Taking Fire (13 page)

24

A few hours later, Taggart said, “We'll hit it hard again tomorrow.”

They hadn't found Amir. So they hadn't found Meir. They'd spent five hours pounding the pavement, checking out bars, flashing Amir's and Hakeem's photos, questioning bartenders, and approaching working girls to see if Amir had been a customer. And they'd turned up nothing.

When they'd narrowly escaped a confrontation with the local police, they decided fatigue was making them careless and called it a night.

Sanju had dropped them off where he'd picked them up, with the promise to meet them again in the morning. They'd hoofed it back to the safe house, and Taggart had collapsed on the sofa.

Talia watched him from across the room as he removed the headwear, laid his Beretta and his phone on the coffee table, then slumped back, legs spread wide. He pinched his nose between his fingers.

“We'll get the break we need.” He looked exhausted and battered, and although he put on a brave front, Talia suspected he felt as disheartened as she did.

It was nearing three in the morning. She was too weary even to talk; exhaustion had sunk into her bones like a deep ache. Her arm throbbed. Her feet burned. Her entire body felt like one big bruise. But nothing hurt as bad as her heart; fear for Meir had beaten her down to rock bottom.

“Get some sleep,” Taggart said. Not bothering to undress, he stretched out on the sofa. “Sanju will be waiting for us at nine.”

He appeared to be asleep already when she limped past him into the bedroom. Dejected and disappointed, she undressed, found a small men's T-shirt, and pulled it on over the boxers.

Then she pulled back the covers and fell into bed.

The last thing she thought of before her sleep-deprived and wounded body demanded that she get some rest was her son, alone and afraid but, please, God, unharmed.

*   *   *

Bobby bolted straight up on the sofa. For a moment, he sat in the dark, sleep-dazed, wondering what had woken him. Both phones lay on the coffee table beside him. Talia's was lit up, telling him it was four a.m. Barely an hour since he'd dropped like a stone. When it vibrated and rang, he wiped a hand over his face, then reached across the sofa and turned on a light. Figuring it was Nate or Rhonda, he picked up the phone and was about to answer when he saw the caller's name.

Jonathan.

Shit!

Someone was calling from Meir's bodyguard's phone. It could only be the kidnappers.

He sprinted into the bedroom and flipped the switch for the overhead light.

“Talia! Wake up.”

She shot straight up in the bed, squinting against the sudden brightness. “Wha—what's happening?”

“It's them.”

She was still half asleep, but when he handed her the phone, and she saw Jonathan's name on the screen, she woke up as if she'd been hit with ice water.

“Put it on speaker,” he said before she punched the answer button. “Make sure they let you talk to Meir.”

She shook her head to clear the cobwebs, turned on the speaker, and, after a slight hesitation, pushed answer. “What have you done with my son?” she demanded.

“Excellent,” a man replied in English. “So you know why I am calling.”

“I know that whoever stole this phone killed a good man to get it,” she said, her voice strong. “And I know you also stole my son.”

Bobby lay a supportive hand on her shoulder.

“Do you not wonder why I took him?”

“Because you're a coward.”

A long, ominous silence followed.

“Take care with your words, Talia Levine,” he warned. “It would not do to anger me or to forget who is in control here.”

“Please,” she said, gripping the phone tightly, clearly struggling to maintain control. “Please tell me you haven't hurt him.”

“The boy is unharmed. For now. He is a brave little man. And yet sometimes I can see he wants to cry for his mother.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “What do you want?”

“Surely you must know by now. I want retribution. My father is dead because of you. Now do you know precisely who you are dealing with?”

“Hakeem al-Attar,” she said numbly.

“Very good. Now tell me this. I lost my father. Should the boy not also lose his mother?”

“Please, Hakeem,” she said quickly. “It's me you want. He's an innocent. Let him go and you can do whatever you want to me.”

“Oh, I have many plans for you. You will wish you were dead long before I am through with you. And I may consider a trade for the boy. Your life, however, is no longer enough. The American who helped you kill four of my men must also die. Yes. I know about him. My men radioed me that you were not alone before they died. And I now also require money to avenge their deaths as well as my father's life and blood.”

What the hell? Bobby knew the way these guys thought. Revenge, exploitation, and death—those were terrorist motives. That's why they wanted him as well as Talia. They didn't give a shit about money. They had money. They'd added that for just one reason: to increase Talia's torment.

“Anything,” Talia said. “Just don't hurt him. Please don't hurt him.”

“Your life for the boy's then. Your life, the American's life, and three million American dollars.”

Bobby gripped her shoulders tighter when she gasped. “I . . . it will take some time to . . . to come up with that much money.”

“For the boy's sake, do not take too long.”

“Let me talk to him. Please. I need to talk to him.”

“He is sleeping. If I wake him, he may cry and rouse Zaire—which would not be good for your son.”

“Oh, God.”

She almost broke then but somehow pulled it back together. “Please. Don't hurt him.”

“Then do not make me wait.”

Bobby lifted her face with a finger under her chin. It killed him to see the tears tracking down her cheeks. “You have to talk to Meir,” he whispered. “Hakeem knows this. Tell him no deal if you don't talk to him.”

“I need to talk to my son,” she told Hakeem firmly. “I need to know he's alive or we don't have a deal.”

The line went silent before Hakeem came back. “Wait.”

Bobby sat down on the bed beside her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her against him. “Stay strong,” he whispered into her hair.

She drew a quivering breath, then pulled herself together.

His heart slammed against his ribs as he waited, and waited, and then, for the first time in his life, he heard his son's voice.

“Momma?”

“Oh, baby!” Talia cried, and Bobby hugged her tighter. “Yes. It's Momma.”

“I want to come h-home.”

A knot of emotion crowded his chest, making it impossible to breathe.

“I know, sweetheart. I know you do,” Talia said, working to keep her voice soothing. “And you're going to come home real soon, okay?”

“I want to come home now.”

Bobby hung his head, pinching his eyes shut to stall the burn welling up behind his eyelids.

“I know, baby. But you're going to have to be brave for a little longer, okay? Momma's doing everything she can to get you back home. Don't cry, little man,” she pleaded. “You must be brave for me. You must do what the man says and not cry, and he'll take care of you until I find you, okay? Everything's going to be fine. I promise. You must believe me.” The line stayed silent.

“Meir?” she cried.

But it was Hakeem who answered. “As you can see, he is fine. You get the money, and he will stay that way.”

Bobby had killed to defend himself. He'd killed to save his buddies. He'd killed for his country. But he'd never felt the urge to tear another human being to pieces with his bare hands. Now he understood bloodlust.

“How . . . how long do I have?”

Talia's voice broke through the haze of a rage so black it shaded his vision.

“I am not an unreasonable man,” the bastard said. “You have two days. Forty-eight hours. I will call again tomorrow to check on your progress.”

25

When the phone went dead, so did Talia's eyes. “Promise me they won't hurt him,” she begged.

Bobby held her tighter, tucking her head beneath his chin. “They won't hurt him,” he said, because she needed to hear it. And so did he. He needed to hear a voice other than Hakeem al-Attar's. He needed to hear himself say they would not hurt the boy. And then he needed to believe it.

The arrogant fucking pigs. They'd just pulled off the bombing of a U.S. embassy and kidnapped the child of a former Mossad agent. They should have beat feet and already been so far down a hidey-hole no one would have a clue where to look for them.

So why weren't they? Maybe it wasn't a case of arrogance. Maybe it was flat-out stupidity that they were still within a thousand miles of Oman. Because if they really wanted to torture Talia, really wanted to make her pay, they'd have left her hanging. She'd die a thousand deaths, not knowing what they'd done to her son. To his son.

For the first time in a long time, he second-guessed himself. Maybe he should have talked to them. Told them to cut the bullshit. Told them he knew what they really wanted. To kill Talia and kill him and the boy.

Money? Hell. That didn't fit. Hamas had money even God didn't know about.

So maybe the money wasn't even for Hamas. Maybe Hakeem and dear old Uncle Amir were getting greedy and wanted it for themselves. Amir was a degenerate. Maybe Hakeem had decided to follow in his uncle's footsteps.

Either way, they were playing with her.

And it was working.

This new wrinkle made the situation even more dodgy. The world knew that these assholes were loose cannons. Their interpretation of their religion was corrupted, and that made them not only unpredictable but more dangerous.

It had been five minutes since the phone call that had created both hope and renewed fear for Meir.

I want to come home
.

Taggart's eyes filled and burned as the voice of innocence played over and over in his mind.

He had to get out of here. “We should try to get some sleep.” He started to rise.

Her arms tightened around him. “Stay with me. At least for a little while.”

As much as he needed some time and space, he couldn't make himself leave her. “If you're not able to sleep, at least lie down,” he said, and when she did and then made room for him, he ignored the urgent need for solitude and stretched out by her side.

For long moments, they lay that way. Talia in her men's T-shirt and boxers, he in the bulky dishdasha. Inches of physical space between them, miles apart in every way except for the fear for their son.

She badly needed sleep. So did he. Yet he was suddenly desperate for information about Meir. Something he hadn't let himself ask for before.

“Tell me about him.”

The dark bedroom swelled with the absence of sound for several moments before she gathered herself and started talking. “In Hebrew, Meir means ‘giving light.' ” Her voice grew tender with love. “He brought so much light into my life after . . . well, after a very dark period. He still—” She stopped, swallowed, and continued resolutely. “He still does.”

Bobby had yet to see a picture of his son. He could have asked Rhonda to text the photo she'd hacked from Meir's school records. Something held him back. Fear, he imagined. Fear that the only image he'd ever see of Meir was a photograph.

“He's always been a very inquisitive, intelligent child. And kind. I love that most of all about him.”

The love in her voice said so much about her. Opened doors that led to thoughts of forgiveness, to wanting to reevaluate the reasons she'd done what she had, to believe she regretted not telling him about the baby.

You were a soldier for hire.

That truth cut close to the bone. She'd been right. Even now, he was still basically that same man.

“What does he like to do? Like to eat?”

“What most five-year-olds like. Pizza is his favorite, next to ice cream. He loves to watch and play American football. In Tel Aviv, he organized football games during recess.” She stopped, and he could see her mind framing a picture of Meir that was at once painful and sweet.

“Was he . . . was his birth . . . ?”

“He was six pounds, nine ounces, eighteen inches long,” she supplied, apparently sensing his hesitance and understanding what he couldn't quite bring himself to ask.

Look at all the lucky number threes he could make out of those stats, Bobby thought with a bittersweet smile.

“And no, his birth didn't cause me problems. He was eager to be born. Three hours, and it was all over. I barely made it to the hospital because I couldn't believe things were going so quickly.”

At the oddest times, during these desperate hours, he had pictured her in labor. The images would just appear. Her hair drenched in perspiration. Her body wracked in pain. His son arriving into the world with a lusty cry and ten beautiful fingers and toes.

He felt a deep pang of loss that he hadn't been there to witness the birth and to help her through it.

“I bet you were a real warrior,” he said before thinking.

She turned her head and gave him a small smile. “Didn't have time to find out. Three hours? I hardly needed to channel my inner warrior for that.”

Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe as he lay here beside the mother of his son, as their hands brushed against each other, then entwined, maybe this was where he needed to be. Not alone, mourning for a child he might never know, but in this bed, in this tenuous reunion with her, getting to know his son.

He turned to his side so he could fully see her face. “According to my mother, I was bald and fat and happy.”

“Meir had a head of thick black hair, a wiry little body, and a cry as strong as his father's.”

Pride, loss, yearning. This time, he couldn't stop the tears. He lifted a hand to wipe them away; she stopped him.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered, and pressed her lips against his cheek to catch them. “I am so, so sorry.”

He'd tried to hold on to the anger that had been his companion since she'd left him in Kabul, but he couldn't. He knew she was sorry. Sorry she'd deceived him. Sorry she'd kept his son from him. Sorry that everything they could have been together had been stolen by circumstance, duty, and war. Too much had happened between them to be forgotten. Too much to be forgiven. And he knew she was as sorry as he was that nothing they did in this bed tonight would change things between them come morning.

Yet when she kissed her way to his mouth, he didn't stop her. He opened to receive her tongue, the sudden hitch of her sob, her almost frantic need for connection.

“I loved you,” she whispered against his lips, then spread tender, desperate kisses across his jaw and along his throat with a hunger that swelled with regret. “I loved you.”

He shouldn't let her say that. He shouldn't let her do this. But they both needed something other than pain and fear to rule, if only in this moment. Needed release from the darkness shadowing their past together.

He arched his back on a groan and tangled his hands in her hair as she unbuttoned the dishdasha and bared his shoulder. He gasped when the backs of her fingers fluttered down each inch of his body that she laid bare, then brushed against his growing erection as she trailed hot butterfly kisses down his chest and into the hollow of his belly.

“I still love you,” she whispered, as she stood up on her knees, tugged the T-shirt up and over her head, then shimmied out of the boxers. She moved over him, gloriously naked and yearning, and pressed hot, wet kisses down his cock before taking him into her mouth.

He gasped as she sucked him, arched his hips to match her rhythm, and held on to control by an unraveling thread. This was physical union at its most primitive, primal level. But even more, it was an offering. An appeal for forgiveness and an acknowledgment of shared grief.

He couldn't hate her here. He couldn't hate her now. He could only feel how deeply she cared and the honesty of her passion. And over it all, he could sense that she needed the physical release from all those crosses she'd carried, even more than he did.

With his last ounce of control, he lifted her up, set her over his lap, and gripped her hips in both hands. “I need to be inside you.”

She rose to her knees, straddled him, then surrounded him with her small hands and guided him home.

And it did feel like home. God help him, it felt like the most natural and nurturing place he could possibly be, as she planted her palms against his shoulders and he lifted her up and down on his swollen cock.

His rhythm grew faster, harder, then harder still, as emotion swamped him. She'd left him. Used him. She'd kept his child from him. And her apologies were too late and not enough.

Suddenly, he realized that he was pounding out his anger and humiliation, wanting, in the wounded corner of his mind, to repay her for all the hurt she'd made him feel—and he stopped.

God, oh, God, what was he doing?

He drew her down so they were breast to breast, her head on his shoulder, her wild black hair falling across his face.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, ashamed for being rough with her.

That was when he knew he had to let it all go. Not just give lip service but let go of the anger, the pain, his soul's demand for retribution.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered again, as he brushed the hair back from her face.

“That makes two very sorry people,” she murmured, and this time he wiped away
her
tears.

He loved her slowly then. Eased in and out of her sweet, wet heat, healing two wounds, rekindling the fires, until her breath rushed out in soft, catchy gasps, and his heart beat so wildly he thought it would explode.

He came with a guttural groan just as she cried out in release. Then he clung to her, feeling a tentative sense of peace for the first time in six years.

For long, floating moments, they lay together, she sprawled on top of him, he still inside her. Hearts beating wildly, breath hard to catch, bodies worn and wet and spent.

When he drifted off to sleep, the words
I loved you . . . I still love you
whispered through his mind like a dream. But as with the echoes of a storm that pummeled and destroyed, then moved slowly off toward the horizon, the damage could never be forgotten.