The adage love is blind was too damned true.
The story got somewhat muddy during the last year she spent in Kuwait. No matter how he’d phrased the questions or from what angle he had approached the subject, she’d found a way to dodge being completely forthcoming about that timeframe.
He didn’t understand her reasons for holding back. As badly as she wanted to regain custody of her son he had to assume that she would share any possible information even if only remotely relevant. That assumption would lead him to figure that nothing about that final year was significant. However, there was a strong probability that she couldn’t see past the emotional wall she’d built to protect herself from those final months of her marriage. She could be holding back information that would prove useful without even knowing it. That was the part that worried him.
Of course he couldn’t be certain that anything about her marriage, other than the clash of cultures, was pertinent to the current situation, but he had a feeling.
After a decade of diving into covert operations in various settings and under a wide array of conditions, he’d learned to trust his gut implicitly. His instincts had only let him down once.
Spencer leaned back deep into the seat, allowing his thoughts to wander back just over two years—something he rarely permitted. The mission had been as uncomplicated as they came, get in, retrieve the hostages and get out. He and his team had done it a hundred times before.
But that last time something had gone wrong. The hostages were already dead when the team arrived. Spencer had taken the fall for the intelligence leak that had led to the deaths of the hostages.
He hadn’t been able to prove his innocence, but neither had the military investigators assigned to the case been able to prove his guilt.
As far as he was concerned there was only one man to blame for what happened. Colonel Calvin Richards. Richards was retired now, but he’d managed to destroy Spencer’s career before taking that retirement.
Bitterness burned through Spencer. This was why he didn’t let himself think about that particular part of his past. His fingers tightened on the arms of his seat. He hadn’t deserved that kind of end to his career. Prior to the incident two years ago he’d been touted a hero. He’d never wanted the attention that went along with being labeled a hero, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected to be called a traitor.
“Would you like something to drink, sir?”
The flight attendant smiled down at him, ready to provide whatever refreshment he required. The answer to her question was no. He told himself to utter the single-syllable word but the thought of having a drink—just one—was almost overpowering. One drink would likely do the trick. He could relax… let go the tension now twisting his gut.
The other passengers seated around him in first class had been served already. Beer, wine, cocktails, bourbon. It would be so easy. Having a drink once they landed in Kuwait would be near impossible since alcohol was illegal.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. He wished he could work up the courage to just say no.
“I’ll take a soda.”
Willow’s voice jerked his gaze in her direction. She sat up a little straighter in her seat and gazed expectantly at the flight attendant. He hadn’t realized she’d awakened, much less moved.
“Nothing for you, sir?” the attendant prompted one last time.
“I’ll have the same as the lady.” That his voice was practically a croak made him even angrier, this time at himself for being weak as well as a fool.
“I’ll be right back with your drinks.” The attendant continued down the aisle.
“I can’t believe I slept so long.” Willow stretched her arms and torso, the motion as sleek and languid as a cat’s, the soft moan accompanying those movements sounding as satisfied as a contented purr.
“You were tired.” It was the only response he could dredge up from his preoccupied brain at the moment. He shifted his attention from her, careful not to focus on the alcoholic beverages being enjoyed by the other passengers, and gave himself a mental kick.
The attendant returned with their complimentary drinks. Spencer allowed the fizz of the soda to sit on his tongue before swallowing. He would not let his need to fortify himself screw up this operation. His mind was made up. The two years not withstanding, wallowing in self-pity had never been his style.
This was his opportunity to get his act together. He would not let defeat suck him in again. Willow Harris was counting on him.
Her little boy was counting on him as well, though he didn’t know it yet and might not appreciate it for years to come. The next couple of days would determine the course the boy’s young life took. Would he be raised as an American with his mother’s influence affecting his daily life? Or would his future lie in a different world with a man who very well could be associated with terrorists?
To Spencer’s way of thinking, under normal circumstances both parents should be involved with the rearing of a child. But, if there was even an iota of truth to the rumor that al-Shimmari had ties to terrorists, the man had no right to shape the life of his child.
Proving al-Shimmari’s ties to illegal activities was not Spencer’s job. His focus was reuniting the boy with his mother. He would, in fact, be attempting to steal the child and to smuggle him out of the country with a fake passport. If they were caught, they would face stiff penalties, including jail time.
It was common practice in these cases for one parent or the other to attempt to regain control over their child’s destiny. In this case, the key was to have the child on American soil and in the care of the mother in order to claim jurisdiction for legal purposes. On his own ground, that was exactly what Willow’s ex-husband had done. He, in turn, would fully anticipate that she would retaliate in kind. Unfortunately none of her previous investigators had been successful.
Spencer considered that at least one man may have died in his attempt. This gave him all the more reason to believe that al-Shimmari might not be on the up and up.
Whether he was or not made no difference to Spencer. It did, however, greatly influence the lengths the man would likely be willing to go to in order to protect his continued possession of the child. Possession was extremely important to maintaining legal custody. The American courts generally ruled in favor of the American parent. Willow had, in fact, gained a court order granting her temporary custody months ago. The Kuwaiti courts had chosen to ignore that order. No surprise there.
“I brought along a khimar to wear. I didn’t know if you would think it was necessary, but I’m leaning toward that extra layer of precaution.”
Spencer wrestled his attention back to the present. “I brought one as well. I planned to suggest that you wear it to ensure as much invisibility as possible.” He’d hoped she wouldn’t have a problem wearing the scarf. Though it wasn’t necessary as a western visitor, any steps they could take to ensure she wasn’t identified by anyone from al-Shimmari’s circle of family, friends or business associates would be a good thing. He hadn’t brought it up before in an attempt to avoid giving her anything else to worry about. He’d felt certain she would agree to the last minute suggestion.
Maybe he’d underestimated her determination to cooperate.
“Funny,” she said quietly, “I never wore them before.”
She didn’t look at him as she said this, instead she stared out the window at the passing clouds or maybe nothing in particular.
“An act of defiance?” Was this how the marriage had started off? Or had her husband at first permitted her to cling to her western ways?
“Our relationship was different in the beginning.” Her gaze shifted to the back of the seat in front of her as she spoke. “There was mutual respect. His mother didn’t like that he allowed me to be American, but he