Taking Fire (16 page)

“Thank you,” Taggart said, his eyes suspiciously moist as his gaze swept the room, landing on each member of the team. “You're a bunch of knot-heads for volunteering, but I'm damn glad you're here.”

That was when Talia understood the depth of Taggart's feelings for them. They were his family. His brothers, his sisters. And just as they'd followed him into a situation that could threaten their lives, he'd follow them down the same path without a moment's hesitation.

29

“Need your attention, people.” Nate took charge when everyone was settled around the table. “Officially, we're here searching for the perpetrators of the embassy bombing. Unofficially, we know—thanks to Talia and Taggart—who the perps are but not where to find them. More on that later.

“Primarily, however, we're launching this op to rescue Talia's son, Meir, who was abducted by a Hamas group led by Hakeem al-Attar and his uncle Amir al-Attar.”

Stephanie pressed a remote control, and Hakeem's and Amir's photographs appeared side-by-side on the projector screen.

“Hakeem and Amir are also responsible for the bombing,” Nate added.

“Why take the boy?” Santos asked. “And does his abduction tie into the bombing in any way?”

Nate glanced at Bobby. “Want to field this one?”

Talia's admiration for this team grew tenfold. They'd come to help just because Taggart had asked, not knowing any of the details.

“I'll make it as short as possible,” Taggart said, standing. “Talia is former Mossad.”

Talia felt the sudden uptick of interest directed her way. Mossad agents earned every bit of their reputation as elite and courageous international special operators. In the eyes of Taggart's team, she had just been elevated from a potential liability to an asset.

“Six years ago in Kabul,” Taggart went on, “she was instrumental in leading a Mossad hit squad to Hamas leader Mohammed al-Attar, the father of Hakeem and brother of Amir. Al-Attar was responsible for countless civilian deaths in Israel, mostly children. Talia's team took him out of the picture, along with twenty of his lieutenants. It was a devastating blow to Hamas.”

He glanced at Talia, and she waited for the other shoe to fall. The one that told of her betrayal. But he moved past it.

“Since then, Hakeem and Amir have quietly and systematically hunted down and executed every member of the Mossad team responsible for al-Attar's death,” he continued. “With Rhonda's help, we tracked them in Muscat and ascertained that the bombing was their attempt to assassinate Talia—with the bonus of wreaking a little international havoc with U.S. relations in Oman. When Hakeem and Amir discovered that Talia had survived the bombing, they abducted Meir and killed his bodyguard. They still want Talia and plan to use the boy to get to her.”

“Why now? Why go after you after all this time?” Green's question was direct and spot-on.

“Because they couldn't find me,” Talia explained. She'd given this a lot of thought during the past several hours. “At least, that's what I'm assuming. My cover as a war correspondent and photographer had never been blown. It must have taken them this long to realize that whenever a Hamas leader was taken out by Mossad, there was generally a story with my byline about some other event in the area.”

Bobby gave her a nod of approval, then told them how they'd discovered Jonathan's body, then encountered and killed four of Hakeem's men before making it to the safe house.

“Give us a time frame,” Jones said.

“Sure. I arrived at the embassy around five forty-five p.m. Blast detonated around six p.m. I hooked up with Talia shortly after and discovered around seven thirty that Meir had been abducted. With Rhonda's intel and going on info that Amir likes the ladies and the booze, we hit the streets the same night looking for some sign of him. Had to give it up around two a.m. and head back to the safe house.”

He paused for a second, then went on. “Somewhere around four a.m., Talia received a call from Hakeem via the bodyguard's cell phone. They'd decided to add a demand for money to the ransom as part of their scheme. They want Talia and three million U.S. in exchange for the boy. Oh, and they want me, too. Seems they're a bit upset because I offed their four friends in the VW Golf.”

“So we're now approximately thirty-six hours into this,” Stephanie stated.

Talia glanced at the wall clock. Almost midnight.

“Yes,” Taggart said. “Thirty-six.”

“When do they want to make the exchange?” Jones asked.

“We're still waiting for the call,” Talia said. “And I have no illusions about an exchange. They'll kill Meir no matter what, if we don't get him away from them first.”

“Have you talked to the boy?” Black asked.

“Yes,” Taggart said, apparently sensing that she was experiencing difficulty with the memory. “And Amir knows we'll require proof of life right up to the time of the ‘exchange.' ”

“You said you got a lead tonight.” This from Cooper, who'd filled a coffee mug and rejoined them at the table.

Bobby nodded. “Right. After canvassing for hours, we finally connected with a hooker at the hotel where you picked us up. She says Amir is ‘dating' one of her friends. He roughs her up bad but pays her well, so she lets him. Lauren, our hooker, says Amir's been there several nights in a row, always around the same time. Says she's certain he'll be back again. Talia and I missed him by fifteen minutes tonight.”

She still got a knot in her chest when she thought about how close they'd been.

“We've also got the makes and models of the rental cars they're driving and the plate numbers. Based on the sizes of the cars, we're figuring we're dealing with at least nine fighters. Possibly a couple more but doubtful.”

All this time, Stephanie wrote notes on a whiteboard, which Talia suspected would end up being the blueprint for their plan of action.

“What can you tell us about Meir?” Black asked her gently.

“He's five,” she said, working to keep her voice steady. “He's a smart little boy, but he's scared. From what I could tell when I talked to him, he hadn't been hurt.”

Stephanie hit a button, and Meir's picture popped up on the large projection screen. “Is this his most current photo?”

Talia felt herself go pale, and somehow she managed to nod. It was Meir's school photo, the one Rhonda had hacked. In it, Meir's smile was a little tentative. His bright white shirt and red tie that made up his school uniform were crisp and clean. The cowlick at the crown of his black hair was stubborn as always. He looked young and innocent and . . . she had to look away to keep the tears inside.

She glanced at Taggart, who had dropped heavily into the chair beside hers, and her breath caught. She wasn't the only one struggling. A huge, encompassing empathy swamped her, and she reached out and covered his hand with hers under the table.

This was the first time he'd ever seen his son. His big body had grown statue still. Only his eyes moved as he stared at Meir's photo on that very large screen, taking in every detail. Committing his face to memory. Undoubtedly seeing the likeness to her but, without question, recognizing the physical traits he and Meir shared.

Even at five years old, Meir had Taggart's strong nose, his full lips, and a definition to his eyes and brow that no one could dispute came straight from his father.

“I know this is hard, Talia.” Nate Black addressed her, but his concerned gaze swung to Taggart before he turned back to her. “Are there any medical issues we need to be aware of? Any medications he takes? Any allergies? Physical disabilities?”

“No,” she said quietly. “He's perfectly healthy.”

“And I hate to ask, but what's his blood type?”

Her heart lurched. Of course, they needed his blood type. It was necessary information for the rescue team. “O positive.”

Taggart turned his hand into hers and squeezed.

“Noted. And we're good to go,” Carlyle said. Apparently, he would act as team medic.

“Anything else we need to know?” Black asked. “Okay, then,” he said when no one spoke. “Let's get this hammered out.”

*   *   *

Bobby stood with the rest of the team when Nate called a five-minute break. He needed a bottle of Tylenol, and he needed sleep. But mostly, he needed to find his son.

Seeing that Stephanie had taken Talia under her wing, he left the women together and headed to the Bunn for a moment alone, to get himself back together.

His son.
My God
. An emotion he could barely handle had ripped through his body when Meir's picture came up on the screen.

“You look like you need to be in a hospital,” Coop said, walking up beside him.

Bobby pulled himself together. “I'll settle for coffee.” And because he knew it was expected, he managed to come up with an insult. “And man, I cannot take you seriously with that damn bald head.”

Coop laughed. “It's kind of growing on me.”

“You realize how stupid that sounds, right?”

“Okay, so it's not
growing
, but I could get into this low-maintenance gig.”

“Said the man who's as high-maintenance as his wife.”

“Pretty has a price,” Coop said, straight-faced.Bobby shook his head, filled a cup, then closed his eyes and leaned a shoulder against the wall.

“What aren't you telling me, brother?”

He knew that tone but chose to ignore it. He and Coop and Brown went way back. And when Brown walked up and closed in on him, too, he knew he was in for the equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition.

“So . . . you just happened to ‘hook up' with Talia,” Brown said speculatively as he refilled his mug. “After the bombing. A woman you didn't know. Even though she
happened
to be in Kabul when you were there six years ago. Wild coincidence, huh?”

Coop looked from Brown to Bobby. “Nicely done, Primetime. But you left out the part about the boy being five years old and having the same damn smile as Boom here. Anything you want to tell us?”

Bobby looked from one friend to another. He'd known it wouldn't take long for them to figure out that Meir was his son, but he wasn't ready to talk about it yet. “Just help me get him back. There'll be time enough to hash this out later.”

Then he pushed away from the wall and walked back to his chair.

30

Two hours later, after a strong debate about whether they should return to the safe house or stay with the team at Royal Brit, Carlyle dropped them off at the house and headed back to HQ at the petroleum building.

“I don't feel right about this.” Talia walked past Bobby into the living room. She set the duffel with Bobby's clothes—the guys had raided his locker back at ITAP—and some clothes Stephanie had brought for her on the kitchen bar.

Bobby tossed his headwear onto the coffee table. “That makes two of us. But when Nate issues an order, I damn well better obey it.”

“Well, he's not
my
boss,” she said, but without much punch.

He got it. She was exhausted, she was worried, and if she felt anything like he did, there weren't enough painkillers in the world to take the edge off.

And Nate wanted them rested. If they'd stayed with the team, they wouldn't have gotten any sleep, something Talia needed badly. They would have worked right alongside the rest of them.

“What if something time-sensitive comes up?” Talia had argued. “We'd be right there. Ready to act. If we're at the safe house, it'll be at least thirty minutes before we can get back here.”

“We'll take that chance,” had been Nate's final word.

“For the sake of this op,” Bobby said now, after collapsing on the sofa, “I'd say Nate is your boss. And our best hope. I have to agree with him on this front. You do need sleep. Apparently, I'm guilty by association.” He rubbed his painfully stiff neck. “So let's roll with it, okay? The team's got things well in hand, and we'll be in better shape to help if we catch a few.”

It was already past two a.m. Neither of them had had more than four hours of sleep in the last forty-eight, and they planned to be up and at it again by six a.m.

“Where are they sleeping?”

He glanced up at her, seeing her exhaustion in the slump of her shoulders and her slow movements as she plugged her phone into the charger. “The team? They're not. I know Nate. He made sure they all got some solid shut-eye on the flight. Don't worry about them. They'll be fine. And they'll be busy. Black and Stephanie are already checking out areas of the city where the al-Attars might be holing up. They'll plan potential infiltration and escape routes, figure out probable traffic issues, and lock in GPS coordinates on the off chance they can get ahead of the game.”

“Someone should be watching the hotel,” she said. her look dark as she slumped onto a stool at the counter. “What if Amir comes back early?”

“Cooper and Santos are on it, okay? They left for the hotel where Lauren ID'd Amir about the same time we left to come back here. On the off chance that he does come back early, they'll be there. And then we'll move in.”

When she didn't look convinced, he turned to her. “Look, there is no way Amir is slipping past us. When we get him in our sights, we'll let him lead us straight back to the hideout where they're keeping Meir.”

“And then what?”

“And then, once we have them pinpointed, we'll refine the details of the rescue plan.”

She chewed on her lower lip. “What if Lauren is wrong? What if Amir doesn't show up again?”

“You've got to stop this, Talia,” he said wearily. “All this ‘what if' and second-guessing isn't helping anyone. Especially you.”

She glared at him.

“Fine. Brown, Jones, Carlyle, and Green were heading out to look for the two rental cars. Yes, it's a long shot that they'll spot them, but big cases have been broken on long shots. And you heard Stephanie. She and Rhonda are busy tapping assets and calling in favors, hoping to find an in with an undercover CIA operative rumored to be in Muscat.”

“Key word: rumored.”

“Even so. If he is here and if they can make the connection, the CIA operative might have heard about the al-Attar Hamas group. Might even know where they're lying low. Supposedly, he's deeply infiltrated in the Islamic Militants from Uzbekistan terrorist group, which is closely affiliated with Al-Qaeda. If—and yes, it's a big if—they can find him, it's very possible the IMU group has knowledge of Hakeem's and Amir's Hamas hideout. They might even be helping them.”

“Now who's talking about ifs?”

Bobby scrubbed his hands over his face, weary beyond words. “Go take your shower. Then get some sleep. You're going to need it.”

She hesitated, looked as though she wanted to say something more, but headed for the bathroom.

He understood the look in her eyes. Besides her fear for Meir, everything had changed between them last night in that bed—and yet nothing had changed. Meir was still at risk. They were still who they were and had still done what they'd done. And as much as he would always desire her, as much as he would always care for her on some level, he could never get past her betrayal.

He scrubbed his hands over his eyes again. He couldn't even think about it right now. He collapsed on the sofa, covering his eyes with a forearm. All he could think about was Meir. Getting him back safe and sound. No matter how they managed to do it, everything depended on finding the Hamas stronghold before the imposed deadline.

Why haven't those fuckers called?

He both dreaded the call yet hated Hakeem ten times more for keeping them on tenterhooks this way. The animal was a true terrorist. And the true definition of terror was not facing down the enemy. The true definition of terror was feeling helpless to protect or save those who were most important to you.

A tear trickled out of the corner of his eye and ran down the side of his temple, completely blindsiding him. He wiped it away. Blinked away the burning behind his eyelids. Understanding, for the first time, what a parent went through every time a child was deployed. What a wife went through every time a cop took to the streets. Every time they received word that someone they loved had been injured or had been declared MIA or, worse, KIA.

His situation was different. Yet so much the same. And as he lay here, his gut knotted with this horrible feeling of helplessness and impending loss, he swore that no matter the outcome, he would somehow make it up to his own mother for all the hell he'd put her through over the years.

*   *   *

His subconscious must have been waiting for Hakeem's call, because when the phone rang at four o'clock, Bobby woke up fully alert. He'd never gotten around to a shower. He'd more or less passed out. Still dressed in the dishdasha and barely able to move because of all his aches and pains, he muscled his way upright. Rising stiffly, he hobbled over to the kitchen counter, where Talia had left the phone plugged in and charging.

She almost beat him to it. She came flying out of the bedroom, barefoot, sleep-mussed, wearing boxers and a T-shirt again. Her eyes met his, frightened but resolved.

“You can do this,” he said.

With a nod, she picked up the phone and switched it to speaker before answering. “Hello.”

“Do you have the money?”

“I . . . I have half of it,” she lied, carrying out their plan to stall until they found the hideout. “I can have the rest by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” It was more of a snarl than a question. “You want your son released alive? You will have the money today.”

This was what they'd been afraid of. That Hakeem would renege on his two-day time frame. And this was where Talia had to be particularly careful.

“You said two days. That was only twenty-four hours ago.”

“I grow impatient.”

“I want my son released alive. I'm doing everything I can as fast as I can to get the money. I'm not a rich woman. I have to reach out to family and friends. The time difference between Oman and the States is complicating things. International banking laws, every­thing is taking additional time.”

Bobby nodded in encouragement. She was doing fine. Even though it killed them both to stall, killed them to leave Meir in Hakeem's and Amir's bloodthirsty hands for another second, they had to draw this out long enough for the team to find the Hamas hideout. Everything hinged on finding them before the ransom deadline.

“Please,” she added, her voice trembling when Hakeem didn't respond. “I have to be careful, or I'll raise alarms and draw the wrong kind of attention. The U.S. NSA will be all over money transfers of any sizable amount. Israeli intelligence also. Then we both lose.”

“How much time?” he asked, finally accepting that he was beaten in this one thing.

“I need that other twenty-four hours.”

Another long silence. “Twenty-four hours. No more,” he said, his tone grudging but conceding. “I don't have to tell you what will happen to your son if you attempt to delay.”

“I won't. I'll have the money. Where do I meet you?”

“You do not yet need to know. I will call again with the time and the address.”

“I need to talk to Meir,” Talia said quickly, before Hakeem could disconnect.

“As before, the boy is sleeping.”

“I must talk with him. I must know he's alive. That he's unharmed—not one bruise on his body, do you understand? Or not only will this deal not happen, but I'll track you down and kill you myself.”

Bobby cupped her shoulder, steadying her. The tension, the lack of sleep—it was all crashing down on her.

“Brave talk from a dead woman.”

“Let me talk to my son!” she demanded, her small body shaking with rage. “And I will talk to him again tomorrow when you call, or there will be no exchange.”

Hakeem didn't respond. Finally, they heard his voice in the background yelling at someone to bring the boy.

“Keep it together,” Bobby whispered when her trembling became so violent he was afraid she'd pass out.

“Momma.” Tears and sleep filled the little boy's voice, and a strength that Bobby hadn't thought Talia capable of at this juncture washed over her.

“Hi, baby.”

“You said I could come home soon. You promised. I want to come home.”

“I know, baby. I know you do. And I did promise. Don't I always keep my promises? You
are
coming home,” she assured him, with an excitement that the boy could translate into trust.

“When?”

“Very soon now. Tomorrow. If I could come for you sooner, you know I would. But these . . . men. These men have promised to take care of you until I get there. Do they take care of you, baby? Are you hurt in any way?”

“I'm okay. Rami takes care of me.”

“Rami?” Her clear relief at Meir's quick
okay
was evident in her deep breath.

“Rami stays with me. He brings me food. And he sleeps beside me so I don't get scared.”

Her face drained of blood. “S-sleeps beside you?”

“On the floor, yes. Rami likes American football, too.”

“Oh . . . oh, good. He sounds like a g-good friend,” she choked out, her shoulders sagging with relief.

Bobby knew she was doing everything in her power to keep him on the line for as long as possible.

“And don't be afraid, Meir. Everything is fine. I will see you tomorrow, okay? You stay close to Rami until then.”

A small silence on Meir's end told them both that tomorrow was not soon enough. “I have to go,” the boy said in a whisper.

“No, not yet.” She gripped the phone tighter. “Meir!”

But he was already gone, the connection broken.

She stood so silent, for so long, that he finally had to pry the phone out of her hand.

“You did fine. He sounded fine.”

And his words sounded empty. Felt empty. As empty as her reserve of strength. She'd had to tap into it too many times.

She turned tear-filled eyes to his. “I can't do this anymore. I . . . I need him back with me. I n-need my son. I need him back. I need him back. I . . . need . . . him.”

He didn't think about his needs when she leaned numbly against him. He didn't think about past or present or promises broken. He walked her back to the bedroom.

But he didn't stay. He couldn't. Not again.

He covered her up, told her to get some sleep. Knew she probably wouldn't.

Then he walked back to the living room, sank down on the sofa, and lay awake in the predawn darkness for a long, long time before he finally fell asleep.