Dangerous Assignment (Aegis Group Book 4) (6 page)

“Omar Natsheh.” The man’s voice was bored. Jordan’s intelligence department hadn’t proven near as exciting for the former spy.

“I have information on a woman named Yael.”

Something squeaked in the background. Hassan could imagine Omar with his feet propped up coming suddenly to life.

“Who is this?” Omar asked. He’d never been a particularly good spy.

“She’s going to set off a bomb. Tonight. If you’re willing to make a trade, I can ensure you capture her.”

“I’m listening…”

The noose was around her neck, now all he had to do was pull.

Abigail strolled around the
perimeter of the suite. The hotel staff had busted butt all day to change it into something that would suit the Smiths’ tastes for this dinner party. It was extravagant, with the complete attention of the hotel’s head chef, plenty of bubbly, music, servers…

No wonder Ethan and Luke were sweating bullets. It was precisely the kind of situation they couldn’t control. There was no way for them to vet the staff or guests, especially since they were denied a guest list.

If she had time to play her role properly, she’d be fretting right along with them. Unfortunately, she’d spent the entire day pulling out her hair, trying to figure out an opening when Luke wasn’t distracting her.

Being near the man scrambled her brains.

She’d thought the solution was working him out of her system. It hadn’t worked. If anything, she’d become some sort of addict, hooked on his smell, the taste of his lips, the feel of his arms around her…

Distractions got people killed.

And Luke was a delicious distraction she couldn’t afford.

Case in point—she should not be peering through the front doors at his ass. She could all too well recall just how muscular he was, the way they felt under her hands when he flexed…

Abigail shook her head.

What was wrong with her?

She’d been undercover for far too long, that was what. She craved human connection. Someone to know her, to touch her in a way that was all her. She wanted it so badly, she’d screwed up.

This morning she could have eliminated Mrs. Smith with no eyewitnesses, no casualties, nothing to weigh on her conscience, but she’d forgotten her secondary weapon. Besides, she wanted both Mr. and Mrs. Smith dead. One was only half of the equation. It wouldn’t do. So she’d waited. And now she might not get another chance. She couldn’t blame it on Luke, though it would be convenient.

What was it about the man?

She positioned herself nearer the entrance and studied the first few guests to arrive. As a bonus, she had a nice view of Luke chatting with more guests on their way into the suite. Three were familiar to her, the others new faces.

If she had no heart, no soul, she’d do it here. Now. With all of these people around. Just blow up the entire suite. But that wasn’t the way she’d been taught. If even one innocent life was at risk, the cost was too great. It was one of the tenets she’d held fast to, even now that she was on her own. So far she’d pulled off a dozen hits with no one the wiser as to who was behind it. At least not that she’d heard, and her network was large. Expanding. It was amazing the kind of information readily available for the right price.

Ethan emerged from the master suite, his gaze sweeping the room.

She stilled, barely daring to breathe.

This might be her chance. When the Smiths came out, if she could get in, rig something in their rooms… There would be too many eyes to place her there. Would it matter? After they were eliminated, what was left? Nothing. She couldn’t go back, only forward. And the future was bleak. Lonely.

Last night she’d felt alive in Luke’s arms…

Worry about getting rid of the Smiths.

She glanced toward the entrance to the suite.

Luke was on the other side.

Last night…she had to stop thinking about it. If she kept this up, she’d lose her head all over again. She’d never felt such…passion. Not like that. It still had the private parts of her mind shaken.

What would it be like to love a man as
herself
?

Though who was she anymore? Did she even know?

Maybe after this, once it was all over with, she could find someone. Settle down. There wouldn’t be a family in her future, not in the traditional sense, but she could have something.

“You’re glaring so hard I think you’re scaring people.” Ethan stopped at her side, hands crossed in front of her.

“Am I?” She schooled her face, easing the muscles, forcing herself to appear calm.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve got everything under control.” He spoke slowly, the double meaning not lost on her.

“You don’t know me.” All across the world, human kindness existed, but never for her. So what did they hope to gain?

Ethan shrugged.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Don’t break Luke.”

She stared at him, puzzling out what that request meant.

“What?” Ethan shrugged. “He’s a good guy.”

“And I’m—what? The Big Bad Wolf?”

“No, I’m just saying, be nice to him. Most women just use him.”

She nodded, as if that made any sense. It didn’t. Luke was a grown man, likely a lot more accustomed to slipping in and out of beds than she was. The man was a charmer. He even had her thinking she could settle down. Have a life. It was completely unlike her. And strange.

Her wordless answer seemed to appease Ethan. He strolled toward the dining area, keeping to the edges of the room.

The suite doors opened and Luke herded in what had to be the last two guests for the evening.

She stilled an instinctive shudder.

The man was talented. His hands…

She swallowed.

Eye on the prize.

She had a goal. And sadly, it was not to spend another night in his bed.

The dinner would begin in roughly ten minutes. She checked her watch to be sure. What were the chances she could slip into her room, extract the explosives and detonator from the hair dryer she’d outfitted to transport them, and rig something up in the couple’s room?

Low.

The chances were always low.

The Smiths stuck to their hotels. One of them was always in line of sight of their suite. No one went in or out without them observing or supervising it.

Despite their frivolous appearance, they were careful.

It was why she’d left them for last. Because she couldn’t identify a good enough opening. They surrounded themselves with people, changed out their staff, and kept an eye on everyone.

This was not going well.

Tomorrow, without a doubt, the Smiths would slip out, leaving Ethan, Luke and herself at the hotel. She’d have to dump this alias and figure something else out. Already she’d discarded the idea of a hit due to the constant presence of bodyguards. Who knew if the people they’d next hire were like Luke or Ethan? Good men caught up in a job they didn’t want to do.

No, she couldn’t take that risk.

Which meant it had to be done tonight.

She’d find a way.

“Hey, beautiful, what’s on the menu?” Luke’s nearness spurred deep yearnings. The kind of desires that got a woman in trouble.

She tilted her head to the side, glancing up at him. Her breath caught in her throat, somehow managing to also feel like five pounds of added weight.

“Me-n-u?” He grinned.

The line was so bad it was funny. She chuckled and shook her head.

“I got you to smile,” he said.

“You have the uncanny ability.” She allowed herself the smile. It was hard not to when a man like Luke looked at her as if she were desirable.

“What do you think our chances of getting some of that are?” Luke jerked his head toward the small galley kitchen, where the head chef was whipping up something that smelled amazing.

“Not very likely.”

“Damn.” Luke shook his head.

Abigail watched the guests assemble around the table. Ethan stood behind Mrs. Smith, her chair in hand.

This was Abigail’s opportunity. The Smiths had their backs to the suite. She should be able to get to her room and sneak the explosives into the master. But first, Luke needed something to do that wasn’t anywhere near her. When this happened, she wanted both men to be—without question—innocent. If the authorities were going to blame someone, it needed to be her.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” She looked up at his dark eyes, so trusting and open. This was the hardest part about covert work. Fooling those around her into believing the lies she had to spoon feed them. What would he think if he knew the truth? He’d probably hate her on principle.

“I can hold down the fort.” He gave her a little salute.

She chuckled. As much as she wanted to keep him to herself, embrace her greediness, when this was over, she’d never see him again. People around her died, and Luke? She wanted him to live. He’d seen the horrors of the world and war, and still he smiled. A man like that was a gift.

Abigail strode toward her room.

She heard it first.

The click. An almost unidentifiable sound. Except Abigail had heard it a thousand times. Even in a crowded room, she’d know that sound.

She caught sight of a burst of light, part of the detonator sparking out of the corner of her eye, then—chaos.

The concussion wave hit her as the booming of the bomb robbed her of her hearing, and even with the split second warning, she was caught as unprepared as the others.

She sailed through the air. The last thing she saw was the ornate carpet before everything went dark.

6.

Hassan cracked his eyes
open, staring at the ugly patterned hall carpet. His ears rang. His body pulsed with the feel of the concussion blast. Yeah, that last pound of C4 had probably been a bad idea, but he’d wanted to be sure it got the job done.

Fuck, that hurt.

He hadn’t gotten clear of the blast in time.

He pushed to his feet, his head still spinning, ears ringing, and glanced over his shoulder. The suite doors were blown off their hinges, and smoke billowed into the hall. His hearing was still sketchy, but he didn’t see any movement.

Any second now, Omar would race up the stairs with the Jordanian police at his back, ready to make an arrest. Hassan had made sure to give them just enough information that they’d be in the area when the blast happened.

He shook his head and stumbled down the hall.

It was time to stop being Hassan.

He made it to his room, swiped the card and stepped into the suite. He stripped the uniform off and tossed it into a trash bag near the door. A quick rinse in the shower dislodged the worst of the debris and dust, plus it loosened the spirit gum holding the wing in place. For the first time in days, he pried the too-shaggy head of hair off his scalp and threw it in the general vicinity of the garbage.

The whole room needed to be turned over before he could extract himself, but if he were lucky, he could melt into the crowds in the mass exodus that was about to happen.

He towel-dried and hurriedly dressed in the expensive suit, cramming the rings onto his fingers, and bagging up what he needed to dispose of, what he was keeping and the rest could stay.

All in all, fifteen minutes later—he was no longer Hassan.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Mr. Refai?”

He flexed his neck, twisting it a bit until it popped.
Ah, that was it.

He was too old for this kind of work, which was why going into business for himself was the way to go.

He crossed to the door and opened it, blinking at the hotel security.

“What the hell is going on?” He frowned and glared at the uniformed man.

“We’re very sorry, Mr. Refai, but we need to ask you to evacuate.”

Over the man’s shoulder the stairwell doors opened and Omar Natsheh, escorted by more security, stormed down the hall.

The evacuation plan was right on schedule…

Luke pushed to his
feet, shaking his head. The blast had his ears ringing so bad he couldn’t hear a thing.

Furniture was overturned. A thick layer of dust lay over everything. People were on the floor. The dining table was on its side, in pieces.

Abigail.

He swung his head to his right.

There.

She lay on her side, her face pinched. He stumbled toward her, his knees a little rubbery. She opened her eyes and pushed up. A deep gash on her forehead trickled blood down over her brow. Chances were high she had a concussion. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear her. Not yet.

She pushed up and was on her feet by the time he picked his way over the furniture toward her.

Again, she spoke, her mouth working slowly, over-exaggerating her speech.

E-th-an.

Ethan.

Shit.

Luke turned, nearly tripping over a bit of rubble. The whole room seemed to dip and spin with him. He must have cracked his head a lot harder than he thought. He glanced up. The ceiling was fractured. Chunks of plaster had fallen off.

He froze.

The entire side of the suite was blown out. Where there’d been a nice set of floor-to-ceiling windows was…nothing.

Fuck the Smiths.

Where was Ethan?

He’d been right behind the couple, holding Mrs. Smith’s chair.

Luke scrambled over furniture, vaulted bits of the kitchen island that’d been blasted apart. The wounded and dying littered the suite. It was war-zone-carnage in a place it didn’t belong. He and Abigail had been just far enough away. Barely. A few feet closer, facing the wrong direction, and they could have been killed on detonation. Standing just around the corner had probably saved their lives.

Could Ethan have moved? Escaped the blast?

Luke began searching the bodies, turning them over, checking for a pulse. No one who’d sat at the table moved. Not a one of them were alive.

Where Ethan should be, where the Smiths had sat…was gone. The floor, the wall, bits of the ceiling. Blown out the side of the hotel.

Luke edged toward the drop off. The floor dipped, sloping precariously toward the ledge.

Below, several cars were crunched, dusted in rubble. There were bodies. Battered and broken.

And one of them was probably Ethan.

Luke sucked in a breath, then another.

Ethan was gone.

He turned, stumbling away from the ledge. People began picking themselves up. He could hear muffled sounds. Their cries for help were whispers to his ringing ears.

He grabbed the nearest body, turning it face up, but the eyes were lifeless. Dead. The next one…he didn’t bother with. The suit was all wrong, and the head wound was a clear indication the person was gone from this world. Of the dinner guests and staff closest to the explosion, there were six bodies left—and none of them were Ethan.

He couldn’t have survived a drop like that, much less the blast.

Ethan was gone.

The thought raked claws over Luke’s insides, shredding him. But he didn’t have time to process that, to grieve. There were injured people to tend to. Possibly another attack. Until Luke knew what was going on, he couldn’t mourn his friend. He didn’t have that luxury.

Luke knew he needed to help the wait staff, what survivors there were, but…
Ethan
. He’d been right there.

They’d patted everyone down. Guests. Hotel staff. They hadn’t let a foot step inside the suite without a thorough screening. They’d searched pockets, bins, even the food—just in case. What had they missed? Where had he gone wrong? How would he tell Ethan’s wife? His son?

This couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t.

Someone grabbed him by the arm. Luke pivoted, fist up—

The security guard held a gun on him.

Luke uncurled his fist, hands up.

He didn’t know the drill here, how the authorities would handle the situation. Jordan was a peaceful country that didn’t get mixed up in the turmoil of the Middle East.

What did he do? Who did he call? Where was Abigail?

More security moved between the survivors, helping some up, others had First Aid kits open, administering what care they could.

The guard jerked his head toward the double doors and lowered his weapon.

Luke nodded, though he could only barely hear and picked his way across the rubble. Was he under arrest? Did they consider him a suspect? He hadn’t liked the Smiths, but he’d done his job to the best of his ability.

He paused at the doors, glancing into Abigail’s room. She stepped out, her jacket gone, a bit of the blood wiped away, but it still dripped down her cheek. A security guard followed her, his weapon trained on her, a bag in hand that Luke recognized. He’d carried it from the plane for her.

Abigail didn’t look at him. Not once.

Shit.

After last night he was certain she was in intelligence or undercover work, something like that. But she couldn’t have set a bomb.

Why was she being held at gunpoint?

Why did security have her luggage?

Did they know who she worked for?

Was she okay?

A hand shoved him forward, and this time he heard the Arabic barked at him.

Luke followed Abigail and her armed guard out of the suite. He turned, catching the guard’s eye.

“Ethan—the other American? I’m looking for him.” He could barely hear himself talk. His ears throbbed, and the ringing split his skull.

Luke drew back the side of his jacket, offering up his firearm. This wasn’t America, and he had to play by their rules. Usually, when he did a job like this on foreign soil, he did his homework. The Smiths had taken that element of preparedness away from him and now he was floundering with no idea what came next.

The guard edged forward and snatched the gun out of the holster.

“I want to find my friend. Ethan,” he said again.

The guard jerked his head.

Luke could only assume he was supposed to follow in Abigail’s wake, that as the bodyguards, they’d be suspect. He quick-stepped to keep up with her. He’d lost Ethan, he couldn’t lose her, too. They had to stick together now.

Christ, Ethan was gone.

He tipped his chin up, staring at the lights overhead.

The loss was too new. He couldn’t allow himself to grieve or even process it because they were not yet out of danger. Until he had confirmation Ethan was gone… He couldn’t go there.

Abigail and Luke were escorted to the first floor and placed in a conference room with only one small window. From the looks of it, this was for staff use only. It lacked the opulence evident in the rest of the hotel.

A guard remained in the room, his eyes focused on Abigail.

“Abigail, what’s going on?” His voice sounded weird, but the temporary hearing loss was abating. He needed to know the whole story. Now. So they could make a plan. Figure out a cover story. Something.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t speak. She stared out of the small window onto the side street.

Could she hear him?

He was just barely beginning to hear again.

Hell, she might as well be a statue.

Was she in shock? He couldn’t see her setting that bomb.

“Abigail, look at me.” He grasped her by the elbow.

She jerked her arm out of his hand, darting a quick glare his way. She was distancing herself from him. Why?

“You’re hurt. Let me look at it.” He held up his hands.

“Don’t,” she said, her tone sharp, her gaze back on the window. “Stay away from me.”

She had to be in shock. He circled her, searching her face for the signs of concussion, but her eyes were clear and focused. She regarded him with none of the warm familiarity they’d found. In fact, she stared at him like
he
was the enemy.

Did she think he was at fault? That he’d set the bomb? Or someone connected to his team was behind this?

The door opened, and a man in uniform entered, flanked by guards, carrying Abigail’s duffle bag.

The two officers circled the table, their assault rifles trained on them.

“Wow, look guys, we were there. We’re victims, too.” Luke held up his hands.

The officers shouldered him aside and grabbed Abigail, shoving her into a seat and handcuffing her to the chair.

“Hey, we can find a solution,” Luke said, pitching his voice above that of the officers and the ringing still threatening to split his skull.

The one in charge looked at him, pointed a finger, and barked an order.

“I can be quiet, but hey, we’re Americans, remember?”

Luke had no control. None. And no way out of this. His best bet was to remind them both Abigail and he were Americans, and hopefully get some help or representation from the embassy. Amman was a huge city. There had to be an American diplomat somewhere nearby.

Jordan was more or less, a peaceful, safe country. This shouldn’t have happened. Maybe if they were somewhere else, but not here.

“Mr. Briar, is it?” The officer in charge glanced at a piece of paper in hand. His voice sounded distant, as though a tunnel separated them.

“Yes, that’s me. Luke Briar. I work for Aegis Group, it’s a security company. I’m a bodyguard—”

“Mr. Briar,” the officer said over Luke. “I would suggest you make haste back to your country as soon as you are released.”

“But Abigail…Ethan—Ethan’s
body
.” That word was hard to get out.

“Abigail. Is that what she told you her name is?” The man spoke English too well to be a common officer. Who was he? What did he know about Abigail?

“Abigail, you set that bomb to go off, didn’t you?” The officer pulled a broken hair dryer from her bag and set it on the counter.

There was no mistaking the C4 packed inside for anything except what it was.

Ethan stared at the hair dryer, and then Abigail.

No. No, that couldn’t be right.

She was being set up.

That had to be it.

Or this was an op gone wrong. She had to be CIA. It made sense in ways other explanations hadn’t. Yeah, he’d begun the line of questions as a joke, but in reality she was just too good to be a common bodyguard. So what was she? A government spy sent to eliminate a threat to national security?

He’d believe it.

What she’d said about the Smiths rang true. The little they’d dug up was not good.