A Shot Worth Taking (Bad Karma Special Ops Book 3) Page 3

  Within minutes, the colonel confirmed his suspicions. Every hair on Tony’s body rose to attention as he stared at the surveillance photos of Samir al-Shehri on the wall screen. He’d shaved his traditional beard and wore Western-style clothing. It altered his appearance enough that, using a forged passport, he’d slipped through Canadian customs. How many hours had passed before a match triggered the potential terrorist alert?

  The colonel tapped on the tablet, and the board switched to a photo of al-Shehri getting into a cab. “This is the last photo—or sighting—Homeland Security has of him. They’re expanding the search, but not a single hit yet.”

  Of course not. It was like fog. You could see it in the distance but seemed to dissipate when you got close.

  Beside Tony, Rozanski swore under his breath.

  If only we’d nailed al-Shehri’s sorry ass in Kandahar.

  Dita hadn’t found anyone hiding in the tunnel. Or the bunker under the house. They found explosive components, four AK-47s, and five crates of ammunition, but they hadn’t found any intelligence data. There hadn’t been any more sightings of al-Shehri in Kandahar or anywhere else—until now. Damn. Obviously, it didn’t take as much to get past customs and airport security as it should.

  Tony ran his index finger down his nose. The bruises and swelling were gone, and five weeks post-surgery, his face appeared normal—to most people.

  He hadn’t gotten used to his perfectly straight nose. The colonel was right. It did make sense that while fixing his nose—so he could breathe again—for the surgeon to make some minor changes. A few tweaks to modify his profile enough to fool facial recognition programs. Hopefully, he could get back into Egypt and Morocco now. Oh, and Libya. Though the intel-guys should run a test to make sure it worked before he tried to slip back into Libya. With Special Ops, he never knew where he might end up. His team only worked on US soil in unique circumstances—and their experience and knowledge of al-Shehri could sure as hell be useful now.

  “We’re operating under the assumption that al-Shehri has, or will, cross into the States. He’ll likely skip the border checks by taking a boat across Lake Ontario to Rochester, or Lake Erie near Buffalo.”

  Shit. The colonel’s statement jabbed Tony like a sucker punch in the stomach.

  He couldn’t risk breaking operational security to tell his family or old friends now might be a good time to take a vacation to Kansas or Montana. Dammit. He pushed those thoughts away to focus on the colonel’s briefing.

  That worked for like thirty seconds.

  No point in attacking a low-value target like Buffalo, unless al-Shehri had a grudge against the Bills—not a likely scenario even after another dismal season. New York City or D.C. would have a higher impact.

  They had no clue what al-Shehri’s plans were, but Tony knew he sure as hell hadn’t come to see Niagara Falls.

  Despite thoughts of Samir al-Shehri running through her head more often than political ads aired in an election year, Angela managed to concentrate on the tasks required of her at the gallery. Skipping lunch since she hardly had an appetite—a rarity for her—she wrapped up early. She tapped on Nathan LeBlanc’s office door. When he glanced up from the oversized computer screen displaying several metal sculptures, she stepped in.

  “I sent an invoice and money transfer instructions to the buyer in Hamburg. I also left a voice mail for the gallery in Cannes, with their shipment update and customs claim number.” She spoke each word clearly, in the manner associated with someone communicating in a second language.

  “You’re amazing. I don’t know what I did without you.”

  She flashed a modest smile. “You managed quite well. However, I am more accurate than online translations sites. You’re the art expert.”

  Nathan’s inability to communicate with the surge of interested foreign buyers—some real, some fictitious—made it ridiculously easy for her to get a job at the gallery with her fluency in several European languages. The part-time job provided the perfect cover and inroads for her current assignment.

  She enjoyed this side “job” more than she’d anticipated and admired Nathan’s eye for art. She wouldn’t mind his help picking out a painting for her apartment back in D.C. after this assignment wrapped. Soon. If tonight went as planned, she wouldn’t return to this up-and-coming gallery. She could wrap things up in a few days, be out of New York, and back to her friends and pragmatic life in D.C. doing her regular job.

  “Unless there’s anything else you need, I’ll be leaving for the day.”

  Nathan pursed his lips. “That’s all for now. Have a nice evening, Sabine.”

  “Adieu,” she added in Sabine’s refined French accent. Yes, hopefully, tonight will be the end of playing the submissive-Sabine persona. Time to get back to her home turf.

  Angela took a seat at the rear of the subway car, then observed the occupants in the same discreet manner as always. While she didn’t recognize any faces around her, that didn’t mean anything. At this point, she couldn’t afford to slip out of character. Her covert experience kept her alive, despite the half-million-dollar bounty the Vazquez family had on her life—or more accurately, her death—and had gotten her up close and semi-personal with Anmar Hakim after the Bureau’s other failed attempts. Diligence. She should have made that her middle name. Too late now, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to change her name again.

  The energy that thrummed through her body kept her alert.

  By the time she transferred lines and took the short walk to her cramped one-bedroom apartment, her expectations for tonight had climbed to a nine. With al-Shehri possibly crashing the party, she refrained from getting overconfident.

  In her mailbox, she found the package she’d expected from the Bureau. After working together in Afghanistan, Jarrod should trust her to get the job done her way. She climbed the stairs carrying the nauseous sensation that came from wanting a do-over in life. Only you don’t get do-overs once you pass adolescence. What you got were you-know-better-than-to-repeat-that-shit life experiences.

  Inside her apartment, she opened the envelope and inspected the pair of large silver earrings. A “stone” was inset in the pattern. They were well-crafted with a wire the same deep brown as her hair. No valid excuse to refuse to wear them came to mind—other than if Hakim discovered the wire, he wouldn’t hesitate to turn her over to the people he employed. While Hakim himself didn’t pose a threat, some of his associates wouldn’t mind dealing with a spy. She shoved the thought aside.

  As crucial as this op was to Jarrod—how the hell had he risen to supervisory special agent already?—she had to believe he had good reason other than micro-managing to make her wear a two–way wire. It’s not like she was averse to risk. However, there were two kinds of self-preservation: preservation of your life and preservation of your moral integrity. Both mattered to her, while Jarrod proved he only cared about the first. And his own preservation over anyone else’s.

  After changing into a high-neck dress, she pulled the sleeves down to cover her wrists. With almost every inch of her skin covered, it left everything to a man’s imagination. She clasped a silver chain around her neck. The oblong pendant hung above the curve of her breasts. She’d chosen the necklace to draw Hakim’s gaze and make him use his imagination about what lay beneath the forest-green fabric.

  She sent a text before inserting the first ornate earring into her right lobe. Double-checking the other earring, she used her clear-glossed fingernail to nudge on the tiny power switch, then fastened the post and wrapped the wire behind her ear, inserting the listening piece.

  “You there, Cal?” She arranged her hair to cover the thin filament wire. “Talk to me.”

  “You want me to tell you that your eyes are more beautiful than a goat’s to get you in the mood for tonight’s date?” The familiar voice of FBI Special Agent Michael Weiss, instead of Cal, came through her earpiece seconds later.

  “No.” She bit her tongue to keep from pointing out how offe
nsive that comment came across. Be a team player. Be a team player. Working undercover required the same disciplines, whether it was for the Bureau or the Agency. You didn’t take the trash talk seriously, especially when she needed to trust these guys to have her back. Trusting others, however, wasn’t her strongest attribute. It worked out about half the time. Jarrod Carswell happened to be in the half that did not work. “Where’s Calomiris?”

  “He’s talking to Carswell. Audio is great.”

  Since joining the Bureau, the assignments where she’d stepped out of her linguist role to go undercover had all worked out. She needed to bank on continuing that track record. Crashing a few embassy parties were minor, and the agents in charge had given her latitude to do things her way. Jarrod knew her history, her track record. That’s why his micromanagement grated her nerves.

  “I’m ready.” If she’d known she’d be working with Jarrod when the New York office asked for her help on this case, would she have passed? Maybe. It was her own fault. Her ego kept her from asking questions when the Bureau needed her unique skills. It seemed easy enough. Cozy up to Hakim to get solid evidence of his involvement financing terrorist activities. It wasn’t that different from getting the inside track on a drug or arms dealer’s operation. You just needed the right connection.

  Finding the right connection to get close to Hakim definitely provided a challenge. But she’d done it. Because everyone had a soft spot or weakness—even if they didn’t know it. The key was finding it, then exploiting it. Jarrod had taught her that lesson—by finding her soft spot.

  She rearranged her hair to better camouflage the wire. Her smile looked forced. Her history with Jarrod could be to blame for making her skittish—like the way a normal person reacted after hearing an unidentified noise in the middle of the night.

  Be prepared for anything, but don’t obsess on what could go wrong. She and the team of FBI agents could do this. Her past and upbringing were why the Bureau first pulled her from linguistics to infiltrate the bad-ass Coyotes biker gang. When that assignment turned up leads on stolen military weapons, she requested back up rather than try to handle it on her own—not that she’d expected the Bureau to send in an Army Special Ops team.

  She’d accepted their help, and those guys quickly earned her loyalty, in large part because they’d listened to her input and trusted her skills, even without knowing her background with the Agency. “Jake,” with his chiseled biceps and delicious sense of humor, had watched over her back then. No point in going there, though. That fantasy ended when that mystery man disappeared back into his Special Ops world.

  She stood straighter, tilting up her chin and staring at her reflection, then slid a silver bracelet over her wrist. Until this morning, she wanted to gather enough evidence to put Hakim behind bars, so she could get out of New York City and back home. But Hakim could lead them to Samir al-Shehri, and bringing him in would be a nice little “up yours” to Al-Qaeda and the Agency. There was so much riding on tonight. On her abilities.

  No pressure.

  Three

  The hostess led Angela, trailed by Hakim, through the dimly lit restaurant. Hakim hadn’t canceled dinner, and on the cab ride to the restaurant, he acted normal—for him. Cal and Weiss were in place, and everything was going according to plan.

  Square tables for four filled the center of the room, with round tables for larger parties nestled in specially designed alcoves. Along the perimeter, narrow rectangular tables backed up to a booth seat. Her eyes moved left to right, perusing the diners’ faces. A man with short, Nordic-blond hair seated at a table in the back dragged a memory into the light of day. A large floral arrangement blocked her from getting a better view.

  The hostess led Hakim to a booth. Not her first choice, but it allowed her a prime view of the dining room, so she slid in. Taking the menu from the hostess gave her a chance to check out the blond man’s profile. Thank goodness Hakim didn’t see her do a double take when she noticed the blond’s dining companion.

  Her heart raced, and it took a concentrated effort to control her breathing. While Hakim studied his menu, she cut her eyes to the table at the back of the restaurant again.

  It wasn’t her imagination. The six-and-a-half-foot blond was memorable enough, but it was “Jake” she recognized most after two years. Tonight, his black hair was short and styled. Clean-shaven and in a navy suit and yellow tie, he bore little resemblance to his Harley-riding, ex-con character, Jake, from their Texas assignment. But she recognized the deep-brown eyes. The way he sat. The intense way he stared at Hakim. Based on the pair’s scrutiny, they knew exactly who Hakim was.

  When Jake’s gaze shifted to her, she squelched her instinct to wink. Instead, she lifted her eyebrows enough to convey she recognized him. His eyes widened, and he broke into a smile that made her stomach flip. He spoke to his team leader. She made out his mouth forming the name Hakim before he turned his face enough that she couldn’t read his lips.

  She shifted her attention away, to Hakim, then to her menu. Get a grip. One look at Jake had her forgetting her mission and her heart doing a sensual dance, sending blood and energy south.

  What were they doing here? The Bureau wouldn’t call them in for backup without alerting her. Operating on different mission plans could get tricky. And messy. Great. Okay. She could make this work—if she could get a minute alone with one of them. Preferably, Jake. And she knew exactly how to communicate that to him.

  After giving Hakim another minute to read over the menu, Angela asked, “Any recommendations?”

  Hakim, a self-proclaimed foodie, began his usual line-item analysis of the menu. He paused when the waiter arrived and listened to the specials. That gave her the opportunity to flash a T in sign language to Jake under the edge of the table. Jake caught the movement. She repeated it, then flashed the number seven. A peek toward him garnered his nod of acknowledgment.

  “Would you care for a drink or an appetizer?” The waiter’s gaze brushed over her to land on Hakim.

  “I would like a cup of hot tea. And …” He hesitated long enough to give her the opening she needed.

  “Would you care to share the seafood plate?” She gave a shy, hopeful smile.

  Hakim’s mouth tightened, clueing her in it wasn’t his first choice, but it made her plan plausible. “That will be fine,” he said to the waiter.

  “I’ll put that order in while you look over the menu.”

  Though it didn’t take long to pick what she wanted, she stared intently at the menu—not at Jake—and ran through scenarios to get to her outcome. Her prior apprehension faded simply by having Jake and his boss in the room. By the time the waiter came to take their order, she’d come up with her tentative game plan. A direction the Bureau might not love, but it was her ass on the line.

  Jake disappeared down the hall to the restrooms. Time to make this work.

  “Excuse me. I’m going to slip to the ladies’ room before the appetizer comes.”

  Hakim stood while she rose. She needed to break him of those gentlemanly habits for tonight to come to fruition, though she’d brought insurance.

  “We’ve got company.” She kept the movement of her lips to a minimum and spoke softly as she passed the tables of diners.

  “Al-Shehri?” The excitement in Special Agent Calomiris’ voice shrilled in her ear.

  “No. JSOC.”

  “What the …? This can’t be happening,” Special Agent Weiss grumbled.

  “We cannot let some military Special Ops group pick up Hakim now,” Cal stated the obvious.

  “I’m on it. Give me a minute to deal with them.” She turned the corner, and Jake stepped inside the restaurant’s unisex, handicapped bathroom. Perfect. She caught the door before it closed and slipped inside, locking it behind her.

  “You clean up nice.” She looked him over and got another jolt of arousal.

  “Thanks. You, too. Almost didn’t recognize you.” Jake’s eyes drifted downward, though the conservati
ve dress didn’t invite the same heated perusal her more revealing biker attire had.

  “I noticed you seemed more interested in my date.”

  “We hoped Hakim might be meeting someone else.”

  “Al-Shehri? Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “No offense to you.”

  “None taken.” She understood a shot at al-Shehri trumped everything—even any naughty fantasies about Jake. “Looks like we’re after the same men. Our bosses should talk more. Could have saved you a trip.”

  “You have intel connecting them?”

  “Not yet.”

  Jake’s mouth shifted, and he studied her with a hopeful expression.

  “Since we’re all here and want to keep the same individuals from inflicting terror around the planet, we could work together,” she said.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” Weiss roared in her ear.

  She winced and turned her head.

  Jake chuckled and stepped closer. “Your team protesting that idea?”

  “How could you tell?”

  He touched her cheek near the earring and probably saw the wire.

  She turned her face toward his hand, prolonging his touch for another precious second. “You know how it goes.”

  While their higher-ups preached interagency cooperation, experience demonstrated that talk and reality were two different things. Egos and jurisdictional conflicts led to posturing and power plays that didn’t always make for the best working relationships.

  She’d been surprised when the Bureau tasked a military team to join her investigation in Texas and more surprised when Jake and his team hadn’t been the take-control alpha males she’d feared.

  “How long have you been working Hakim?” He kept his tone businesslike.

  “Me? Two months. The Bureau, a lot longer.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “Hoping to get lucky. Have him invite me back to his place so I can copy his hard-drive and gather intel.”