Double Down (11 page)

“Tyka,” he said, “this is incredible. I mean, what the fuck is this? I'm positive we've found the missing piece of the puzzle.”

“Let me take care of you, Mahmoud,” Tyka said, trying to wash some of the blood off his face. “Then we'll figure out where we go next.”

“We need to get to Queens,” he said excitedly, starting to get up, “right now, as soon as possible—there's no time to waste!”

“Mahmoud,” she said, pressing a gentle hand to his chest. “We'll charter a plane and leave shortly. But we need to get you bandaged up first.”

“I'm fine,” he said, wincing as he moved. “Really.”

Now she used more force. “Mahmoud. Not yet. Let me take care of you.” She used a stronger hand to hold him down and looked him straight in the eyes. Something had happened to her since she'd stormed out of the after-hours café, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She'd felt this feeling only once or twice before in her life . . . when she ran away from her mother, and when Spliff and Gabriella were killed. She'd been heartbroken.
That was it.
Her heart had been broken.

And now it seemed Mahmoud had almost broken it, too.

But he hadn't. In fact, it wasn't him at all;
she'd
nearly broken her own heart. He was there, waiting, ready for what came next. Looking at him stretched out before her on the bed, she could feel it as truth. He'd crept inside her heart, and there was precious little she could do about it.

“Why are you looking at me that way, Ms. Tyka?” he asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

She laughed. “Maybe I have. Now settle down, and let me make you better.”

“I know how you can make me better,” he said with not a little mischief in his voice.

“Do you,” she said. “Well, since you are the patient and I am the nurse, I get to choose what I think is right, and you have to do as I say.”

“Oh, Ms. Tyka,” he said with a sigh. “You may do whatever you want with me. I am in your power.”

The air shifted then, and they held each other's gaze. Even though Mahmoud's face was swollen, his look seared through to the center of her soul. Her breathing hitched as, with just that one look, she already felt he had entered her inner sanctum.

She dipped the washcloth back in the water and wrung it out as an excuse to break the moment. The dripping water sounded loud, but not as loud as the rush of blood through her ears and the beat of her heart in her chest. Her senses were suddenly on high alert; she could hear the whir of the wooden fan above them, feel the breeze on her skin. She could see the outlines of Mahmoud's body in stark contrast to the sheets, could smell the scent of his skin, almost taste him in the deep inhale of her breath. She took the washcloth and gently touched it to his forehead, his cheek, his eye. He was still staring at her, his eyes unmoving as he watched her tend to his wounds.

She delicately dabbed at each bruise in turn, aware of his eyes running the length of her body. She could feel her face getting hotter as the moment lengthened, and it got hotter still at the sight of him, in his briefs, getting aroused. Yet she took her time with him, first making sure his wounds were clean, then checking for anything bruised or broken, then washing out the deeper cuts with antiseptic. Finally she used some antibacterial ointment and bandages on the places that needed it most. When she was done, she met his eyes again, and was shocked that she had the same reaction as before, a sense of instant union, connection . . . but this time, something deep inside her rumbled with desire, with encouragement. It was a deeper passion than she'd ever felt before, one that combined her body with her soul, and she yearned to satisfy herself with this man who had found his way inside her heart.

She leaned over him, inspecting her work. She gently kissed each bandage and each bruise. Then she placed the softest of kisses upon his lips, and pulled back. In that same intense look in his eyes she saw potent heat, fierce longing, and it turned her on even more. She leaned in and placed a deeper kiss on his lips. He allowed her access but didn't push anything, letting her discover him in a way she hadn't before. Now she nibbled delicately on his lower lip, then freed her tongue to play inside his mouth, teasing him, daring him to meet her. He didn't; he only let her do what she wanted. She liked this, she realized. Liked that she was fully in control. That hadn't happened before; usually they both challenged each other. But now, suddenly, she was the one completely in charge. And she relished the power she had over him.

She nipped at his lips again with her teeth, then dove inside his mouth with her tongue. Then she trailed kisses down his neck, his shoulders, his upper chest, making him moan with pleasure. The sound of his deep bass voice overcome with excitement only made her wetter. She was quite ready for him now, but was drawing out her enjoyment as well as his.

She ran her tongue over his pecs, around their centers, then gently bit him. He let out a low moan. She tenderly kissed her way down his ribs, bruised and swollen but not nearly as hurt as she'd initially thought. She wended her way lower, to his abdomen, to the trail of dark hair that led down, and inhaled the scent of his skin. He was such a man, powerful, sure, and passionate. And he wanted her, she thought, more than any man ever had. She looked back up at him to catch his gaze once again searing into her; then she slowly removed his briefs and made her way lower still to the part of him that yearned for release.

‡‡‡

Mahmoud was beside himself. He had gone from believing his life was about to end to suddenly being in a whole new relationship with Tyka. Something about the events of the past day had changed her, and it was turning him on like crazy. She was open to him in a way she never had been; she was engaging with him on a deeper level; she was looking at him . . . with so much . . .
love
?
No, it couldn't be that. But it sure felt like it. She'd taken such good care of him, and he'd seen a vulnerability in her he hadn't known existed. She was now trailing kisses down his body, and each touch of her lips on his skin made him moan with pleasure. When she removed his briefs and began to tease him, he nearly came right then; he was so full of passion, and so ready for her. But he held himself back, wanting to enjoy every moment of their time together, every touch of her mouth on his skin.

‡‡‡

Tyka was taking her time with him, running her tongue over his manhood, her teeth gently grazing the most sensitive part of him. With every touch she could hear the hitch of his breath, could feel the vibrations of his deep moans moving through his body. She was so uncomfortable showing anyone her feelings, particularly feelings of caring for someone, and especially now, when she'd recently lost someone else she loved. But she could show him with every touch, every taste, every kiss how deep she was now willing to go. She took the full length of him into her mouth and lavished him with the kind of love she had always hoped to find. He let out a low sigh. After only a few moments he came, shuddering in his climax, fisting a hand through her hair and crying out her name.

She stood from the bed and got herself a glass of water, drank, then offered it to him. He was still breathing heavily, but took it and finished the water in one long gulp. She ran her hand over his lower body again and was pleased to see him rise to attention at her touch, even now, right after his release. “Are you okay for more?” she asked him softly.

“I can take all you can give me,” he said in response. “And I dare you to test that.” At that she smiled and threw her clothes off, delicately placed her knees on either side of his waist, and went in for a kiss that made her feel like she had burst into flames, it was so intense. She could kiss this man for a lifetime, she realized then. These were the lips, the hands, the eyes, and the mind that every fiber of her being longed to partner with.

As they kissed, she slipped his hard length deftly inside her. Though their breathing changed, they did not break apart. They stayed that way for some time, rocking together, kissing without end, her hands on either side of his face, his hands around her waist. Then Tyka sat up and stopped them, sitting astride, him inside her. She grasped his jaw in her hand and looked him straight in the eyes. “Don't ever attempt to die on me again,” she said. “Or I'll kill you.”

He laughed and took her palms in his, covering them with kisses. Then he placed her hands on his chest and began to rock his hips up and down. She was already so wet that she easily glided atop him. She began to ride him fervently, needing him, wanting him, unable to stop the titanic waves of joy and pleasure as she rocked back and forth. He thrust to meet every single motion of her hips. She stretched her arms up, trailing her hands over her breasts, then throwing her long blond hair back behind her. She was in a state of utter and complete ecstasy. Together they moved as one until they came simultaneously, both screaming in passion, release, relief, and joy. And then, collapsing into Mahmoud's arms, Tyka looked at him and smiled, a real, deep smile that came from her very soul.

‡‡‡

Mahmoud's heart swelled to see that smile, seeing her face become younger, freer, almost like a girl's. He wondered for the first time if it wasn't crazy to believe that he could have met someone he could spend his life with. He smiled back, wondering how a life that had seemed so dark could now feel so very light. They shared a long silence in which all he could hear was the sound of their breathing and the whirring of the ceiling fan. Tyka raised her head and looked at him, a smile still on her beautiful face. Her hair was tousled, her mascara smeared. And her eyes were half-lidded. “Shall we sleep on the plane?” she asked. “Then we can get going and find what we are looking for.”

“I think I may have found what I've been looking for,” he said smoothly. “But yes, I feel quite reenergized now, Ms. Tyka. Lead the way.”

12

The Bod Squad was refreshed and ready to go, and were scheduled to have dinner with the Kipiniaks at six. Jackson had told the Boss that Mahmoud and Tyka were on their way to New York to hunt down yet another lead in, of all places,
Queens
. The Boss had sent Jackson and Lisa Bee east, toward Jackson Heights, and Susannah west to Sunnyside to get as much info as they could about the lay of the land, the people, and their surroundings.

He found himself wandering the streets of Woodside. The truth was that he wasn't quite certain what he was looking for, or even if they'd find anything worthwhile. It was like they were chasing an ever changing lead. He'd learned over the years to trust his instincts; his life had been saved countless times because he followed his gut. He felt it as clear as day: He was on the right track. Here, in the States, on the East Coast, was the footprint of the invisible terror that lurked at the forefront of his consciousness.

The Boss liked Woodside; it felt like a suburb in some places, a provincial Irish town in others. He had stopped in at McCreer's Pub to chat with the bartender and some barflies, then continued on his way, walking down Roosevelt under the 7 train. He turned down a side street by a fire station, walking past brick apartment buildings with courtyards and big lobbies. They reminded him of another era, of the 1940s and '50s, of those old movies he loved so much. Walking down the street he came upon a woman smoking a cigarette under a vine trellis entryway; she wore a brown leather coat and an old green fedora. She was pretty, with long dark hair and long legs. And she had a wistful look on her face. She smiled up at the Boss as he approached.

“Hello,” he said, tipping his hat to her, “from one fedora to another.”

She laughed, a low, husky sound that reminded him of Babs. “Well, you do wear it well, I'll say that.”

“Mind if I take a seat?” he asked.

“It's a free country,” she said. “Besides, I wouldn't mind the company. Wanna smoke?”

“Never touch the things,” he replied. “But the lady I'm with is a fan.”

“Ah, fuck,” she said with a frown. “All the good ones are taken.”

“How do you know I'm one of the good ones?”

“It's the angle of your fedora. Very becoming.”

He laughed freely. “What are you up to this fine afternoon?”

“Well,” she said, “I'm enjoying my one cigarette this month. I get one when something great happens or something terrible happens. Or I miss a month if neither happens. I'm an actress and I don't like to fuck with my instrument too much.”

“So which one was it today?”

“Neither. I had to do two loads of laundry and it pissed me off.” He laughed again. “What's your name?” she asked, cocking her head.

“I'm John. But my code name is Bossman. I'm new to the neighborhood. Wanna tell me about the ins and outs of living here?”

She took a deep drag of her cigarette. “What line of work are you in, Bossman?”

“I'm in finance.”

“Why not somewhere in Manhattan?”

“I'm more of a small-town kind of guy.”

“I get it. Want to share my whiskey?”

“Don't mind if I do. What do I call you?”

“Call me Isabelle,” she said. “And if you need a code name for me, Bossman, you can call me Habeas Moon Grotto.”

He chuckled, then took a long swig. “Well, that seems a bit clunky. I'll stick to Isabelle. Tell me about the neighborhood.”

They sat together for some time, until the Boss looked at his watch and realized he'd better head back for dinner. “Well, thank you, Isabelle,” he said with a smile. “I really appreciate all the help. Is there anything I can do for you in exchange?”

“Do you happen to know any men like you, Bossman, who might be single and looking for a challenge?”

He smiled. “Oh, now, I'm sure that's not tough for a lovely lady like you.”

She guffawed and polished off her drink. “New York is a pain in my ass. I moved to this neighborhood because I love firefighters and Irish boys in equal measure and thought it'd up my chances. So far? No takers. It's no fun being single in your forties . . . I constantly feel like I'm a grocery item with a close expiration date. And since I'm choosy, well . . . it's like I'm playing high-stakes poker but I've only got one chip left.”

“But what a chip it is,” said the Boss with a wink. “Listen, the story ain't over yet. I bet the fella you're looking for is closer than you think. You know the way these things go: He's probably right around the corner.”

“Just like everything, right? But that's how you can help me, Bossman. Just make sure he's a grown-up, and that he's not married and looking for a piece on the side. Or that he's not one of those creepy guys who lives in his parents' basement. Yuck.”

And suddenly it hit the Boss like a lightning strike. What if BS was the Kipiniaks'son?
What was his name?
He'd bet it was Bobby. Right under their noses. Just like the Boss had thought.

He took Isabelle's card. As he walked away, fired up with possibility, he took a second to go through his mental Rolodex. He knew a bunch of guys in D.C. who'd be perfect for this chick: retired military men, agents, staff in the field who'd come home filled with adventures and had no one to share them with. There was a whole culture of smart, strong men who'd been lone rangers for a while and were looking to settle down in their forties and fifties. But that was for the future.
Right around the corner, eh?
Filled with excitement, he went to close in on his destiny.

‡‡‡

Tyka and Mahmoud landed at JFK and made their way straight to Flushing Meadows Corona Park to look at the old World's Fair Unisphere. It was surrounded by a spraying fountain and people walking around the grounds. Tyka studied the globe as she walked close, but it didn't make sense . . . how would one hide notes under the Unisphere? She went closer to the fountain and put a hand in the water; she was instantly yelled at by a security guard. Well, that wouldn't work.
Under the Unisphere?
Perhaps there was another Unisphere somewhere else that she hadn't accounted for. Maybe it wasn't even in the States. Maybe this whole trip was for naught.

She glanced up at Mahmoud, who looked dashing and well put together, even with the cuts and bruises. “You look fairly badass, Mahmoud,” she said with a smile, running a hand along his face.

“Fairly?” he inquired. “Disappointing. After all that, I'd hope to look
very
badass.”

She sighed. “I really don't know where on earth to look, or if this is even the right thing.”

“But it must be,” he said surely. “All signs point to Queens, no? And the Unisphere. Perhaps we should wander around, see what we find?”

“Sure,” she said, though she wondered if it was a fool's errand. “Let's case the park.”

“Shall we go together, Ms. Tyka? Or split up?”

“Well,” she said with a wry grin, “I'm afraid if we split up you may get abducted by the Mafia. It seems I need to keep my eyes on you.”

“Oh, I very much like your eyes all over me,” he said huskily. “But I assure you I can take care of myself.”

“All right,” she conceded. “It will take less time if we go separate ways. We'll meet back by the Unisphere in thirty, yes?”

“As you wish, Ms. Tyka,” he said with a flourish, and then he was off.

She was left alone, wondering how it was that she couldn't bear to be apart from him. She was concerned about him; he was still in rough shape, and she wanted him by her side. And that was the truth of it, she realized at once. For the first time in her life, she wanted a man next to her. A partner, in all senses of the word. And that partner was Mahmoud.

Smiling to herself, she went in the opposite direction to see what, if any, leads she could find.

‡‡‡

Rafael had come to Fritz with some disturbing information. He'd been wandering around Quantico trying to clear his head, down in the bowels of the place where they had storage and some rarely used classrooms. He was frustrated and was trying to go over all they knew and where they'd gone wrong. His Mossad days had left him with the habit of reviewing every piece of information in sequence to see if it made sense. He'd stopped dead in his tracks when he'd heard the sound of screaming, of torture . . . It'd made the hairs on his neck stand on end. When he realized it was a male voice, he wondered if it could be Buzz, since he was still at large. Running to Fritz's office, he stood in front of her, panting, filling her in on his suspicions.

Fritz took a sip of her Red Bull and scratched her head in confusion. How could Buzz Carter be held and tortured in Quantico? That was a far-fetched thought. “Surely you must have been hearing a training exercise.”

“Down there? By the old classrooms? Underneath all the DEA academy warehouse storage? There's nothing that happens down there, right? I thought you told me it was a completely obsolete part of the base.”

Now she leaned forward. Rafael was right: Nothing should be active there. In light of Buzz Carter's absence, and the suspicion of his innocence in all this, they'd need to check it out.

“Good work, Rafael. We need to find out what's going on. Let's you and I go down there and see what we find.”

“Let's do it.”

“And Raf? Let's take extra ammo. I don't know what's down there, but I don't feel good about it.”

“Got it, Fritz. I'll be behind you every step of the way.” She stood up and he grabbed her by the arm. “You comfortable with this?”

She looked him square in the eyes and smiled at him, then reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a Glock 19. “Haven't gotten to use this since special ops training. It'll be a pleasure.”

He looked back at her with a smile tickling the side of his mouth. He'd never before seen his boss armed and ready to go. “Lead the way.”