I’ve known her less than ten days. I shouldn’t feel whatever-the-hell-this-is for her. Idefinitelyshouldn’t have kissed her. It was too soon. She was too raw. And it made leaving her that much harder.
Fuck. I slam my open hand against the steering wheel. The pain isn’t enough to calm me. Not even close.
“Do not go. Please.”
I’ll hear her voice in my dreams every night until I can see her again. But by then, will she even want me?
She shouldn’t. I’m the worst kind of asshole. My whole life is a lie. Hell, if I hadn’t been with Ford and Trevor when I met her, she wouldn’t even know my real name. In the field, I go by Guillermo Forza.
A drop of sweat stings my side. The doc in Uzbekistan told me to get the stitches taken out in two weeks. But that’s when he thought I’d have access to regular medical care. Guess I’ll be removing them myself. It won’t be the first time.
Adjusting my headscarf and glasses—no one can know I’m here—I get out of the truck and head for the house. The guy in the foyer holding an AK-47 is army. But dressed in the traditional tunic, pants, and turban, he canalmostpass for a local.
Blood trails smear the tile, all the way to Faruk’s office. Shit. The carpet in front of the desk chair is stained almost black. Slitting a man’s throat makes a goddamn mess.
Someone—one of Ryker’s men, I bet—drilled his hard drive, but I take photos of his ledger and all the notes in the margins. They’re gibberish to me now, but I’ll study them once I have some privacy. No other files. No bank information. I’m not surprised. All that shit would have been in the burned-out server room.
I’m not supposed to know my way around, so I wander for a few minutes before I enter the private living quarters off the kitchen. Mateen’s toys litter one corner of the main room. Wooden cars, a rough-hewn train set, some dolls with hand-made clothes. A Dari and English letter book is open to the letter D.Dukhtar. Daughter.
I pick through the train cars until I find the engine. It’s the most worn, the paint gone and the wheels smooth and almost shiny. He’s had to deal with so much in his short life. If the CIA can get this to him, maybe it’ll help.
I feel like an intruder when I enter the bedroom. A woven blanket in reds, blues, and golds covers the mattress. A mirrored dressing table holds an ornate jewelry box overflowing with chains, bangles, and rings. Rubies and emeralds wink in the sunlight slashing through the barred window. The asshole lavished her with gifts. Probably thought they made up for beating the crap out of her on the regular.
This wasn’t Lisette’s sanctuary. It was her prison.
“Fuck!” With a sweep of my fist, I send the baubles tumbling to the floor. The motion disturbs the long strip of silk covering the table, and something glints from underneath.
The bracelet is simple. A chain with an engraved silver plate.
“Il n’est rien de réel que le rêve et l’amour.”
Nothing is real but dreams and love.
The French words send a chill through me, despite the heat in the air. I squeeze my eyes shut, seeing the photo Lisette’s parents gave Interpol ten long years ago. She’s smiling. Holding a bouquet of flowers in her left hand. Withthisbracelet around her wrist.
I can’t leave it behind. He took everything from her. He won’t take this.
Back in Faruk’s office, I find an envelope and pen.
Lisette Moreau
St. Jude’s Research Hospital
Boston, MA
I slide the bracelet inside, seal the flap, and head to the foyer. Slapping the envelope against the sentry’s chest, I stare him down—even though he’s got at least six inches on me. “If I find out this didn’t get delivered, I’m holdingyoupersonally responsible. Understand?”
His eyes widen, fear stealing the color from his cheeks. He’s heard the rumors. All the shit I’ve done over the past twenty years.
“Y-yes, sir!” he snaps.
I press the train car and envelope into his hand. “Smart man. I’m done here. Blow it all to hell.”
* * *
Twenty-four hours later,my mood hasn’t improved. The serving girl hovers in the doorway, waiting for me to try the overly sweetened green tea. I hate the stuff, but it’s all you get in Afghanistan in the summer.
How long is Shapur Khan—the little shit adopted the most pompous surname on the planet a couple of years ago—going to make me wait? I saved his fucking life. He could show some goddamn respect.
