EIGHT
FIVE WEEKS LATER
SAN DIEGO
Karly was going to be late. Again.
She eyed the digital clock on her microwave as she jerked open a cabinet and reached for the coffee filters.
Damn.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Frustration swelled inside her as she rummaged through the cabinet and realized she’d forgotten to stop at the store last night. It had completely slipped her mind, like so many other things these days. She’d been so consumed with work and interviews and dodging phone calls. Even the most routine task—like picking up groceries—was tough to remember.
She sighed and combed her hand through her still-damp hair. So much for that tumbler of coffee she desperately needed. And there was no time to stop at Starbucks. She could always skip the caffeine, but with barely two hours of sleep last night, that wasn’t really an option.
She grabbed a paper towel and stuffed it into the coffeepot in some semblance of a cone shape. She dumped in several scoops of coffee, added water, and shot a glance at the clock again. How had she managed to do this to herself twice in one week? She’d gone to bed so tired, so completely beat, and yet sleep hadn’t come. She’d spent hours channel surfing, only to drift off around dawn and sleep straight through her alarm.
With another glance at the clock, she rushed into the living room to pack up her laptop. She unplugged the cord and darted a look at the TV.
The face she saw there stopped her cold. It was the CNN correspondent from Manila. The one who’d camped out in the hotel lobby waiting for her. The one Ethan had given the slip to before meeting her at the service elevator and taking her up to her room and . . .
A wave of heat crashed over her. She stood there, breathless and unable to move as the memories flooded back. Every time, they took her off guard, and every time, she tried to push them away, to stuff them into the far corners of her memory banks with everything else.
The CNN guy was talking now, giving an update on the latest terror attack that had left ten people dead and four injured. It had a tagline, of course: Terror in Paradise. The story—along with pictures of the victims—had been dominating the news for weeks.
Karly snatched up the controller and switched off the television. The coffeepot beeped, and she went back into the kitchen just as her phone chimed.
“Hey, where are you?”
Drew. She caught the urgency in his voice as she reached for her travel cup.
“On my way in. Why?”
“Didn’t you get the message?”
“No. What is it?”
“The interview’s been moved,” he said. “We’re meeting at Shayla’s house instead of the studio. You need to be there at eight.”
“Eight? But—”
“Just get there, okay? It’s in La Jolla. I’ll text you the address.”
“There’s no way—”
“I’ll shoot the pictures first, and you can do the interview afterward. Just get your ass up there.”
He clicked off, and Karly stared down at her phone. She dialed into her office voice mail and discovered she had four new messages awaiting her, all since last night. She’d been avoiding her work phone ever since Ethan had called her there. He’d left three messages in three days, and Karly’s resistance was beginning to crumble.
She braced herself for his voice. But instead, it was her editor telling her just what Drew already had, that her interview had been moved and she needed to hightail it up to La Jolla. In rush-hour traffic, no less. To interview a spoiled twenty-two-year-old who was the new diva of reality TV.
Karly grabbed the carafe and filled her cup. The liquid swirled with coffee grounds, and she muttered a curse before pouring it down the sink.
She hated this day, and it had barely started. She grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge, snagged her car keys off the table, and shouldered her computer bag as she headed for the door.
One solid night. Was that too much to hope for? Just a few hours to pull her out of this constant state of sleep-deprived bitchery that had become her new normal.
She stuffed her phone into her bag, thinking of Ethan. She needed to call him back. She should. If she didn’t, he’d just keep calling her. SEALs were tenacious, she was learning, and if she didn’t have it out with him, then sooner or later, she’d give into temptation.
Karly paused beside her door. She knew his number. She’d memorized it days ago when he first called. She’d memorized his number, along with every word he’d said.
Karly, it’s Ethan. I’ve got some time off, and I’d really like to see you. I’m in San Diego, but I guess you know that. Call me.
The message the second day hadn’t been any easier to hear.
Karly, it’s Ethan. Pause. You’re probably busy with work, but I’m on leave this week and was hoping we could get together.
Those first few messages had come late in the day, and she figured he’d started thinking about her as he was gearing up for a night out with his buddies. Maybe wanting to set up a late-night hookup in case things didn’t pan out at the bars. The prospect was enough to motivate Karly to ignore him.
But yesterday’s call had come in the morning. Hi, Karly, it’s me again. I’m thinking about you. I have a couple more days off, so . . . call me. I want to see how you are.
That last part had almost done her in. I want to see how you are. Like he had some need to check in on her. As opposed to a much more basic need to get laid again while he had shore leave.
I’ve got some time off . . . a couple more days . . .
The man was a sailor. He probably had a woman in every port.
And she was so not doing this. She refused to be one of those women. In his home port, too, which would make it even worse. He’d probably be calling her for a hookup every time he got leave, unless she put a stop to it right now.
But the thing was, she missed him. Way more than she’d thought was possible after only one night together. Well, two, if she counted the night on the island. And she counted it, because it formed the basis of the bond she’d felt with him ever since he’d kissed her with so much intensity that she’d never be able to kiss another man without comparing it. And as intense as that kiss was, it paled in comparison to the life-altering sex they’d had later. She pictured his eyes as he’d lowered her onto the bed. She pictured the look on his face as he’d held her beneath him and made her world come apart.
Stop it!
She had to stop doing this. He had to stop doing this to her.
Karly took a deep breath and called his number. It was seven fifteen. With any luck, he’d be asleep, and she wouldn’t have to talk to him live—she could simply leave a message. But he was in the Navy. So he was probably an early riser.
Her nerves fluttered as the call connected. She started to hang up, but then she heard his voice.
Dunn here. Leave a message.
She closed her eyes. Just the sound of him made her heart speed up. And she realized she didn’t know what to say. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to have this conversation.
A sharp rap on the front door made her jump. She ended the call and stared at it.
Who would be here this early? Surely not Drew. He was sitting in traffic right now, where she should be if she wanted to keep her job.
Karly peered through the peephole. Her stomach sank as she recognized the man and the woman on the other side.
“Who is it?” she asked, stalling for time. Damn it, she should have gotten out of here when she had the chance. Now her morning was toast.
The woman flipped open an ID and held it up.
“Alexa Mays, FBI.”
Karly folded her hands in her lap and forced herself not to fidget as Special Agent Alexa Mays checked out her apartment. Even from the agent’s limited vantage point on the sofa, she was clearly taking in every detail.
“Of course, I’m glad to help,” Karly said to her, “but I’m not sure what more I can tell you. I went over everything already.”
Karly had been through three separate debriefings with investigators—one in Manila and two in the FBI’s field office here in San Diego. Each had lasted more than two hours.
Mays flipped her long dark hair over her shoulder and opened her notepad. “We’re sorry for the inconvenience,” she said, giving Karly a sympathetic smile. “But we have a few follow-up questions.”
Karly glanced at Special Agent Hull, who was pulling several file folders from his briefcase. It looked like he was prepping for more than a “few” questions.
“Any chance we can make this quick?” Karly smiled at the man, hoping she could win him over with a little flirting. “I’m late for work already, so . . .”
Hull’s gaze was stony. He didn’t talk much, she recalled. And his name seemed to suit him—the man was enormous. Mays looked petite beside him, and she was nearly six feet tall.
“There have been some developments,” Mays informed her, “that have made it necessary for us to reinterview several key people.”
Key people? Karly took a deep breath and resisted the urge to look at her watch. “Okay, well . . . whatever I can do.”
Mays nodded. “As you know, the attack on Ambassador Mancuso was the work of a terrorist organization known as ACB. After reviewing our intelligence and sifting through evidence, we have reason to believe that an insider helped carry out the attack.”
“An insider?” She looked from Mays to Hull. “You mean, at the resort or—”
“Possibly. Or possibly someone in the ambassador’s entourage,” Mays said.
“But . . . most of them were killed, right? All four of his security guards.”
“His assistant survived,” Mays said.
“Raina? The swimsuit model?” Karly laughed. “You can’t seriously think—”
“Swimsuit model?” Hull looked at Mays. “I don’t have that in the file.”
“No, I mean she looks like a swimsuit model,” Karly said. “It’s an inside joke between me and Drew, my photographer. Anyway, forget it. What I mean is, Raina doesn’t strike me as a terrorist mastermind.”
“We’re not saying this insider is a mastermind,” Mays said, “but we believe this person played a critical role in the attack.”
“Why?”
“The timing, for one,” Mays said. “The ambassador’s travel plans were changed at the last minute. You may recall the trip was bumped up by a week just days before he departed on vacation.”
Karly definitely recalled that. She’d had to scramble to rebook her plane ticket, and the fee she’d incurred had cost the magazine a fortune.
“Very few people—only the ambassador and his closest aides—were aware of the change and knew he was at the Sapphire that week. He wanted privacy with his daughter and insisted on keeping the vacation under wraps. Which indicates someone was able to inform ACB about the ambassador’s plans.”
“Another thing,” Hull said. “The initial assault happened at precisely five P.M., which is when his bodyguards were in the middle of a shift change. That timing enabled the attackers to infiltrate the resort and take out all four guards at once, giving them immediate control of the compound.”
Karly shook her head. “So you’re saying you think one of the ambassador’s people tipped them off? But none of those people survived the attack besides Raina. And his daughter, Natalie.”
“We believe it was someone on the island,” Mays said. “We’re looking at resort employees as well as the other tourists. What we need from you is information. You spent five days at the resort, and you were interviewing people and taking note of details for your article. We’re hoping you might have noticed something suspicious.”
“Suspicious?”
“Or someone acting oddly.”
Karly stared at her. “You want me to implicate—”
“We’re not asking you to implicate anyone,” Mays said. “We just want your impressions. Were there any hotel guests or staffers whose behavior might have seemed in any way . . . unusual?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I haven’t really given it any thought.”
Hull opened the file folder in front of him and slid a paper across the coffee table. Karly found herself staring at a page full of photographs—passport photos, they looked like. She recognized her fellow Sapphire guests, along with the staffers. Her gaze landed on Malai’s picture.
Karly’s stomach knotted. She pulled the paper closer. She looked at Brad. And Brianna. And the waiter whose body she’d stumbled over on the trail.
Ten victims total. Ten lives destroyed. Countless more, if you added all the loved ones they’d left behind. She noticed the face of the Thai businessman who’d been traveling with his wife. Karly had met him in the gift shop, and he’d let her buy the last bottle of sunscreen.
“Karly?”
“Sorry. What?”
“I said, does anything come to mind about anyone?”
She looked at the faces again, lingering on her own passport photo. How many of these people were being interviewed right now, possibly trying to come up with something suspicious about her?
“I don’t know. Is this everyone?”
“That’s correct.”
She skimmed the page again. “What about the travel writer?”
“Who?” Mays leaned closer.
“What’s his name? Tim Green? Tom? The guy who does the travel blog.”
Hull’s brow furrowed. “There’s no Green here. You’re talking about a guest at the resort?”
“I think so.” Karly looked at Mays. “I mean, why else would he be there if he wasn’t a guest? The whole island is private property. And it’s an hour-long ferry ride. You don’t just drop by for lunch.”
Mays looked at Hull.
“You say his name was Tim Green?” Hull asked.
“No, it was Tom. I remember now.”
“Did he spell Green the normal way or with an ‘e’ at the end?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like he gave me a business card. We were just chatting.”
Karly pictured him standing beside her table at the restaurant. He’d had an easygoing way about him and a friendly smile. He’d only spoken with her and Natalie for a few moments before heading off to the beach.
Mays and Hull were watching her intently.
“I only talked to him for a minute,” Karly said. “I don’t remember that much about him. It’s not like he was there the whole time.”
“When did he show up?” Mays asked.
“Wednesday.” Karly’s blood chilled a few degrees. That was the day before the attack. “At least, that’s what Natalie said.”
Mays looked surprised. “Natalie met him?”
“Yeah. She met him in the gift shop. She had a longer conversation with him than I did, so she might know more.”
Mays and Hull exchanged glances.
“Her father’s prohibited any further interviews,” Hull said. “Also, we understand she’s having memory issues with the time frame surrounding the attack.”
Karly felt a sharp pang. She couldn’t even imagine what Natalie must be going through right now.
“Getting back to Tom Green,” Mays said. “What did he talk to you about?”
“Nothing, really. I had my laptop and my press pass out, and he asked about my work.” Karly’s pulse was racing now as the conversation came back to her. “He asked if I was a TV or print reporter.”
Mays looked at Hull. “Maybe he wanted to know if she had a cameraman with her.”
“What did he look like?” Hull asked.
Karly took a deep breath. “Average, really. Medium height. Medium build. He had dark hair cut really short. Almost military-length.”
Mays was scribbling in her notepad now. “Race?”
“White, although he was tan. And he seemed like he spent a lot of time outdoors.”
Mays glanced up from her notes. “Why do you say that?”
“He seemed pretty built. You know, athletic.”
“Nationality? Accent?”
“American, I think. At least, he sounded American.”
Another look between Mays and Hull. Then Hull reached into his briefcase and started poking through another file.
“Could this be him?” The agent slid a paper in front of her. On it was a black-and-white photo of a man on a crowded city sidewalk. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, and it was nearly impossible to see his face.
“Who is this?” Karly looked at Hull.
“I’m asking you. Could this be the man you met as Tom Green?”
Karly studied the picture again. She couldn’t tell much from the grainy photo. The low-res image looked like it might have come from surveillance footage. “I don’t know.” She pushed the paper away. “There’s so little detail here. I can’t even see his face, really.”
“Could it be the man you met at the resort?” Hull persisted.
“I guess it could. It could be a lot of people.” She looked at Mays. “That photograph was taken in Thailand. I can tell from the street signs.”
She waited for Mays to respond, but the agent just stared at her.
“Who is this guy?” Karly asked again.
“We don’t know,” Mays said. “We wish we did.”
“Several of our sources told us about him,” Hull said. “We don’t know who he is, only what he does.”
“And what does he do?”
Mays hesitated, as if deciding how much she wanted to reveal. “We believe he’s an American who may have traveled to Syria and trained with ISIS. Now he’s working with the ACB.” She paused. “We think he coordinated the nightclub bombing in Bangkok.”
“And he’s American?”
“We believe so. But we don’t have an ID,” Hull said. “He’s known to us only as Mr. X.”
Karly looked down at the picture again, trying to reconcile the laid-back travel writer with this man who might have helped blow up dozens of innocent people at a club. She tried to imagine how the man who’d invited her to go diving could have helped orchestrate ten ruthless killings the very same day. She thought of Brad and Brianna being mowed down by gunfire, and she started to feel queasy.
“You say he sounded American,” Mays continued. “Any accent you noticed? Southern? Midwestern? Anything?”
Karly shook her head.
Mays checked her watch, and Karly realized the interview had lasted quite a while.
“We need you to come into the office with us,” Mays said.
“What, you mean now?”
“That’s right. We’re going to need you to look at mug shots, see if we might get an ID on this guy.”
“But—”
“It’s important.” Mays stood up, followed by Hull.
“Does it have to be right this minute? I’ve got an appointment at eight, and I’m already running late.”
“Definitely by noon.” Mays checked her watch again. “It will take us some time to get the photos lined up for you to go through, so late morning should work. Say, eleven o’clock?”
Karly was on her feet now, feeling like her head was going to explode. “I’ll do my best.”
“Please do.” Mays flipped shut her notepad and looked Karly in the eye. “This is high priority.”
“I get that.”
Karly led them to the door and opened it. Hull stepped out.
“Give us a minute,” Mays told him. She eased the door shut and turned to Karly. “How are you doing? Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Right. Bad question.” Mays looked at her with concern. “Did you call that counselor I recommended?”
“Actually, I did.” Karly cleared her throat. “Thank you.”
Despite her tough demeanor, Agent Mays had a heart, and after their initial interview, she’d pulled Karly aside to recommend a therapist.
“I really hate to bring you back into this,” Mays said now, “and we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”
“I appreciate that.”
The agent nodded and pulled the door open again, then stepped outside to join her partner.
“If this man you met is our Mr. X, then he’s been involved in multiple deadly attacks, and what our sources have told us about him is proving true,” Mays said. “Which means the rest of what we’ve heard about him could also be true—namely, that he has an American passport. It’s imperative that we ID him.”
Karly stared at her, absorbing the implications. “You’re worried he’s planning something more?”
“Based on the intel we have, yes.”
A chill snaked down Karly’s spine.
“We think he’s planning something big,” Hull told her.
“Not only that,” Mays said. “We think he’s planning something here.”