Flashpoint (24 page)

“How many of you are there?” Sophia asked. She couldn’t get a sense. And she wasn’t going to take off this veil—or let go of her gun—until she had a better explanation for “Who’s ‘we’?” than “Friends.”

“There are five of us,” Tess told her.

Michel Lartet had been Dimitri’s friend.

Sophia stopped walking, and Tess, no doubt astute enough to realize she needed more reassurance, moved in front of her again.

“You’ve met me,” Tess said, “and Dave, and there’s Murphy and Nash and . . .”

The ghost of an odd look crossed her face. It was little more than a hesitation, but it was enough to push Sophia over the edge and into deep suspicion. Especially since Dave’s words from out in the yard came back to her with a rush—
We’ve got everything we need to darken your hair. . . .

How did he know she was blond? He’d never seen her—not even once—without her burka and veil. And Tess spoke to her as if she knew who she was, yet Dave had never known her as anything but Miles Farrell.

“And Decker,” Tess was saying, but Sophia spoke right over her.

“Tell your
friends
not to touch me—tell them to move back!” Her voice came out sounding very sharp.

Tess looked behind Sophia. “Give her space,” she warned whoever was back there, before speaking to Sophia. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Yeah, but if I don’t get some answers, I’m going to hurt
you
,” Sophia told her, bringing her gun up and out. It flashed—a reflection from the lamp overhead—as she aimed it at Tess.

“Nash—don’t!” Tess barked. She looked back at Sophia, her hands held out slightly in front of her but down low, reassuringly. She completely ignored the gun. “Sophia, what questions do you want answered?”

Screw this veil. It made it impossible to see—and this Tess woman had just answered one of her biggest questions: Did they know who she really was?

Apparently, yes.

“Tell your
friends
to move—slowly!—to where I can see them,” Sophia ordered as she pulled off her veil with one swift yank. “Tell them if they get too close, I
will
shoot you. Tell them to keep their hands in sight.”

She’d been sweating beneath her burka, and her hair was soaked and sticking to the sides of her head, to her face.

“No one’s going to hurt you,” Tess was repeating.

“Shit, Dave,” she heard one of the men say—not Murphy, but another. “You didn’t check her for weapons?”

“Sophia, listen to me,” Tess said, her smile long gone. “We’re not officially connected to any government organization—U.S. government, that is. We’re civilians.”

Dave and Murphy and another man—movie-star handsome, with dark, wavy hair—moved into view. They were carefully keeping their hands where she could see them.

“I was rescuing her,” Dave said. “I didn’t think I had to—”

The movie star let loose a string of unprintable words. “Tess, for Christ’s sake, at least move back!”

“We’re Americans,” Tess continued, moving not at all, “who work for a private company which is, in turn, contracted by the U.S. Government. We want to help you, Sophia. We’re going to get you out of Kazbekistan.”

It sounded good. It sounded better than good. But how did she know it wasn’t just a story they’d made up? An attempt to get her to go—compliantly—to Bashir’s palace.

The movie star kept his hands in sight, and still moving slowly, he stepped directly in front of Tess, putting his body between her and Sophia’s gun. Some of the tension left his handsome face. “Decker
said
she was armed.”

“Decker,” Sophia repeated. Tess had said the fifth member of their group was named Decker.

“What was I supposed to do, Nash?” Dave was pissed. “Force her to surrender her weapons? Or maybe you think I should have knocked her onto the concrete and cuffed her there at the Tea Room? Heck of a way to reassure her she was safe.”

“If you’re going to stand in front of me, don’t talk
about
her, talk
to
her.” Now Tess was angry, too.

But only four people stood in front of Sophia. “Where’s this Decker?” She looked toward the corner, where she’d caught a glimpse of that man when she’d first come in. He’d moved closer, his hands up, but he was still in shadow.

“I’m Decker,” he said, in a voice she’d heard before. It was . . . No, it couldn’t be.

But he stepped into the light, and it most certainly was. “If you have to aim that weapon at someone, Sophia, aim it at me.”

“You,” she breathed. It was indeed the American. From Lartet’s bar.

From this morning at the Français.

Oh, God.

Ah, God.

During their scuffle this morning, Decker had given Sophia Ghaffari a black eye.

And, from the way she was standing, left arm wrapped around her torso as if holding herself together, he’d probably also broken one or two of her ribs.

“Remember this morning, when I said that I wanted to help you?” he asked her now.

She didn’t move. She just stared at him.

“I meant it,” he told her. “I still mean it. I’m going to help you. But you’ve got to help me a little here, too—you’ve got to start by lowering your weapon before you accidentally hurt one of my friends.”

Sophia glanced over at Nash, who was still shielding Tess—bless him.

Decker wanted that sidearm pointed in a different direction
now
. It was a small enough caliber, but at close range it could really do some damage.

But Sophia didn’t lower the damn thing, and Nash didn’t back off. In fact, if Decker knew Nash—and Decker did—he was about to move
toward
both Sophia and that little handgun.

Decker held up one hand, a silent order to Nash and the rest of the team to keep back. Wrestling Sophia to the floor of the barn would certainly give them possession of her weapon. But there definitely was a better way to do this.

One that didn’t include Murphy sewing shut the latest extra hole in Nash’s body.

“Think, Sophia,” Deck told her. “If we were going to hand you over to Bashir, we would have done it already. I mean, why bring you back here? Why not just have Bashir’s men pick you up at the Tea Room?”

It was a damn good question.

“I don’t know.” As she looked up at him again, he saw what most people would think were mere tears in her eyes. But he recognized it for what it really was.

Hope.

Thank God.

He kept talking. “You know, I busted my ass trying to find you again.” He nodded at the questions he could read on her face. “Yeah, I did. We all did. Tess, in particular, deserves some serious overtime pay. But truth is, it was dumb luck—Dave knowing you. You knowing Dave.” He paused, letting that sink in, then pushed it. “You never had reason to mistrust him before, did you?”

She shook her head.

Come on, Sophia, lower that weapon. . . . “Dave, tell her we’re not going to let Padsha Bashir anywhere near her,” Decker ordered, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Bashir will never so much as
touch
you again, so help me God.” Dave’s normally flat voice rang with emotion, and Decker realized that the former CIA operative must have had detailed knowledge of what the rest of them could only imagine—just what it had been like for Sophia to live in Bashir’s palace for all those weeks.

“You’re safe now,” Tess said softly.

The tears in Sophia’s eyes were dangerously close to the overflow point.

“Lower your weapon,” Deck told her. “And please put the safety back on. Keep it holstered—both of your weapons—will you? At least while you’re here with my team.”

And with that—the fact that he wasn’t asking her to surrender her weapons—he won.

As she lowered the damn thing, tears slid down her face. He wanted to cry, too.

Instead he kept on talking. “I have no idea if you’ve had any training in the handling of this type of weapon,” he told her. “But it’s been my experience that ignorance—or even lack of experience—plus firearms often results in accidents of the very fatal kind.”

“I’m good,” she said, using one hand to quickly wipe her face. “I usually don’t miss.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

She really knew how to deliver a convincingly brilliant Brave Little Soldier.

Decker shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m the one who should apologize to you.”

What was it about this woman that pushed all his warning buttons? Before they’d located her, he’d been worried damn near sick. How could he have mistrusted her? How could he have missed reading what must’ve been pure fear? What was wrong with him? And how the fuck had he let things get so completely out of hand between them?

But now that she was here, he was picking up all kinds of weird vibes. She was still afraid—maybe of him, of them all, of being caught. He wasn’t sure of exactly what. But he
was
sure that she was playacting again.

She was presenting herself to him—to them all—as the person she thought they wanted her to be.

Jesus, she fascinated him.

Which was the answer to the question,
How the fuck had he let things get so completely out of hand?

“I didn’t know who you were,” Decker told her now. “This morning. I couldn’t be sure that you didn’t work for Bashir or one of the other warlords. I apologize for . . . hurting you, but I’m sure you can understand my need for caution.”

As far as apologies went, that one was completely lame. An apology shouldn’t include a “but.”

Decker tried again. “Sophia, I am truly sorry for—”

She crumpled. She just went down, onto the floor. Decker didn’t see it coming—he’d been watching her, and there was no indication at all that she was going to faint.

Before he could so much as blink, Murphy had scooped her into his arms.

“Bring her back this way,” Tess ordered, reaching up to take the lamp down from the hook.

When Decker moved to follow, Nash blocked him.

“Let Tess,” he said.

Tess saw Sophia’s eyelids flutter as Murphy set her down on several bales of hay they’d dragged into the empty stall. The wooden half walls made it slightly more private than the rest of the barn. They’d brought in the team’s first aid kit and a bucket of rainwater for washing. It was part medical examination room, part bathing area.

“I can do it,” Sophia said, pushing Murphy’s hands away from her robe. She looked up at Tess. “I don’t want you in here.”

“I think you should let Murphy stay and look you over, especially since you fainted,” Tess pointed out, ignoring the fact that the other woman obviously meant that as a plural
you
.

But Sophia sat up. She didn’t seem at all dizzy or groggy. If anything, it was her side that was hurting her. Her ribs. It was as if simply breathing hurt her.

Poor Deck. He’d surely noticed that, too. And the look in his eyes when he saw that bruise on Sophia’s face . . .

He seemed to have forgotten the fact that Sophia had tried to kill him. Avoiding a bullet in the head seemed justification for a bruise or two.

“I didn’t faint,” Sophia said to Tess. “Not really. It just seemed like the easiest way to end the conversation. I was afraid he was going to apologize right in front of everyone for—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “Clothes, water, antibacterial ointment,” she said instead, gesturing to the supplies that were laid out. “I’ve got everything I need—I don’t need help.”

“What’s best for a broken rib?” Tess asked Murphy.

“Really,” Sophia said.

He shrugged. “Time and rest,” he told Tess. “And a definite ban on Farrelly brothers movies. Laughing hurts like a bitch.”

“I’ll keep the jokes to a minimum,” Tess said.

“Although some people claim it feels a little better with an Ace bandage wrap,” he told her. “It’s worth a try. Not too tight, though.”

She nodded. “I’ll call you if we need you.”

“You sure?” he asked, his worry for her in his eyes. Sophia was still carrying a weapon. Or two.

Tess smiled at him. “Go.”

“I don’t want either of you to stay,” Sophia said as Tess rummaged through the first aid kit, searching for the Ace bandages.

Her back to Sophia, Tess waited until Murphy was out of earshot before turning to face the other woman. “You could probably use help bandaging your feet,” she said. “And I know you can’t wrap that rib by yourself.”

Despite the sweat and grime, Sophia Ghaffari was remarkably beautiful. It was her nose that completely made her face. It was slightly too large and somewhat uniquely shaped—just enough to change her from girlishly sweet to regal Queen of the Faeries. Heart-shaped face, clear blue eyes, baby-smooth skin, delicately graceful mouth . . .

Okay, don’t think about where Sophia Ghaffari’s mouth had been.

Sophia was examining Tess’s face just as intently. “You have quite the little fan club,” she said.

Tess smiled. “They do tend to be overprotective.”

“For good reason. They don’t call Kazbekistan ‘the Pit’ for nothing,” Sophia told her. “Is that ring you’re wearing for real? Because a wedding ring doesn’t offer the same amount of protection here that it used to. In fact, you might be safer taking it off.”

“It’s real,” Tess told her. Decker had thought it best not to share all their secrets with Sophia. “And it’s crazy, really. I just got married—I’m in way over my head.”

“Not to Dave, I hope. He’s just too cute. I’ve got him at the very top of my short list of second husbands—third. Third husbands.” Sophia laughed. “Although maybe he’d rather wait to be number five or six. Maybe by then I’ll get it right—figure out a way to keep ’em from dying on me.”

How could she make a joke about that? “No, not Dave,” Tess said.

“And it’s definitely not Murphy. The vibe I got from him was more devoted friend.” Sophia said. “That leaves Decker and what’s his name. Mr. I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt.”

“Jim. It’s Jimmy,” Tess told her, even as Sophia continued to talk.

“Can you believe that out of all of the great music produced each year in the U.S., that song, along with ‘YMCA’ and ‘Achy Breaky Heart,’ continued to be the top requested karaoke CDs right up until the bars were shut down? My husband owned an import business—music, books, movies, clothes. Pretty much anything American. Pop-Tarts. He brought in a shipment of Pop-Tarts once, made a killing. A real killing.”