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Wear your hair down for me.”

His voice compounded the sexual awareness. Gruff and gritty and sounding very much as he did every night in her bed, where they'd spent the last six nights together. He loved her hair. She'd even teased him about having a fetish for it. He'd agreed without remorse that he loved burying his hands in it. Loved to fill those callused but oh-so-giving hands with it, then tug her down to kiss him. Loved the feel of it trailing over his body.

And she'd loved the way he groaned in deep, almost primal pleasure, the way he made her moan. One particular memory was so visual she got lost in it. And it frightened her to realize this man had such a hold on her.

“Talia?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, and found his hungry eyes focused on hers.

He knew. He'd been there, fantasizing right along with her. “You were going to shower?”

“Right.” She eased off the bar stool, working hard to appear collected. “Give me fifteen.”

Then she headed up the stairs to her room, telling herself the same thing she did every day. There was nothing wrong, just because Bobby Taggart knew how to engage her libido. With a word. With a look. With a touch.

Nothing wrong with the weakness in her knees, either, or with the flush of heat surging through her body and the sweet gnawing ache that gripped her when she thought of him. Nothing wrong with spending as much of each day and all of her nights with him.

He was a striking man. A battle-hardened warrior yet a generous and giving lover. The contrasts were fascinating, and she wasn't immune to the sheer excitement of being around him.

Going into this, she'd known she might have to seduce him.

What she hadn't been prepared for was that he hadn't been the only one seduced.

*   *   *

She wore her hair down, as he'd asked, telling herself it was all part of the game. She was so used to braiding it immediately after her shower that when she finished brushing it and had taken the time to look in the mirror, she'd been shocked at how long it had gotten. If she'd been wearing a bra, the ends would have hit several inches below it.

As thick as it was, it was also arrow-straight, so it didn't take long to dry in this heat. Still, it was a little damp beneath the delicate white shawl she'd chosen to wear over a long, lightweight teal slip dress. It was her standard packs-like-a-dream, ready-to-wear-at-a-moment's-notice dress. She'd dragged it across several continents in the event that she'd need to dress for a dinner with some muckety-muck who could help her with a story. Or with a mission.

Tonight she found herself wishing she had a new dress. One she'd never worn before and had bought just for him. Which was as foolish as the skip of her heartbeat when Taggart spotted her walking down the stairs.

“Look at you.” He swallowed hard, then walked straight to her. “If you're wondering, I like this way better than your ugly shirts.”

“And if you're wondering,” she said, attempting to keep her voice steady behind her smile, “I still have time to change back into one of them.”

“Yeah.” He touched a hand to the small of her back and ushered her toward the door. “Like that's going to happen.”

*   *   *

“Where is this restaurant?” she asked after they'd walked a couple of blocks.

“Not far now.” He steered her into a lantern-lit alley and in the pale evening light, with the lanterns flickering like fireflies, it actually looked pretty. Almost magical—a rarity in Kabul. Although the night was warm, a chill of awareness feathered down her spine when he reached for her hand and entwined his fingers with hers.

She didn't even think about resisting. She thought about both the strength and the gentleness in his long, strong fingers. About how small and protected her hand felt surrounded by his. And about how wonderfully easy this moment was, when she should be much more alert for signs of trouble.

“It's been a while since I held hands with a woman.” He grinned down at her. “In fact, the last woman's hand I held was probably my mother's.”

She glanced up at him. “That long?”

“Actually, it was just last year, when I went home for a quick visit. She still won't let me cross busy streets by myself.”

She smiled down at her feet as they walked, too amused, too charmed, too careless. And far too comfortable after only a few days and nights spent with him. “And he's a comedian, too,” she managed.

He chuckled and squeezed her hand. “Too?”

What the hell. She was going to let herself play. She never got nights like this; she never met men like him. And she'd forgotten how delightfully heady a man's interest could be.

“Fish all you want,” she teased, “but you're not going to get a compliment from me.”

He stopped and, with their hands still linked, grinned down at her. “Was I fishing?”

“I recognize bait when it's dangled in front of me.”

“Ah. And if you
were
biting?” he asked with mischief in his eyes. “What kind of a compliment would I catch on this fishing expedition?”

She made a show of zipping her lips.

“Oh, woman, did you pick the wrong guy. I never back away from a challenge.”

It was fun, this flirty and nonsensical back-and-forth between them. And she firmly blocked rising feelings of guilt for enjoying his company too much and for deceiving him in the process.

“Still not talking?”

She remained stubbornly silent.

“Maybe I need better bait.”

Very slowly, he backed her up against a wall that was still warm from the heat of the sun. Warmer still when he leaned into her, freed his hand from hers, and drew her against him. Full lips brushed lightly against hers, and when she attempted to open her mouth to protest, he slipped his tongue inside and convinced her it was exactly the thing she wanted. Her knees were rubbery when he pulled away, looking very pleased with himself.

“Was that it?” His silky whisper was mere inches from her lips. His eyes were slumberous and sexy. “Were you going to compliment me on my kisses?”

She opened her mouth again, shut it, tried to pull her thoughts together around her racing heart and the liquid heat between her thighs.

He laughed, then tugged her away from the wall. “I'll take that as a yes.”

Draping his arm casually over her shoulders, he started walking again.

What kind of man was this? He'd seen the savagery of war and yet voluntarily put his life on the line in a part of the world where life had little value. He carried a well-worn playing card to honor his fallen brothers. Despite being dishonored by his own country, he still had the capability to trust someone.

And he was still capable of whimsy and of stealing kisses.

He had more than enough reasons to be bitter, jaded, and angry at life. Yet he wasn't.

He would be, she reminded herself, breaking the spell. When she was through with him, he would be all of those things.

She was thankful when they reached the restaurant before she had more time to anguish over her assignment. And after spending several enjoyable hours in a place where the walls were covered with beautiful Afghan carpets and the doors were magnificently carved works of art, where they'd relaxed on colorful cushions and eaten a delicious meal from low tables, they walked hand in hand again back to her hotel.

This time, when she took him to her bed, she took him there with a single-minded purpose that had nothing to do with deceit and missions and calculation. She took him to bed to please him. To be with him. To enjoy the wonder he brought to her body and to her heart, which had been numb for so long.

Afterward, when he slept, she lay awake listening to him breathe, absorbing the heat radiating from his body, wishing they could lock themselves away here and never leave.

But there could never be more than this between them. It was idiotic even to dream that somehow, some way, there could be more. Because after she got what she needed, she would leave him—and what was left of her heart would be numb once more.

7

An irritating buzz woke Bobby from a deep sleep. The next buzz had him shooting straight up in bed. He'd left his phone on the bedside table, and the screen alerted him to an incoming text.

Talia stirred sleepily beside him. “What—”

“Shh,” he whispered, silencing the phone. “Go back to sleep.”

Then he slipped out of bed and walked to the window, hoping to catch a little night air to wake him up. He checked the time—2:17 a.m.—before pressing the key to accept the text.

“Game on. Fifteen minutes.” The text went on to name two cross streets as his destination.

Al-Attar's coded message told Bobby that he wanted to meet. Finally. This was it. The bastard liked to play games, but Bobby had a gut feeling that this was the real event. It was significant that al-Attar had called a zero-dark-thirty meeting out of nowhere. And if he was at the location suggested by the cross streets, ­al-Attar had been under his nose all along. What a kick in the ass.

He deleted the text and set his mind to what would happen next. They were finally going to nab this bastard and his thugs and put him out of business. Bobby just hoped he wasn't heading into a trap.

He glanced at Talia, her black hair spilling across the pillow. No matter what happened, he would make it back to the best thing that had ever happened to him.

The thought hit him like a tank. Then it backed up and rolled over him again.

The best thing that had ever happened to him.

Shit. He dragged a hand over his head, wanting to deny it. But there it was. Unfiltered and as real as daylight.

When in holy hell had
that
happened?
How
had it happened? He'd only spent seven days with her—most of them involving wild, delirious sex—and he was already thinking long term?

He went into the bathroom, turned on the cold-water faucet, and splashed the sleep from his eyes. Then he faced himself in the mirror.

This was
so
not happening. Falling in lust was one thing, but falling in love? In a week? No freakin' way.

But with the initial shock ebbing, after he'd gathered his clothes from the floor and dressed in the dark, the idea didn't feel as unbelievable.

In fact, he kind of liked the way it fit. Maybe it was time he had something good in his life. Something like a woman who entertained him with her wit, engaged him intellectually, and made him remember a part of himself he thought he'd lost in the murky fog of year after year of war.

“Come back to bed,” Talia whispered, in that husky
I'll do anything you want
voice. And he damn near dived back in with her.

“I've got to go out for a while,” he said softly, hating that he had to leave her. Hating it a lot.

“But it's the middle of the night,” she said sleepily.

“It's important, or I wouldn't be going.”

With a soft groan, she rolled over and checked the time on her phone. “Good God.” She turned back to look at him. “So important it can't wait until morning?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It's something I've been trying to tie up and get out from under for a long time.”

Her brow furrowed, and she started to rise, but he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, then smoothed her hair away from her face.

“Don't get up, babe. Just go back to sleep. Everything's okay.”

God, she was beautiful, her eyes now clear and focused on him, her gaze filled with concern, with worry for him.
Best thing that had ever happened to him.

“Everything's going to be okay,” he reassured her again.

“Bobby . . . I . . . Bobby—” Her voice caught on a short breath, and she reached out and cupped the back of his head, drawing him into a sweet, desperate kiss. Her mouth opened over his, her other hand coming up to hold him close, as if she couldn't get enough, as if she'd never get enough.

“Hey. Hey,” he whispered, breaking off the kiss when he touched her face and felt tears. “What's this? What's going on?”

She shook her head and got herself back under control. “I don't know. I don't wake up well, I guess.”

When she smiled for him, he kissed her again and felt a deep, urgent need to get back to her as fast as he could. “I'll be back before sunrise. Save my place, okay?”

This time, she managed some sass. “Well, I
was
expecting Habib around five . . .”

A mental picture of the ancient Afghan man who hung around the bar and bummed smokes made him chuckle. “Tell him hello for me. And make sure he drags his bony ass out of here before I get back.”

“Be safe,” she said, her eyes imploring.

“I always am,” he promised, and after stuffing his phone into his pocket, he took off.

*   *   *

Talia fought back tears as the knot in her stomach became a wrenching ache. This was the moment she'd waited for. And the moment she'd begun to dread.

God, she'd almost compromised the operation. She'd almost told him who she was and what would happen tonight.

Treason
echoed through her mind like a death knell.

She was not a traitor. But she'd hoped so much to have more time with him.

Tonight all came down to one choice. Betray her country or betray Taggart.

She stared at the ceiling and made herself focus. This was what she'd worked for. The success of the mission had come down to the RFID tag she'd planted in his phone and her ability to get close enough to her target to read between the lines—which was exactly what she'd done.

Yeah. It's something I've been trying to tie up and get out from under for a long time.

She'd known what was going down the moment he'd said those words. Only one thing could provoke him to go out into the dark streets at this time of night. Mohammed al-Attar.

She forced herself to sit up, lowered her head to her hands, and reached deep for the strength to make the call. Finally, she stood, dragged her hair away from her face, and walked to the wardrobe.

The SAT phone felt ominously heavy in her hand as she dialed.

“Talia,” her commander said before she could speak. “We see that he's on the move.”

“Yes.” She knew they'd been tracking his movements since she'd hidden the tag seven nights ago. “I believe this is the opportunity we have been waiting for.”

“Believe? You are not certain?”

“As certain as I can be, yes.”

“Good work,” her commander said, then hesitated. “Talia . . . you are all right?”

She pinched her eyes to force away the tears. “Yes. Yes, I'm fine.”

“I'll alert the team. They are ready for this. You know what to do now.”

“Yes. I know what to do.”

But first, she did something that shamed her, something that went against the service she'd pledged her life to uphold. She asked her commander something she had no right to ask. Something that would jeopardize everything that made her who she was.

*   *   *

Bobby shoved his hands into his pockets and walked at a fast clip down the darkened Kabul streets. He was oblivious to the beggar asleep in a pile of rags on the walkway. Didn't register the day-old scents of garbage and exhaust and unwashed bodies spilling out of windows and doors.

He focused on two things only: staying alive and finally getting access to al-Attar's secret den. The terrorist had had his uses, and those had kept him alive and free. But now al-Attar and his band had accommodations waiting for them at Gitmo, compliments of Fargis and Uncle Sam.

Bobby could have picked him up the last time they'd met. He hadn't done so because Uncle wanted to capture not only him and his minions but also his computers and files, all rich with intel. The only way to accomplish that was for Bobby to enter al-Attar's base of operations, which he'd never been able to do before. But the time had finally arrived.

“Should there not be trust between us, after all of the commerce we have successfully executed together?” Bobby had asked at their last meeting. “I grow weary of this game of hide-and-seek. It insults me. I can always take my money somewhere else.”

Apparently, the veiled threat of losing his main source of revenue had made al-Attar reconsider, because he'd assured Bobby that their next meeting would take place at his headquarters.

Not even a stray dog moved on the street as Bobby approached the rendezvous spot. It made him a little itchy. Going into a meet with al-Attar unarmed went against all of his instincts. But those were al-Attar's rules, so, as always, he had nothing on him but his phone. Adrenaline pumped through his system, revving him up like a muscle car running on high-­octane fuel. He wasn't Captain America, however, and he wasn't a cowboy. He would keep his head, and he wasn't going in completely alone. Before he'd hit the streets, he'd texted a coded message to his team leader, letting him know that the meet was finally on and giving him the street names so they could find him.

Apparently, he'd walked a little faster than he'd thought, because when he arrived at the spot, no one from al-Attar's camp was there. That was fine. It would give his team more time to arrive and get into position. They'd had a plan in place for the day this big meet finally came. Still, this was where blind faith came into play. Even when the boys got here to provide backup, he wouldn't see them. No one would, until they wanted to be seen. But it was good to know they'd soon be here, guarding his back.

He moved into the shadows and leaned against the corner of a spice store, wondering which of the nearby buildings housed al-Attar's HQ. A little wind gust sent a plastic bag skittering down the street, but otherwise, all was quiet. Then an old Toyota Hilux pickup careened around the corner and braked abruptly in front of him.

The Hilux was the go-to vehicle in Afghanistan. This one was beaten and battered, but Bobby suspected some tweaks had been made under the hood. These guys were going to make certain they could always get away—fast.

The few working streetlights were dim, but Bobby recognized the man riding shotgun from previous meets as Ghulam, one of al-Attar's top lieutenants.

Four more men were similarly dressed like locals in white khats and wearing pakuls on their heads. One was the driver. The other three carried AK-47s like Ghulam and each one sat in his own corner in the truck box. The fourth corner was empty, and Bobby suddenly had a very bad feeling about this.

“Get in,” Ghulam ordered. Yep—the last corner was reserved for him.

“Get in? We're not meeting near here?”

“Get in,” the man repeated.

Shit. This was not good. He'd expected to be led to a building nearby, where al-Attar would be waiting.

“Where's your boss?” Bobby asked.

“We will take you to him.”

Not good at all.

And unless he came up with a believable stall tactic, he could kiss his backup good-bye. Fargis's home base was around twenty minutes from his current location. Even if the team had assembled immediately after he'd alerted them, they were still three to four minutes away. If he didn't come up with something fast, they weren't going to get here in time to help him. The Hilux—with him in it—would be long gone.

“Get in now, or we leave, and the meet is off.”

He gave a millisecond of thought to letting them drive off without him, but he'd worked too long and too hard on this op to blow his chance of pinning down al-Attar's nest now. Somehow, he'd get a message to the guys, and they'd find him. Or maybe—if these goons weren't smart enough to block ­transmission—the team could track his phone via GPS. Even then, by the time they figured out exactly where he was, it could be all over but the eulogy.

With a resigned breath, Bobby walked around to the back of the truck, then hiked himself up inside. He'd barely sat down, with his back to the tailgate and his eyes on the boys with the guns, when the Toyota took off.

They traveled several blocks through a city that was in turns decrepit and crumbling and newly modern. He was hot as hell from the adrenaline buzz, and the dusty wind generated by the speeding truck didn't make it easy for him to find the zone.

The Hilux suddenly braked, and he figured they'd arrived.

No such luck. Thug One tossed a black hood at his chest. “Put it on.”

Bobby caught it and narrowed his eyes. “What the fu—”

“Put it on!” the guy yelled, and three Russian rifles rose, all pointing at his head.

“No need to get testy, boys,” he mumbled, and put on the hood. Then tried to keep from gagging. It smelled like goat shit.

The Hilux tore off again. He was as good as blind, with no backup plan or team in place. This was going south fast, and he could very well be dead tomorrow.

And the thought that bit harder than anything else was the possibility of never seeing Talia again.