Targeted (FBI Heat) (13 page)

“What, Tareef? And speak English.”

“How will we pay?” He glanced nervously at the others. “We added up the money we each have, and it will not be enough.”

She gasped, secretly enjoying their dismay. “You do not have the money to pay for your food? What will we do?” She wrung her hands as if distraught. “I have heard that American businesses will not let you leave, that they call the police to take you to jail. Should you have thought of the money
before
you ate?”

“But Samir always paid,” he explained defensively.

Marissa’s reaction changed from anxious to stern. “As will I.” She aimed her index finger at each of them in turn. “But that does not excuse your carelessness of not thinking of payment before eating. Do you wish to attract unwanted attention to us? It is bad enough that you sit here talking in Arabic instead of English. Do you not notice the other customers staring uncomfortably at us?”

“Let them be uncomfortable. Even better, let them be afraid,” Yasir sneered.

“Imbecile,” she muttered. “How did my husband choose such stupid men for this jihad? From now on, you will think and speak English. Understand?”

They nodded in unison.

The last thing she needed was for another civilian to get suspicious of the group and interfere, possibly crippling the op. She hadn’t survived the past two weeks to have someone screw it up now. Ameen was problem enough.

She watched their surprised expressions with satisfaction when she pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her purse. After the waitress returned with her change, she left a large tip and led the chastised men outside. They crammed into the small car for the short drive back to the apartment. On the way, she laid the groundwork for the day.

“Fateen and Masoud, you are to relieve Saleem and Rashad in Tijuana this morning. I will be there some time tonight.”

“We drove down there twice yesterday,” Fateen complained. “Make Tareef and Yasir go.”

“If you would not whine like a baby to Samir, you should not whine to me,” Marissa rebuffed him. Better to stop insubordination before it took hold. “Besides, Yasir has to work at the ballpark tonight. Right, Yasir?” She enjoyed the amazed looks on everyone’s faces. Each unexpected detail she could drop would reinforce her leadership. She didn’t know how much Samir had told them before she arrived, but once she joined the group, he’d shared very little with anyone.

“Yes, every game for the next week,” Yasir grumbled.

“Good. I will need the truck for the rest of the day. I have a hundred things to do. Unfortunately, I was in such shock over losing Samir and Omar that I forgot about the meeting with the Mexican yesterday. I have to fix the problem today.” Confused frowns all around confirmed they didn’t know anything about Samir’s appointment with Juan Gonzalez. On this, she could’ve used some help, for she had no more clue to the Mexican’s involvement than they did. But no one spoke.

She raised the next issue. “I need my clothes. Where did Samir put them?”

All eyes darted away.

“Well?”

Tareef squirmed and confessed. “Samir put them in the trash.”

“What? No! Idiot. Bad decisions like that are what made Husaam so angry.” She pressed her fingertips against her temples. “I need regular clothes to blend in. Now I’ll also have to go shopping when I don’t have time for such nonsense.”

No one spoke again until they reached the apartment. Marissa immediately ripped off the
abaya
and
niqab
and tossed them on her bed.

Even with her pushing, Fateen and Masoud took over an hour to get on the road to Tijuana. Then she told Tareef and Yasir to walk to the grocery store and purchase supplies for the next week. Now finally,
finally
, she had the apartment to herself.

Relieved, she systematically searched drawers, closets, and cabinets for additional information. Frustration built with each empty result. The search had yielded nothing useful when she heard the two men returning with the groceries. She grabbed her purse and brushed past them as they entered.

“Clean the apartment,” she ordered over her shoulder. She didn’t look back at the indignant scowls she knew were on their faces.

S
itting at his desk, Ben stared blindly at his computer screen. Amber had just called, and their conversation had left an uneasy feeling in his gut.

Her boss had given her two tickets to the Padres’ game on Wednesday night. Normally, Ben would’ve been thrilled at the prospect of attending a game at the downtown ballpark, but this op had 24/7 written all over it. When he’d turned down her invitation and suggested she take someone else, his girlfriend’s disappointment had been palpable. What worried him was that there might be more to her reaction than just disappointment.

Last night, he had simply told her Marissa was safe. Amber had seemed okay with the news until she’d asked some questions—questions he couldn’t answer. Not because he was hiding something about Marissa, but because he couldn’t reveal anything about the operation. Amber knew he loved her so he didn’t think she was jealous.

No, his concern ran deeper. Had his middle-of-the-night conversation with Ian opened a Pandora’s Box containing all the reasons why a serious relationship with an FBI agent was so difficult? God, he hoped not.

Surely after what they’d already been through, Amber could handle the downside of his job better than Ian had handled Marissa’s career. Unlike the foundation of the other couple’s relationship, which had been formed during a low-key time in Marissa’s job, his and Amber’s bonds had been forged under adversity and baptized by fire.

She still suffered nightmares about what had happened, but they were working through it as a team. He nodded to himself and smiled. They were good together. Amber was strong, stronger than Ian, he figured. She was also the sun in Ben’s life, and an occasional cloud wasn’t going to change that.

Abruptly, his cell phone dragged him from his thoughts.

“What the hell were you doing, Alfren? Contact was not authorized!” Kevin Rawlings hollered on the phone.

Ben grimaced.
Damn.
Marissa’s tail must’ve tagged him and snitched to their boss. He pictured the steely-eyed man from the videoconference call, but now the man had steam coming out his ears. Ben grinned and responded glibly, “Since Special Agent Panuska’s opportunities to contact her handler have been so infrequent, I thought it was the most expedient way to inform her that Ameen Ali is clean.”

“Like hell you did. You wanted her to know you’re involved in the op. Don’t make this personal, Alfren, or I’ll kick your ass out of the sandbox.”

Ben bristled. “As I recall, sir, you wanted my
personal
insight into Special Agent Panuska’s personality and behavior. Understanding her as I do, I knew communicating in this manner would be…beneficial.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rawlings halted his tirade to take a breath. “I saw your report. I knew we’d looked at him before when we did the assessment of the entire mosque, but nothing substantial on him individually. I still haven’t figured out Panuska’s interest in him. I don’t think she even had time to read the assessment before she went undercover. It all happened so fast. She’d never been to the mosque before today so she’s never seen the guy.” He exhaled in frustration. “Anyway, you agree Ameen Ali is clean?”

“Squeaky clean.”

“No goddamn contact with him. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, I do. But Ameen didn’t get the memo.”

“What?” Rawlings sounded like he was coming through the phone to strangle Ben.

“Ameen spoke to me at the mosque and gave me a present.”

“Shit! What kind of damn present?”

“A plastic bag containing the dead guys’ wallets, the sat phone, and a fucking scary knife.”

“How the hell did he get his hands on that stuff?”

“Damn if I know. Maybe he found the bodies before we did.”

“Okay, but why would he give the stuff to you? He has no clue who you are or your connection to Panuska.” The poor man sounded completely confused by the incident. Ben was in the same spot.

“Right, except he must’ve seen me talking to Marissa and the cell. Ameen told me we had to stop the ‘evil men’ before they hurt Baheera. He knew her name,” Ben said, emphasizing each word. “So somehow, somewhere, sometime, Ameen has already connected with her.” He frowned, and his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know how. We’ve never witnessed or heard of any contact between the two of them,” Rawlings said.

Ben’s mind rewound through the events of the last two days. Then he knew. “That night. When your guys lost Marissa. And the assholes tried to behead her. Ameen is the one who shot Samir and Omar, and then hid Baheera overnight.”

“Damn, it fits. But why didn’t she tell us?”

He swallowed hard. “Maybe she just hasn’t had time. Or didn’t think it was critical info. But that would explain why she wanted us to check him out. And he’s smart, so she may think she can use him. He’s Arab—it could help.”

“But he’s known to the cell.”

“Just my
personal
opinion, sir.”

Rawlings chuckled. “Right. I admit your analysis has merit. We need to get some new intel to Panuska ASAP. Do you have another contact planned?”

“Is it authorized?”

“Look, Alfren, we’re on the same fucking side, but I’m in charge. Let’s play nice. There’s too much shit going down for me to have time to worry about what you’re going to pull next. The
real
Baheera Abbas is comatose and about to die on us. Husaam’s screaming on the phone, climbing the walls, ready to fly halfway around the world to look for the
fake
Baheera himself because he has no addresses or phone numbers for the cell in San Diego. Thank God, al-Qaeda is so fractured they don’t even know who the hell each other is. We tapped Husaam’s call to the electronics plant in Tijuana, and he didn’t even know who to ask for. When the receptionist told him there were two dozen Arab engineers, he got belligerent, and she hung up. Fucking hilarious.”

“Yeah, real funny. What’s the new intel?”

Rawlings hesitated. “We know where the pig is, but it’s too risky to operate.”

“Operate?”

“Don’t ask. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

The phone went dead. So much for playing nice.

Later Tuesday morning, Ameen slouched in the chair, staring out his office window. His face was expressionless, his demeanor stoic. But inside, he was coiled like a cobra. And the reason scared the shit out of him.

Baheera.
What was it about the woman that fascinated him?
Everything.
What aroused him, as he hadn’t been in ages?
Everything.
No serious relationship in years. He’d also willed his lust into submission. But since meeting Baheera two days ago, he thought about her all the time. In ways Allah and his uncle would not approve.

And now, she’d kissed him. And he’d damn well kissed her back.

What her kiss had done to him was downright embarrassing. He’d felt like a sex-starved teenager with hormones on steroids. If they hadn’t been at the mosque, he probably would have taken her. Right then. Right there, in a damn utility closet. He’d definitely sensed she was ready and willing.

Damn, what a horrible thing to think of someone so special.
And Baheera was, indeed, special. In many ways. He knew it instinctively. And he wanted more. He glanced down at the bulge in his pants and muttered an Arabic curse. He shook the lust from his mind and focused on less sexual matters concerning Baheera.

He hated her plan. Dealing with drug-gang scum was dangerous, and not knowing what Samir had cooked up made the situation even more unpredictable. But Ameen had agreed to be her messenger, and he wouldn’t renege. His help might reinforce her trust, and he’d use that trust to convince her to get away from the cell.

At 10:05 a.m., Ameen watched Juan Gonzalez park the black Suburban at the curb. The Mexican surveyed the grounds before climbing out and leaning back against the side of the vehicle with the same brash attitude as before. When he rearranged the gun stuffed in his front waistband, Ameen’s eyes narrowed. He watched Juan fidget and look at his watch every thirty seconds.

Ameen unlocked a desk drawer and retrieved his own pistol. He checked the magazine and started to stash the gun in his waistband, but then remembered the secretary he would have to pass on his way to the front door. Swearing under his breath, he slipped the pistol into his pants pocket where it was not nearly as accessible.
Let’s just hope I don’t need it.

Juan studied Ameen suspiciously as he approached. “Where’s Samir?”

“He couldn’t be here, but someone will call you today at noon. They still want the deal,” Ameen said calmly, keeping one eye on the man’s hands.

The guy straightened away from the SUV. “That wasn’t the plan, asshole.”

Ameen tensed and slid his hand into his pocket. “Plans change, Juan.”

The use of his name visibly shook him. His eyes made a quick sweep of the area. “My boss won’t like this.”

“Too bad. Hey, I’m just the messenger.”

Ameen turned and sauntered back into the mosque. From his office window, he observed Juan making a call. The Mexican paced and gestured angrily while he talked. When he finished, he kicked a tire before yanking the Suburban’s door open. He must’ve been right about his boss.

As Juan Gonzalez drove away, Ameen wondered if the deal was still on. For Baheera’s sake, he hoped it
wasn’t
.

What the hell?

Ben peered through the binoculars as Ameen casually approached the cocky Mexican. Despite the calm façade, the gun evident in the Arab’s pocket told Ben this wasn’t a social visit.

The meeting lasted less than a minute. Was Ameen just telling the likely gang member to get lost? Or was something else going down?

Ten minutes later, Ameen was in his truck. When he turned onto El Cajon Boulevard, Ben followed, three cars back, in his dark blue BMW. Once he determined Ameen was heading to the cell’s apartment, he took an alternate route. He’d already parked on a side street when he saw the truck go by. Ameen circled the block twice, with Ben ducking each time before the truck passed. Finally, he parked half a block in front of the Beemer, giving Ben a good view.

Ameen had just lowered the sun visor, leaned back, and crossed his arms behind his head when he jerked upright. The truck roared back to life. Staying low behind the wheel, Ben started his car. Within a few minutes, the truck pulled away from the curb, and the BMW was its shadow.

Up ahead, Ben spotted the black sedan that had followed Marissa and the terrorists away from the mosque earlier that morning. Her surveillance team, which meant Marissa was ahead of them. He chuckled.
A parade.

The caravan of vehicles traveled to the Interstate 8 East entrance. Ben’s head shifted up and down, side to side, trying to spot the cell’s car that he’d seen at the mosque. Convinced it wasn’t there, he decided an old Chevy truck was leading the parade.
Where the hell did that truck come from? Marissa must be in it. Alone or with someone?

After a short sprint down the freeway, they all exited at Jackson Drive and turned immediately into the Grossmont Center mall parking lot. Ben hung back to avoid detection. After spotting the black sedan and Ameen’s truck, he stopped in a parking space just as Ameen leaped from his vehicle and raced after a woman opening the door to a store.

She no longer wore Muslim garb, and Ben recognized her instantly.

Marissa found the women’s clothing department. She had about an hour to buy clothes and then drive someplace private to make the call to Juan Gonzalez at noon. Plenty of time. She might as well relax and enjoy her newfound freedom.

She selected three pairs of dark pants, six long-sleeved blouses, and a black scarf. Spotting a dressing room nearby, she gathered up the items and hurried over. She wasn’t worried about being stylish. The garments just had to fit and provide the proper Muslim modesty.

Besides, the quiet solitude of the dressing room beckoned. Who knew what new obstacle or problem Juan Gonzalez represented? Did he have something to do with the delivery of the pig? Based on Ameen’s description, she didn’t have a good feeling about the man. As soon as she gleaned whatever she could from the call, she’d contact her handler with an update. Hopefully, intel would flow both ways, and her handler could explain the role of the Mexicans.

Marissa exhaled slowly. A brief respite from the tension, doing something as mundane as trying on clothes, would be so welcome.

She chose a cubicle at the far end of the deserted dressing room. After closing the door, she whipped off her blouse and unbuttoned the waistband of her pants. But she stopped abruptly at the sound of heavy footsteps.

My surveillance team?
They’re the only ones who know I’m here
.

She listened for her name. All she heard was more footsteps. Every second step, they paused before continuing. Was someone checking under the cubicle doors for feet?

A horrific possibility flashed through her mind. Husaam had sent someone to find and kill the fake Baheera.
My God, how did he find me so fast?
Has he had someone we weren’t aware of spying on the cell this whole time?

Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Alone, again, with no one but herself to…

She yanked the Glock from her purse as the cubicle door flew open.

“Ameen!” she cried and staggered back against the mirrored wall.

He froze. But he wasn’t staring at her gun.

Marissa grabbed his arm and jerked him inside so she could shut the door. The small space shrank as maleness filled it.

Ameen said nothing, just continued to stare. She stuffed the gun back in her purse, hoping he’d been so fixated on her breasts that he hadn’t noticed it, but knowing he had.

“What are you doing here?” she finally asked to break the spell.

His admiring eyes rose to hers, and he gulped. “I-I’m sorry, Baheera,” he stammered.

Her exposure didn’t faze or embarrass her. The lack of a blouse revealed far less flesh than any bikini she owned. She always found the debilitating effect a woman’s nakedness had on a man to be humorous…and sometimes empowering. But Ameen’s penitent expression was strangely seductive.