Targeted (FBI Heat) (26 page)

O
nly a fool would go to work today, his wife had complained bitterly as he’d prepared to leave early Thursday morning. She was probably right, Rawlings grudgingly conceded while he shuffled through the pile of paperwork awaiting his attention. Maybe he would take a day off once the loose ends and the paperwork were taken care of. He scowled.
So much goddamn paperwork.

And so many goddamn phone calls.
Annoyed at yet another interruption, he yanked the ringing phone to his ear. “Rawlings,” he snapped. His eyes widened, and he instinctively sprang to his feet. “Yes, Mr. President. Thank you very much, sir.” He listened raptly. “Yes, it was a tragic loss. A ricochet off a metal dumpster. I’ll communicate the details to Winslow about where to send your condolences to Special Agent Jabbar’s family…and to Special Agent Jamila Zafar.” He nodded as he listened. “It was definitely an amazing operation. I’m always proud to serve my country, Mr. President, but I’m not the one who deserves that praise. The star of this show was Special Agent Panuska. She’s the one who should be recognized and honored.” He grinned. “I’m pleased you agree, sir. When she returns, I assure you that we would both be honored to have dinner at the White House.” His eyebrows jerked upward. “Excuse me? May I quote you on that, Mr. President?” And then he laughed—for the first time in a long time.

After the call, he stood at the windows, reflecting. Indeed, the operation had been an overwhelming success. They had captured the complete Herat bomb: all the parts, the radioactive material, the C-4 explosive, and the assembly diagrams and instructions. Five of the San Diego cell members, both Tijuana engineers, and the real Baheera Abbas were dead. The Mexican authorities actually seemed eager to extradite the two cell members, Tareef and Masoud, captured at the Tijuana hideout. Fateen, the sole survivor of the Otay Mesa assault, and Liban/ Pablo/Dawud, the Arab assassin, were in custody with interrogations already underway. And several agents were on the hunt for Dr. Terrorist.

On the other side of the scoreboard, they’d lost Special Agent Jabbar during the shoot-out, and Panuska had been non-critically wounded while protecting the bomb.

And, of course, Ameen Ali had been shot by his traitorous friend, the terrorist engineer Khaleel. The brave, former SEAL had sacrificed himself to save Panuska, a woman he barely knew. And she was clearly devastated by his life-threatening injury.
I wonder if…

Lost in thought, Rawlings drank a long swig of coffee. That young man was a hero, although he would probably never get the recognition. Having already read the first report of Panuska’s debriefing, Rawlings was aware she kept repeating a phrase she attributed to Ameen:
There’s danger in waiting.
The meaning for those serving their country was more significant than for most.

“There’s danger in waiting,” Rawlings whispered. “Yes, Ameen, there sure as hell is.”

He glanced back at the paperwork and frowned. Abruptly, he stomped to the desk and punched a few numbers on the phone. Hearing his boss answer, a broad grin lit his face.

“Good morning. I just received a very interesting phone call. The President of the United States ordered me—and I quote—to get my
ass
home and take a
goddamn
vacation. And, sir, I’ve decided not to wait to follow that order.”

Her throat tight, her eyes burning with unshed tears, Marissa stepped into the hospital’s ICU waiting room. Wearing the traditional garments of a Muslim imam and sporting a full, salt-and-pepper beard, Ameen’s uncle was not difficult to spot. His shoulders slumped, he sat alone in a corner of the room, the other occupants keeping a conspicuous distance from him. He stared solemnly at his hands resting in his lap. He didn’t move until Marissa stopped a few feet away and spoke.

“Abdullah Ali?” she asked, even though she was sure who he was.

He looked up. Dark, expressive eyes met hers. Ameen’s eyes, only older, sadder.

“Yes,” he confirmed hesitantly and studied her with suspicion. “And you are?”

She extended her right hand clumsily because of the bandage and sling. “FBI Special Agent Marissa Panuska. I need to speak to you about your nephew.”

He straightened and bristled. “Ameen is a good man. He was not shot in a drug deal gone terribly wrong. He has never had anything to do with drugs. Special Agent Williams’s conclusion is wrong.”

“I know.” She nodded. “I’ve taken care of that…unfortunate misinformation.”

Abdullah waited another few seconds before shaking her hand. “Are you here to tell me more lies?”

Marissa shook her head. She hadn’t expected his defensiveness, but she could understand it. The nephew he loved was fighting for his life after being shot under circumstances that no one would explain honestly. “No. I want to tell you the truth…at least as much of it as I can.”

“Then, by all means, please sit and tell me what really happened,” he said after considering her words.

She surveyed the room to confirm no one could eavesdrop on their conversation before sitting down in the chair next to him. Staring at her hands clasped in her lap, she drew a fortifying breath.

“What I am going to tell you is classified information, a matter of national security. I’ve been given clearance to share this information with you with the provision that you agree not to communicate any part of it, in any way, to anyone. If you do, you will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do you agree to these conditions?”

When he didn’t answer, she looked up.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I can only tell you that Ameen is…a hero. I
personally
owe him a debt of gratitude that I can never repay for saving my life, not once, but twice.” She swallowed hard, stood up, and turned to leave.

“Wait.”

She looked back over her shoulder.

Abdullah cocked his head and scrutinized her. “You are…Baheera?”

“Yes.” Her heart squeezed. She had intentionally not mentioned her Muslim alias. “Ameen told you about Baheera?”

A faint smile transformed his face into an older version of Ameen’s. “Yes, and you are even more dazzling than he described. Come, sister, your heart seems heavy. Sit and let us talk as friends, not adversaries.” As she sat, he continued, “Ameen is right: Your eyes are obsidian magnets.” He peered at her curiously. “But how is it that my nephew knows you as a mysterious Muslim woman whom he saved from being beheaded by some men who attended our mosque?”

“A few days ago, Ameen accidentally became involved in a covert Homeland Security operation in which I had an undercover role as Baheera. The men whom you and Ameen had been watching—”

“Samir and his hateful cohorts.”

“Yes. As you and Ameen feared, those men were terrorists. They were carrying out an attack planned by their high-ranking al-Qaeda leader in…the Middle East.”

“What kind of attack?”

“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

He huffed. “And what role did Ameen play? Was it related to his military service as a Navy SEAL?”

She smiled. “Ameen didn’t have an
official
role. In fact, I tried several times to get rid of him, but he apparently decided to take on the
unofficial
role of my personal protector.”

“Ah, that is because Ameen loves you.”

Her chin quivered as she pressed her lips together. Tears threatened again. “He told you that?”

“Yes, but he was slow to recognize and accept the emotion. He came to me with his heart very troubled about Baheera. You seem to have connected instantly in many ways. Ameen said you shared much passion.”

Her cheeks flamed with guilt.

Abdullah chuckled. “I speak not of the passion of the flesh, although he confessed to breaking his vow of abstinence by enjoying those pleasures with you. What Ameen spoke of was a new joy in his heart at finding someone who shared his passion for ridding the world of the Islamic extremists who threaten to undermine our religion. He believed he had found a kindred spirit in Baheera.” The old man frowned. “Is Ameen correct or was that just part of your undercover role?”

She laid her hand on his arm and gazed directly into his eyes. “He is correct. We share that and other passions. And…and I love Ameen also.” She glanced anxiously toward the double doors leading into the ICU. “I want desperately for us to have a chance to develop a relationship. But there are…issues to overcome.”

“Religion, for one. I am sure you are not Muslim.”

“No, I’m not. I have my own beliefs, but I welcome the opportunity to learn and understand more about Islam. A bigger issue is logistics. I live and work in Washington, and I know Ameen is committed to helping you at the mosque here in San Diego.”

“Ah.” Abdullah smiled knowingly. “Ameen mentioned yesterday that he’s decided to continue his parents’ work. It’s something I have been encouraging him to do. And Washington would be a perfect location.”

A seed of hope sprouted. “What do his parents do?”

Abdullah paused, his expression grim. “Ameen did not tell you about them?”

“No, but I saw a picture of them at his condo. I meant to ask him about them but, well, there was never time. Will you tell me?”

He sighed, gazing solemnly out the windows for several moments. “My brother’s family ran a charitable organization that helped Muslim immigrants learn English, achieve US citizenship, find jobs, and become productive Americans.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said, but Abdullah’s melancholy confused her. “Where do they operate their charity?”

“They
operated
—past tense—in New York City.”

Marissa’s heart filled with dread. She guessed the awful news coming next.

“Originally, they ran the charity out of their home. The whole family was so happy when they moved into the tiny, but official, two-room office on September first, 2001. It was a symbolic location because the first World Trade Center bombing in 1993 created much distrust of Muslims in New York. My brother wanted to show Muslim support and pride for the world-famous towers. Little did we know the achievement would bring tragedy, not understanding.” His voice cracked. “Ameen’s father, mother, and older sister died in the attacks of 9/11.”

“Oh my God. Ameen must’ve been devastated.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

“He was, but not for long. At first, he felt guilty for being out on an errand instead of at the office to die with his family. Then hatred overcame guilt, devastation, and grief. He joined the Navy, specifically to become a SEAL who would hunt down terrorists.”

“So the death of his family ignited his passion to eradicate the terrorists.”

“Yes. I took him under my wing, but if he had not joined the military, I don’t think I could’ve controlled his rage. He would’ve been out there, hunting down Osama bin Laden on his own. Now the bastard is dead, and Ameen seems adrift, without purpose. I believe that is why he left the SEALs. He has worked hard to overcome his hatred, but it is a deep well. Continuing his parents’ good work could anchor him again. Give him a positive purpose in life.”

“And you think Ameen might be willing to move to Washington to do that?”

“Perhaps. For the right reason. For the right person.”

They both turned when the ICU doors swung open. Dressed in blue scrubs and a white coat, a weary-looking doctor emerged and scanned the waiting room. All the occupants froze, wondering if he was bringing news of their loved one. His solemn gaze settled on Abdullah before he trudged across the space without making eye contact with anyone.

Abdullah clasped Marissa’s hand as the doctor approached. “Do not be afraid. Allah will reward Ameen for his defense of true Islam.”

Marissa wished she shared his confidence.

“Mr. Ali,” the doctor said and released a long sigh.

She squeezed the old man’s hand as tears stung her eyes.
Oh please, God, please
.

“Ameen is finally awake.”

A sob of relief escaped before she could stop it.

“
Allahu Akbar
,” Abdullah murmured.

“His vitals are strong. But…”

Marissa tensed.

“…he’s suffering some amnesia about the…shooting. And he seems very confused. He keeps repeating the same word over and over. I think it might be Arabic, but I really don’t know.”

“What word?” Abdullah asked.

“It sounds like ‘Ba-hee-ra.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

“That’s…me,” Marissa choked out the words.

The doctor shifted his gaze to her and arched an eyebrow. “Are you immediate family?”

Before she could answer, Abdullah interjected, “Yes. Ameen’s sister. Here from Washington.”

The doctor shot him a disbelieving glance, but smiled. “Riiiight. Would you two like to see him? He’s too weak for a long visit, but you can spend a few minutes with him.”

Marissa was on her feet before the man finished the sentence.

Abdullah didn’t stand up. “You go. You’re the one he’s asking for.”

“Are you sure? We could both—”

He grinned and motioned with his index finger for her to come closer. He placed a warm hand on her uninjured shoulder. “You go alone this time. New lovers do not need an old man around,” he whispered in her ear.

Marissa hugged the imam before following the doctor through the double doors and along a corridor of the ICU. He stopped and gestured toward a room.

“Ameen may not be very coherent. He’s confused about what happened to him. Don’t try to correct him. Just keep him calm and resting. He’s not out of the woods yet.”

“I understand.”

He nodded, checked his pager, and hurried away.

Horrible thoughts struck as she reached to push the door open. Her hand stopped mid-air.
What if the seriousness of Ameen’s injury has made him regret saving me? What if he resents being drawn into the op altogether?
She glanced toward the waiting room and considered returning to insist Abdullah visit instead of her.
No.
She steeled herself. She needed to see that Ameen was okay. And she’d just have to let things progress from there.

Silently, she slipped inside and stopped. The sight of Ameen, pale, still, and connected with tubes and wires to the medical equipment, was so contrary to the strong, virile man she knew that she hesitated to approach. Her chest tightened with guilt for what had happened to him because of her.