“What do you have?” Talib asked as he answered a call from his youngest brother, Faisal. He wasn’t surprised to hear from Faisal, considering that the trouble had originated in America. Faisal headed the Wyoming office of Nassar Security. As a result, he was their go-to person for most things relating to the United States. They’d worked through the night on this one, no different than any other case.
“Barb Almay contacted me,” Faisal said, referring to their head researcher. “She was doing some research for you and hit a sticking point. Tad Rossi was placed under arrest, but she couldn’t get any more information than that. So she called me.”
“Under arrest.” Talib frowned. “And?”
“I pulled some strings here and discovered that the man you’re looking for is now out of the picture.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tad Rossi was arrested yesterday for assault of an elderly woman at a banking machine near the state border of New Hampshire and Maine. The woman fought back and with the help of a passerby, he was restrained and held until police arrived.”
“Good Samaritan?”
“Exactly. You’ll be interested in this—he had a newly issued passport on him as well as a small bag.”
“Needed money for the flight over?”
“My guess,” Faisal said.
“So now he’s, at least for the time being, in a jail cell.”
“Not exactly. He was killed early this morning. Attacked by another prisoner while being transferred from the police holding cells.”
“You’re joking,” Talib said, but it wasn’t a question. Faisal would never joke about something like that. “Do you have anything else on him?”
“Not a lot. He’s been in the States for the last twelve years. Any ties he has in Morocco reveal nothing from this end. You might have a better chance of uncovering something where you are.”
“Thanks, bro,” Talib said as he disconnected. He flipped the phone in his hand as he pondered the situation. Before this news he’d hoped to interrogate Sara’s ex-boyfriend and find out who he’d contracted here. Now, they’d lost that connection. Whoever was here was working alone and the danger had escalated drastically, for the threat was now not only anonymous, but also connected to no known entity. It was reduced, as Sara had described, to a robotic voice on a phone line.
* * *
THE DARKNESS WAS just beginning to thin as Talib pulled into the parking lot of the Desert Sands Hotel. Shadows shifted across the lot, where only four other vehicles were parked. He knew one was Ian’s—the others, he could only assume belonged to upper management, security, or other, similar such people. He didn’t envy his friend being dealt such a massive hand of trouble, but Ian would persevere and succeed. He always did.
He got out, giving the car door a light push as it closed with a slick precision that didn’t make a sound.
He glanced around.
He was alone. Everything was deadly silent.
There was no parking lot attendant. He frowned. There should have been at least a contracted guard considering everything that had happened.
A breeze ran through the lot. The shadows seemed to shift and then everything was still. He looked around. There was nothing. He was jumpy. Like this was his first case, his first assignment. It was a poor analogy for he’d never been jumpy before, even then, in his youth—in the beginning of his career. He wasn’t sure why he was jumpy now.
He stopped, caught in his own musings.
He had a son.
It was incomprehensible.
The kid would be the first of the next generation in his family. And he’d missed over two years of his life. Something shifted. The shadows seemed to move around him. And, on the horizon, a streak of sunlight cut through the dawn sky, tantalizing, in a way teasing with the fact that soon it would take back the night. But his mind was occupied with other things and he didn’t hear footsteps until he was swinging around, swinging into danger.
He was aware of it immediately, and too late. He should have dumped the thoughts and pulled his gun. That was his first mistake. To say he was overwhelmed was an understatement. But that was no excuse. His mind told him to reach for his gun, his fingers moved as if in that direction. He would have done it, given another second.
He only had enough time to duck as he tried to make out the blur, the shadow of a man coming at him. It was not only too late, but also not enough. The only thing the move did was make sure that the bat his attacker was wielding caught him on the edge of his shoulder instead of the side of his head. He was thrown off balance and had to fight to keep on his feet. The pain that ran through his shoulder was sharp and immobilizing. He could see the bat coming down again. This time he had an arm up as he grabbed the man’s wrist, but it was again too late to stop the bat and he was only able to slow its progress. The bat connected with his upper arm and pain rocketed through him. He twisted the man’s wrist with everything he had, ignoring his own pain, pushing to hear a snap of bone.
But the snap didn’t come and he was in too awkward a position. He let go, unable to hold on any longer. He lost his balance, but caught his fall with one hand—his right, the injured arm. The pain ran up his arm into his throbbing shoulder.
He looked up as he struggled to stand.
Dark hair, wiry, a half head shorter than him but thick and wearing a soft, camel-colored jacket. They were all facts that his brain registered in the muted light that hung somewhere between day and night.
He was sure his attacker didn’t have a gun. He would have shot him by now if he had. That spoke volumes. A small-time crook, a street hood. Quick money. He was being taken out by what appeared to be a rank amateur. But there was little time for pride. Instead, the thoughts were quick and automatic as he struggled to pull his gun.
Again he was too late. The man got a second wind and rushed him. Talib’s hands weren’t as skilled or as quick as usual. His dominant right hand was bruised, temporarily crippled from the earlier blow. Otherwise, he would have taken him down at the outset. Instead, he grabbed his attacker’s arm with his left hand, making him drop the bat, grimaced at his own pain and plowed through it. The bat fell to the pavement and rolled out of reach.
One of the blows had hit the side of his head and he was seeing stars. He had to get it together. He pulled himself upright with a willpower that had seen him through a stint with the Royal Moroccan Army.
This was inconceivable and unthinkable, but the truth was that he’d had his guard down. He deserved all of this and more for his own stupidity. But he needed to get out of this.
But even realizing that, something else occurred to him—he had to fight harder or he was going down. He had let it go too far. The advantage of surprise had been everything for his attacker.
Sara depended on him. The truth of that had him pushing to stand upright.
He managed to get in a few blows of his own and his attacker was struggling. If he could just get control of himself, he knew that he could come out the victor. He didn’t keep himself in peak condition to lose to a street hood. The hours he’d spent in the gym wouldn’t be wasted. His head spun but he forced himself to stand up.
He had an advantage. He was armed, his fuzzy brain reminded him. His attacker wasn’t. The bat still lay a distance away on the pavement. He reached for his gun. That’s when he found himself grabbing air.
This was outrageous.
Then he had his gun in his hand and then somehow he didn’t. It was on the pavement and he wasn’t sure how that had happened, but his hand was stinging like it had been hit. He had no weapon. This was a fight using hand-to-hand combat.
He looked up. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The gun and the bat were still out of reach on the pavement, but his attacker was no longer unarmed. The morning sun was clearing the darkness away, sending streaks of light across the pavement and reflecting off the knife in his hand that glinted for a split second, almost blinding him.
A switchblade.
The realization seemed to change everything. It was like the last push in his army survival training, only it was more immediate than that. This was life or death like he’d never faced before.
Suddenly his head cleared, and the stars were gone. He had one chance here, one chance to live or die. There was no more time for anything but the skills he had and the gut instinct to move in the right direction at the right time. To be offensive or defensive, to make the best choice of either of those options. His weapon was his bare hands and the power of his mind.
The man was rushing him.
He twisted left, away from his attacker, who was swift and lethal despite his smaller size. He was wearing a hoodie and dressed in black, his face indistinguishable from so many others on the street. Talib bent low and came up with the edge of his hand on the man’s already injured wrist.
The man grunted—he’d scored a hit but the switchblade was still tight in his hand and coming at him again. The morning sun was streaking across the pavement, reflecting off the knife in his hand and off his face. There was a hard look in his eyes and an unfocused look in one of them. The glint lasted a second, shifted and almost blinded him.
The man glared at him, the eye connection was brief, a millisecond, no more. But in that look a challenge was laid out. He could see the pain behind the challenge. He’d injured him badly. Still, he held the knife. Now, the switchblade came down again, close, slicing his shirt just below his rib cage as his hand caught the man’s wrist, sending the knife short of its target. The man snarled as he pushed him off balance. That was all the time that Talib needed to gain the advantage.
This time, as the man came in for another attack, he was ready for him. He came in from the side as the knife sliced through air. He had his attacker’s wrist. He twisted and felt a bone crack as the man grunted in pain. The switchblade dropped and Talib’s foot came down on it. At the same time, a knee hit his groin slightly off center, but still sending him reeling. His palm touched the pavement and he saw that his gun was just to his left. He reached and had it.
But his attacker had had enough.
He was already running across the parking lot, holding one arm against his chest. The man was too far away for Talib to have an accurate shot.
“We’ll take your son!” the attacker shouted hoarsely, before he disappeared past the fringes of the lot and into what remained of the night.
The words seemed to echo over and over through the parking lot, or maybe it was through his shell-shocked brain. A son and a threat all at the same time. He ached where no man should ever have to ache. He was immobilized. He lost track of the minutes before he was on his feet and ready to walk.
He was alone. His entire body was bruised and he knew that he would feel the effects for a while. He hadn’t been bruised up this bad in a long time.
He looked around, getting his bearings, making sure that he wasn’t going to be assaulted again in a surprise attack. Nothing moved.
He stood there for a moment just taking breaths, combing the shadows as if somewhere on the edges of the pavement his attacker still lurked.