The Defiant Hero (15 page)
The two men sat down right there on the floor to talk to Meg. As they introduced themselves, Meg shifted away from Nils, out of his arms.
That was typical of her—even at a time when no one would fault her for leaning on a friend. With her initial outburst over, she now had to stand alone.
“Why don’t you tell us what happened, Meg,” Paoletti said, in that soft-spoken, easygoing manner he had of making everyone around him feel as comfortable as possible. “Start from the beginning and take your time.”
Meg nodded. She held her hands in her lap, gripping her own fingers tightly—but even that wasn’t enough to hide the fact that she was still trembling.
Maybe she stood alone because that was what she’d always done. Maybe it was the only thing she knew how to do.
“I had to pick up some files for a translating project I’d been hired to do,” she started, “and Amy, my daughter, wanted to take Eve, my grandmother who’s visiting us from England, to the Smithsonian for her birthday.”
Her voice trembled and she had to stop to clear her throat.
Nils could understand what it was like to want to appear strong, so he wouldn’t take her hand unless she gave him some kind of sign that she wanted him to do that.
But there was strength in numbers, too, and he didn’t want her to forget that from now on, she didn’t have to go through this alone.
So he shifted closer to her, there as they sat on the tile of the Kazbekistani men’s room floor. Just a little bit. Just enough so that his knee touched her leg.
And she didn’t shift away.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
Sam was gathering up his gear, getting ready to move to another suite in the hotel that had just become available, when Alyssa Locke came in.
Her partner, Jules Cassidy—the short, too-pretty guy with the bleached blond hair—was there with two other FBI agents, monitoring the tape loop WildCard had set up, making sure that any Kazbekistani officials could pop into the FBI surveillance room at the embassy at any time and see continuous images of Meg and her three hostages, still sitting in the men’s room.
Even though they were all long gone.
“What are you still doing here?” Alyssa greeted her partner with a warm smile.
Sam didn’t even rate a cold nod.
“I was just about to head home,” the little fucker said, “but my incredible ability to prognosticate told me you were about to arrive, so I decided to wait.”
“Someone called and said I was on my way over,” Alyssa interpreted, giving him another kickass smile.
No fucking fair.
And talk about a complete waste. Teaming Alyssa Locke up with a guy who was gay? And Sam was flat-out sorry, but even if the FBI had a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy similar to the U.S. military, when it came to Cassidy, there was no need to ask anything. There was absolutely no question as to which way his wind blew.
Of course, maybe that was why he’d been teamed up with Alyssa Locke. No male agent would be comfortable letting Cassidy guard his ass—because they wouldn’t want the little fruit anywhere near their ass.
Alyssa, however, seemed genuinely to like the man.
“What news cometh from the front lines, oh goddess of information?” Cassidy asked.
She flopped down next to him on the couch and Sam almost did a double take. Locke didn’t flop. And yet . . . She was sitting there, slouched back, as if she were as exhausted as he was. As if she, too, hadn’t slept since before she could remember.
As if she were human.
After the SEALs had pulled all three of the former hostages and Meg out of the K-stani men’s room, Locke had been part of the team that had spirited them out of the embassy and away to another location—a safe and very swanky hotel—across town.
He moved closer so he could hear her conversation with Cassidy.
“Meg Moore was questioned for hours, and her story held up,” Alyssa reported. “Oh, and you’ll like this, Jules. There was a security camera in the parking garage where she said the Extremist first contacted her. Everything happened exactly the way she described it, and we’ve got the guy on videotape. We’ve IDed him as a suspected K-stani terrorist. Nobody has a clue how he got into the U.S. He’s wanted for a number of violent crimes—including planting a bomb in a Kazabek school bus.”
She rolled her head on the cushiony back of the couch to look at Cassidy as she continued. “Which was probably not something Meg Moore needed to hear. The man who’s connected with the kidnapping of her daughter is a wanted child killer.”
“Shit,” Cassidy said.
“Yeah.” She sighed. “She kind of lost it. Fortunately a doctor was on hand. He gave her something to help her sleep. As for our other guests—the ambassador and the other two Kazbekistanis are being very gracious about this. They’re cooperating fully.”
“By letting the FBI house them in a hotel with room service provided by DC’s best French gourmet restaurant and all the pay-per-view they can watch?” Cassidy snorted. “After thinking I was going to die like a dog gunned down near the urinals in a men’s room, I’d be pretty happy with option B as well.”
“They didn’t have to cooperate,” Alyssa told her partner.
“How many times have you worked with Max Bhagat?” Cassidy asked.
“This is the first. I mean, I knew who he was and—”
“Ah.”
“What does ah mean?” she asked.
“It means, ‘Ah, you’ve never worked with Max before.’ ”
She gave him a far friendlier version of her cold stare than Sam had ever received. “Which means . . . ?”
“He’s a really good negotiator,” Cassidy said, “to the point that he’s completely able to manipulate nearly any situation to his favor. I’m betting after five minutes with Max, neither the ambassador nor the other two hostages would have considered not cooperating. Because Max probably leaned heavily but oh-so-subtly on the concept that not cooperating would make them look as if they were connected to the Extremists who kidnapped sweet little Amy Moore. So there they go, whisked off to a safe hotel room where they can’t make any phone calls or communicate with anyone, where they’re locked in and placed under twenty-four-hour guard. But because Max is Max, they’re happy to be there and even though it’s probably going to take four days longer than anyone anticipated, they’re going to leave thanking him. Why don’t you sit down and take a load off?”
It took Sam several seconds to realize Cassidy had aimed that last question at him.
Alyssa turned her head to look up at him, but then looked quickly away.
“Sorry,” Sam said. “I was just . . . you know . . .”
“Eavesdropping?” Cassidy asked cheerfully. “It might’ve worked better if you’d actually tried to hide behind the couch.”
Alyssa was still leaning back against the sofa cushions, but somehow she was no longer relaxed.
“I wanted to know how Meg was doing,” Sam admitted.
“She was extremely upset when the news came down about that terrorist’s prior with a school bus, but she’s sleeping now,” Alyssa reported, still not looking at him.
Wasn’t this nice? They were able to have a civilized conversation, an exchange of information, without someone getting pissed off and needing to leave the room.
“Where was Nils during this?” Sam asked.
“He was in a meeting with Lieutenant Paoletti,” Alyssa told him. “I don’t know what about.”
Sam did. “He was probably requesting leave, arguing that his relationship with Meg was making it impossible for him to concentrate on the things he’s supposed to be concentrating on. He’s such a Boy Scout.”
Alyssa dared to glance up at him. “I thought you two were friends.”
“We are,” Sam said. He smiled. “And he’s only a Boy Scout some of the time. The rest of the time, he’s the most devious son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”
“Which, naturally, you see as a plus.”
If he’d wanted to, he could’ve let that comment sting. Instead he rolled it off his back. He was too tired to fight. “Absolutely.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”
If it had been Alyssa asking that instead of Cassidy, Sam would’ve stuck his butt in a chair. But she wasn’t joining in, asking him to stay. In fact, she had her eyes closed now.
“Nah, I’m on my way out of here. Wolchonok got me reassigned to a room that’s a little more private than Grand Central Station, and I’m planning to be unconscious in about five minutes, so . . .”
He picked up his bag, glanced again at Alyssa. “See ya,” Sam said.
“Later,” Cassidy replied.
Alyssa didn’t say a word, didn’t give him even a dim smile, didn’t open her eyes.
She wasn’t asleep, she was just waiting for him to leave.
Frustration rose in a wave around him and Sam forgot about being too tired to fight. “Would it kill you,” he growled, “to pretend to be polite?”
She opened one eye. “To a jerk like you? It might.”
Every single retort that sprang to his lips was unprintable. He might’ve said something unspeakably rude anyway—she pissed him off that much—if the realization hadn’t suddenly hit him.
She really hated him.
She wasn’t kidding, it wasn’t even partially in fun.
Alyssa Locke despised him.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, because he was. Sorry that she felt that way about him, sorry that he’d been unable to resist pushing her buttons every single time they met, sorry for himself because unless hell froze, she wasn’t ever going to smile at him the way she smiled at Jules Cassidy.
She opened both eyes and even sat up, but he didn’t wait around for her to fire another verbal missile at him. He took his bag and left.
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Eight
IT WAS 0422.
Normally Nils wouldn’t have found the fact that it was 0422 to be a problem. It wasn’t the first time he’d been up and out before dawn. But normally when he was up and functioning coherently at 0422, that usually meant he’d gone to sleep a little earlier than 0100.
Yes, he’d gone to bed much too late after being awake for too many days in a row, and the call had come in to the hotel suite much too early, at 0405, waking both Nils and Sam Starrett from a deep sleep.
It had not been a wrong number, as much as Nils had wished it to be.
The FBI wanted to talk to him, pronto. In fact, they were sending a car.
That car—a dark sedan, conspicuous for its lack of conspicuousness—had just dropped him across town at the safe hotel he’d helped bring Meg to just hours earlier.
As Nils was escorted upstairs and into a conference room that held both FBI Team Leader Max Bhagat and Lieutenant Paoletti, he wished he’d taken the time between 0405 and 0407 to shave.
The hotel suite was hopping for the early morning hour. Something was up. Or maybe—and the hair on the back of his neck stood up—something had gone very wrong.
“What’s going on? Where’s Meg?” He looked to Lieutenant Paoletti for answers, but the CO just shook his head.
“Where’s Meg is a very good question.” A bleary-eyed Bhagat motioned for Nils to sit down on the opposite side of the table. “We were hoping you’d be able to help us answer that.”
Christ, the Extremists had grabbed her.
Nils knew he shouldn’t have left her and gone back to his own hotel to sleep. He should have pushed his way into her room despite being told that she’d been given sleeping pills and was fast asleep. After what she’d been through, he should have insisted upon seeing her, insisted upon standing guard beside her bed.
But as angry as he was at himself and at the FBI for letting this happen, he forced his voice to sound calm as he faced Bhagat. “No, sir, I’m afraid I can’t answer any questions. When did Meg’s abduction take place?”
Bhagat exchanged a look with Lieutenant Paoletti.
The lieutenant turned to Nils. “I told them you didn’t have anything to do with this.”
Confusion mixed with frustration and just enough nausea from fear for Meg’s safety and lack of sleep to make him want to grab Paoletti—one of the nicest guys in the world—by the collar of his shirt and shake him hard.
“With what?” he asked instead, his teeth only slightly clenched. “L.T., what the hell’s going on?”
He had a million questions. What time was Meg reported missing? Were there signs of a struggle? Signs of bloodshed or—please, God, no—foul play? Were the FBI tracking her right now?
“You’re right about there having been an abduction.” Bhagat rubbed his eyes. “But Meg wasn’t the abductee, Lieutenant Nilsson. She was the abductor.”
Nils heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. And then they made too much sense.
Paoletti was nodding. “She had a second side arm.”
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