Targeted (FBI Heat) (4 page)

“That’s all?”

“Yes. They trust me.”

“And my name?”

He turned his head slowly until his eyes caught hers. “No, Baheera, I didn’t tell them your name.”

She refused to surrender and held his gaze. “Khaleel sounded very angry.”

“You were listening?”

“He was loud.”

Ameen chuckled, his eyes returning to the road. “Ah, yes, he was. Do not be offended by his words. He was only being protective of his wife, as all good husbands should be.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?” he asked, glancing sideways at her.

“A good, protective husband.”

He smiled. “Allah has not yet blessed me with a wife, but I have always been protective of the people I care about. My family. My friends.”

She looked away, a memory warming her inside.
He sounds like Ben.
“About last night, Ameen, thank you, again, for saving my life. I’m sorry you had to shoot those two men.”

“I will ask Allah for forgiveness. Despite the horrific stories in the American media, those men do not represent true Muslims.” Marissa turned toward him at the sound of anger building in his voice. “They blaspheme Allah and Islam.” His eyes sparked with restrained emotion.

“Who are you really?” she asked, taken aback by his passionate response.

Their dark eyes locked again.

“I told you the truth before. I am
really
Ameen Ali.” His expression hardened. “It is shameful that I feel I must say this. I am
not
a terrorist.”

“Did you know those men?”

“Yes, I knew Samir and Omar. They have been breeding hate at our mosque for several months.”

“Are those their real names?”

“As far as I know. Did you know them by other names?”

She ignored his question. “How did you find me?”

“I have been watching Samir’s group for some time. That is how I first discovered you.” He grinned at her flicker of a reaction. “I prayed to Allah that you did not share their hate. Am I right?”

Again, she didn’t answer. “What do you mean by ‘Samir’s group’?”

“Wait a minute. You ask, I answer. I ask, you don’t. Do you always play so unfairly?” When it became clear she wouldn’t respond, he shook his head and continued. “I’m referring to the eight men you have been living with for the past two weeks. What would you call them? A cell?”

She grimaced.
Why haven’t I noticed Ameen spying on us?
“What do you know about the men?”

“They are full of hate and rage. I cannot understand why a smart, beautiful woman would be with them. Why were they going to kill you?”

Marissa scrunched her eyes shut. She felt Omar gripping her hair, exposing her neck. She heard Samir grunt as he raised the heavy knife. Her own scream, and then the gunshots. She shuddered.

“I don’t know,” she lied, opening her eyes to his.

Ameen nodded at the small victory of getting a reply, although he didn’t look as if he believed her. Perhaps the terror in her eyes also kept him from gloating.

“Trust me, Baheera. I am not one of them. I don’t believe you are one of them either. I want to stop them because they are spreading irrational hate among the young men at the mosque. I know where that kind of fanatical emotion leads. Two of the 9/11 hijackers prayed at a San Diego mosque. Neither my uncle nor I lived here then, but their evil has tainted all of us. We will never remove the stain of that shame.” He paused. “Are you here to help them or to stop them?”

The passion of his commitment shone in his eyes. Trust stirred inside her, but she still couldn’t answer.

“Must we continue to play this game?” Frowning with frustration, he refocused on driving. “You asked what I know about Samir’s group. I will tell you. They are eight—six, now—young, Muslim men. They are evil men who would behead a woman. They came to San Diego within the past six months. Three months ago, Samir received the satellite phone, the one you took. I have followed them on many trips to the house in Tijuana. Two other men deliver boxes, but I cannot identify those men because they cover their heads and faces with scarves.” He threaded his fingers through his wavy, black hair and exhaled, exasperated. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I can guess. And I
know
it’s bad. Very bad.” He turned to her. “Will you help me stop them?”

The intensity in his voice touched her, made a connection to her own passion for doing the right thing. His desire to bring down the bad guys spoke to her personal reasons for joining the FBI. But still, Ameen was a civilian, an outsider, who should not become involved in an undercover op.

“Have you reported your suspicions to the appropriate law enforcement officials?” she asked.

“Yes. Months ago. They brushed me off. The government says they need the public’s eyes and ears to help them stop terrorists, but they failed to react to what my eyes and ears had witnessed. I never heard a word from them after my initial report of the cell’s existence,” he complained.

“How do you know they failed to react? Based on your suspicions alone, the government would not throw the men in jail. And who says they have to follow up with you?”

She thought he might respond defensively to her explanation, but he only laughed. “Ah, I sense there is a law-abiding patriot living within the cell,” he said.

His attention returned to driving, and they rode in silence. Marissa pondered the information he’d provided about the terrorists. Homeland Security already knew all of it, but his honesty gave her a reason to consider trusting him. Ameen’s sincerity, his passion, spoke to her heart as she evaluated his trustworthiness.

How much do I dare risk with this man?

B
y six o’clock Monday morning, FBI Special Agent Ben Alfren sat at his desk with his first cup of coffee. Unconsciously bouncing his right leg, he scanned the latest reports on the drug money laundering case he was working. His eyes focused on the computer screen, but his mind focused on last night’s conversation with Ian.

Ben had barely slept after the phone call. When he finally gave up the pretense of sleep, he’d gotten ready for work. After writing Amber a brief note, he’d slipped out of his Coronado apartment and driven to the San Diego FBI building. The long commute gave him time to formulate what he would say to his boss, Supervisory Special Agent Rex Kelley. His mentor would be in by seven so he still had a little time to kill.

He stood, stretched, and carried his coffee mug to the windows. The cloudless sky promised another hot day, but he wasn’t concerned about the weather. Staring outside at nothing, he let his mind wander.

At twenty-nine, he was a five-year agent who loved his job. After earning a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice from George Washington University, he’d gone on to graduate summa cum laude with an MBA from Harvard. Choosing to catch bad guys for the government instead of earning a stratospheric Harvard grad salary in the private sector exemplified his values and mystified his friends. He grinned at the memory of their shock when he had announced his career plans.

Recently, he’d played a key role in shutting down several illegal activities of the Hermosillo cartel. All the right people in the Bureau had noticed. The promotion and raise were appreciated, but the boost to his sagging morale was even more important. That investigation had changed his life in another significant way. He’d met and fallen in love with Amber, an intelligent, twenty-seven-year-old, golden-haired beauty. Yeah, life had been good to him lately.

Did his nightmare and the phone call last night mean his good life was about to change? Marissa was out there somewhere. She needed him. He could
feel
it. After what they’d shared, he couldn’t let her down.

He sighed. God, there were so many memories…

They’d met as recruits at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Her breathtaking appearance—tall, slender, long ebony hair, midnight eyes—and fiery personality intimidated most of the recruits and some of the instructors. But not Ben. He was fascinated, intrigued. Marissa quickly latched onto his offer of friendship, and they soon discovered their incredible chemistry. But despite her overwhelming sensuality, she needed—no, demanded—emotional, intellectual, and moral connections, as well as a physical connection. Few men ever made the grade.

He swallowed hard. God, he had loved everything about Marissa: the Czech accent in her English when they were alone, her Bohemian gypsy genes that sparked her incredible passion, her dedication to catching the bad guys that mirrored his. But in the end, she’d broken his heart when she refused to transfer to San Diego with him. After two years of bleeding, his wounds had finally healed when they’d spent time together again in DC a few months ago.

Damn, the memories… At least now they came without pain.

Ben sighed again and forced them aside so he could concentrate on the present. Last night he hadn’t wanted to alarm Ian by revealing the true level of his concern. Now the nightmare haunted him. He couldn’t shake the image of the terror in Marissa’s eyes as she’d yelled his nicknames. He prayed what he’d witnessed in the nightmare bore no resemblance to reality. If it did, he might already be too late to… He shook his head sharply to remove the unthinkable thought.

Glancing at his watch, he vowed to persevere until he confirmed Marissa’s safety, although he knew the information would be difficult, if not impossible, to obtain.

Finally, a few minutes before seven, his boss walked past Ben’s desk on the way to his office.

“Rex,” Ben called.

The older man took a step back and nodded. “Morning, Ben.”

“Good morning. I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Uh, in private.”

Rex frowned slightly. “I’ll grab some coffee and meet you in my office in five minutes.”

Ben was already sitting at the table in Rex’s office when his boss returned with a large mug. He jumped up and shut the door.

Rex studied him as if trying to size up the situation. “What’s up?” he asked as they both sat down at the table.

Ben cleared his throat. Despite his practice all morning, the words did not come easily. “Remember my friend who helped me get the halfway house information in the Hermosillo investigation?”

“Sure.”

“Did I ever tell you her name?”

“No, and that’s just fine with me.”

“Well, sorry, but I need to tell you now. Her name is Marissa Panuska. She’s worked in a Counterterrorism Squad in the Washington field office for the past couple of years. I spoke to her former boyfriend in DC last night, and Ian says she’s missing. He’s not FBI, by the way. A professor at one of the universities, I think. Anyway, about two weeks ago, he overheard part of a phone conversation about al-Qaeda and wiretaps. Then Marissa told him she was going away for one week on assignment. He searched her purse and found airline tickets to San Diego.”

“Sneaky little shit.”

“Yeah, and he’s totally freaked out at this point. When she didn’t come home after a week, he started calling her cell phone and leaving messages. He never heard from her. Of course, the Bureau is pissing him off because we won’t tell him a damn thing. And he’s convinced Marissa’s boss—name unknown—sounded ‘real uptight.’ I’m surprised anyone even spoke to him, which makes me wonder if maybe they were fishing for information from Ian.”

Rex stroked his chin. “Bottom line?”

“I think Marissa’s in trouble. She speaks Arabic, could easily pass for Middle Eastern. I’m guessing her assignment here is undercover. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be any reason why she couldn’t call Ian back.”

“Not a professional reason, but maybe a personal one. Perhaps she’s taking a break from the schmuck.”

“Actually, Ian said they fought and broke up. But I know Marissa. She’d still return his calls. She’s not the type to avoid problems. She meets them head on.”

“Have
you
heard from her?” Rex’s eyes narrowed as they fixed on Ben.

Only in a nightmare.
“No,” he said, a little too emphatically. “Look, this isn’t just personal. I think we have an agent in big trouble.”

“Based on what? You know covert ops often run longer than planned. It can even be a good thing, meaning the agent is accomplishing more than expected. A panicky former boyfriend isn’t a red flag. So I don’t share your concern unless there’s something—” Rex stopped, stroked his chin again, and locked eyes with him. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Special Agent Alfren?”

“I’ve told you the facts as I know them, sir,” he replied with a straight face. He wasn’t lying to his boss. No one would consider a nightmare a
fact
.

“Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it,” Rex said, looking unconvinced. He shrugged. “What do you want from me?”

“If you don’t think there’s a problem, I won’t take up your time. Just give me permission to start asking questions up the chain.”

Rex swallowed a long drink of coffee. He stared at his protégé, probably suspecting there was a lot more to the current situation and to Ben’s relationship with Special Agent Panuska. But his boss also looked like he didn’t want to know for sure. “Confusing personal concerns with professional ones can be disastrous to an agent’s career,” he warned, eyeing Ben over the rim of his mug.

“I’m well aware of that,” he said, his gaze unwavering.

“Okay. Let’s pay Alan Carter a visit and see what he knows.” Without waiting for a response, he punched in the extension for the head of the Counterterrorism Squads in the San Diego office. “Morning, Alan. How’s it going?”

“Fine, Rex. What can I do for you?”

“I need to talk to you. In person.”

Alan paused. “Sure, come on over.”

A few minutes later, Rex and Ben strolled into Assistant Special Agent in Charge Alan Carter’s office. Ignoring the man’s questioning looks, Ben closed the door. They shook hands and settled into chairs at a table near the windows.

Rex took the lead. Resting his arms on the table, he came right to the point. “We’ve heard a rumor that there’s a covert op going down in San Diego based on information from al-Qaeda wiretaps.” Ben thought Alan’s chin was going to hit the floor, but Rex continued unfazed. “The op includes a female FBI agent from Washington who’s working undercover. We have some questions.”

Alan’s gaze darted between the other two men. “Well, I don’t have any answers. Where the hell did you hear this rumor?”

“From the woman’s former boyfriend.”

“FBI?”

“No.”

Anger reddened Alan’s face. “Shit. A goddamn civilian.”

“Yeah, it sucks. What do you know about the op?” Rex asked calmly.

The Counterterrorism boss massaged his forehead and then the back of his neck. “Not much, really. I’m not running it, although they’re using a couple of my agents. After 9/11, Special Agent Wahid Jabbar infiltrated one of San Diego’s infamous mosques where some of the hijackers had worshipped. About three months ago, I got a call from Headquarters telling me I was no longer in charge of the mosque operations, and Wahid would be reporting directly to someone else. That’s the last I heard. I think he’s working with the San Diego Joint Terrorism Task Force.”

“Wahid’s still out there?” Ben asked.

“I haven’t seen or heard from him. So honestly, I don’t know where he is. But since he hasn’t come back under my supervision, I’d say yes. And then to make matters worse, two weeks ago, Headquarters yanked Special Agent Jamila Zafar—my only other Arabic-speaking agent—out to Washington for some special project they won’t even explain.”

Two weeks ago.
Ben didn’t have to look at his boss to know he’d caught it also.

Alan continued, “So who’s the agent who blabbed to her boyfriend?”

Ben bristled, but Rex’s icy glance cooled him before he spoke. “The guy’s a sneaky little shit who was snooping around. She didn’t
blab
a damn thing,” he said, his tone tight but not disrespectful.

“Who is she?” Alan said again.

“Special Agent Marissa Panuska.”

“Panuska? Damn. I sure didn’t know she was involved.”

“You know her?” Rex asked.

“I’ve met her. Excellent agent. I guess she wouldn’t have leaked anything.”

Rex shot Ben another look telling him to keep his mouth shut. “Who’s handling it at Headquarters?”

Alan diverted his gaze to the windows. He slid a finger back and forth across his lips, possibly thinking of zipping them shut. The phone rang, and he grabbed it. “Carter.” He listened, then said, “I can’t talk now. Take a message.” He paused. “And hold my calls.” He laid the handset down so slowly it was obvious he was stalling, calculating what to reveal. He swallowed a swig of coffee before he looked back at the two men. “Frankly, I don’t think Headquarters or the Washington field office is handling it.”

The significant implications of the simple statement filled Ben’s mind. He struggled to remain stoic.

“Who then?” Rex said.

“Higher up. Much higher. I’m just speculating, and you never heard it from me.”

“We’ll have to take this up channels through Headquarters. Should I call or you?”

“What the hell? Wait a minute,” Alan exclaimed. “I don’t even understand what your questions are. This has nothing to do with you, and I strongly recommend you two keep your noses out of it.”

Rex exchanged a meaningful glance with his young agent, his expression signaling he was deciding how much to disclose. “We think the op may be in trouble.”

Alan’s head jerked back. “What makes you think that?”

“Something the boyfriend said.”

The Counterterrorism ASAIC hammered the table with his fist. “Why the hell was the guy talking to you in the first place?”

“Ben knows him.”

“What the fuck did he say to make you think the op’s gone bad?”

Rex stroked his chin, looking thoughtful again. Ben grinned inwardly, realizing his boss’s interest was growing exponentially and enjoying the opportunity to observe the master at work.

“You know, Alan, I don’t want to put you in the middle of something that’s out of your hands,” Rex said. “Maybe we should save that information for whoever’s in charge. How do you want to play this?”

Alan stood up, paced to his desk and back twice before answering. He didn’t seem at all pleased that they had just ruined his Monday morning. “Well, fuck. Let me take it up the chain at Headquarters and see if they’ll talk. I’ll call you when I know something. In the meantime, don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. And I mean
anyone
.”