“Son of a bitch—Hamid Nabil Hassan is here, in person?” Shit was getting worse. The man at the top of every terrorist watch list, here. “Is this al-Thawra’s headquarters? What country are we even in?” Think. His brain clunked over. “Intel has you being held in Somalia.”
“I wouldn’t trust it. But that’s possible.”
Something clattered—a key in a lock—and a door squealed. Footsteps thumped above. Metal clunked. She grabbed his wrist with a cold hand and pulled him clear of a square hatch cut into the boards overhead, a few inches above his six-three height. Lucky he hadn’t smacked his head on the roof when he’d leaped off the bed. Bed. Hell. Somehow he’d wound up curled up in bed with the Tess Newell—spooning the Tess Newell.
Above them men spoke—and a woman. He caught a breathy “eshi”—okay, in Amharic. So maybe this was Ethiopia? “It’s Hamid,” Tess hissed.
Flynn pulled her behind his back. She was half the size she looked on TV—he could hide two of her.
The hatch shifted, releasing square-cut blades of light. Someone grunted, and it lifted. They were in a dugout under a concrete-block building, by the look of it. An M16 barrel poked into the hole. “Do not move, soldier,” said a thickly accented voice. A rope ladder dropped down.
As the rifle eyed Flynn, two men in camo gear jumped through the hole, landing with knees bent and barrels aimed. One looked Middle Eastern, maybe Ethiopian. The other was darker skinned and taller—Somali? They fanned out as a figure descended the ladder, his shape masked by a robe. Tess sucked in a breath and stepped out from behind Flynn, drawing away one of the rifle barrels. Her face was set in the don’t-feed-me-bullshit expression he knew from TV. A mask, probably, but bravery usually was. If you weren’t scared shitless in a situation like this, you were a fool.
The robed man touched the floor, spun and pushed back his hood. Her hood. Holy shit. A column of dusty light revealed a woman—witch-thin and only a few inches shorter than Flynn. She was backlit, so he couldn’t get a fix on her face. Nothing in the intel had suggested a woman was high up in al-Thawra.
“Bonjour, soldat,” she said, stepping forward. “J’espère que tu as bien dormi?” She arched thin eyebrows toward Tess. She wasn’t a native French speaker but he couldn’t pick the accent. She was maybe fifty, tanned, a pale blue scarf tied around her hair. In France you’d call her une femme d’un certain âge. In Australia a MILF. Not what he’d expected.
“With the drugs you lot gave me, I didn’t have a choice but to sleep well.” He answered in English, for Tess’s benefit, with his adopted singsong Corsican accent. Tess would wonder what’d happened to his Australian twang, but she’d become threat number two. Until he figured out how much the terrorists knew about him, he was safer playing to expectation. “Who are you?”
The woman raked her gaze up his body as if checking out livestock. As she reached his face, her kohl-rimmed brown eyes lit with a challenge. “I am the one you know as Hamid Nabil Hassan. The most wanted man in the world.”
Flynn ground his heels into the dirt. This was the man America had been hunting since the Los Angeles terror attacks? “You don’t look like a Hamid.”
She laughed, the sound dull and harsh in the thick air. “You don’t think a woman can be a powerful adversary?”
Oh, he knew all about how dangerous women were. “You’re American?” Bloody hell, their intelligence really...wasn’t. “You’re supposed to be Somali. And a man.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “In the twenty-first century we no longer need to be defined by lines on a map or the accident of our birth. I am a person of the world, as you are. I am defined by the things I can control, not those I can’t. Gender, age, lineage, provenance—these are outdated concepts.”
“You forgot to mention religion,” said Tess, sounding like she was clenching her teeth.
“Oh no,” the woman—Hamid—said, her heavy eyes drifting to the bearded soldier next to her. “Religion can still be very useful.”
She and Tess looked like they were about to shoot lasers out of their eyes at each other.
“Why am I here?” Flynn said.
Hamid didn’t take her eyes off Tess. “Because my captive here was lonely and I like to play matchmaker. She’s pretty, don’t you think? You are well suited.”
“My government will not pay a ransom for a lowly soldier.”
Hamid tilted her head, assessing him again. “I would pay a good deal of money for a man like you. But, yes, I’m counting on that.”
He fisted his hands against his thighs. “Then why?” Like he didn’t know what was about to happen.
“I requested a pretty French soldier and my men did not disappoint.”
She stepped forward, lifting her hand to the square patch sewn on the chest of his jacket and tracing her fingertips over its twin stripes. “And an officer. Even better.” She glanced at Tess. “The French lieutenant’s woman—it has a certain allure, right?” She hooked a finger under the thin red foulard looped around his shoulder and tugged it. “And what does this mean? This scarf?”
“It means it’s dusty out there.” He resisted the urge to swallow. If she didn’t know he was legion, she’d figure it out when she saw his patch. Once she knew how expendable he was to France he’d be worth less. And it wasn’t like Australia would give a damn.
Her fingers grazed his cheek. One movement and he could have his hands around the throat of the psycho who’d ordered the deaths of thousands of civilians.
“Yes. My men chose well. The world will be twice as incensed by the brutal execution of two beautiful people as they would by the deaths of regular people. Unfair, yes? You will look handsome indeed on television, next to your new friend. I think we will kill you first and make her watch. Maybe she will cry for you—people love that kind of thing.” She flipped her hand and slid the backs of her fingers down to his jaw, lowering her voice. “Did you make the first move last night, or did she? And was it as good as I was imagining?”
“You are Hamid?”
“It depends who’s asking, and what story fits your worldview.” She spoke just above a whisper. “To the Western world, yes, I am that shadow from their worst nightmares, the one who could invade their comfortable lives and blow them up any second.” She clicked her fingers, right next to his ear, the snap echoing off the walls. “Your supermarket, your cinema, your school. I can be anywhere, take any form. A former soldier driven mad by war. A frustrated immigrant whose dream of a new life never came true.” She rested her palm on his chest, her breath smelling of coffee and toothpaste. “If you are poor and powerless and from this side of the world, I am a rallying call, a raison d’être in an otherwise disenfranchised life. No, not a raison d’être. A reason for dying.” She smiled.
He made a point of eyeballing her. “You expect me to believe that a mob of jihadists would take orders from an American woman?”
She trailed her hand across to his shoulder, sliding a sideways look at the goon next to her. “You mean these people?” Her lashes were so thick with mascara he was surprised she could keep her eyes open. “Oh, they think I am Hamid’s jihadi bride, and if they play nice little jihadists I will introduce them to the oracle. I make them call me Mrs. Hamid. You see? Different things to different people. I am whatever you want me to be.” She stroked one side of his neck. “And what would you like me to be, Lieutenant?”
He swallowed, drawing her focus to his throat. She laughed. “I make you nervous. Don’t worry. I make everyone nervous.”