Two
Jared MacIntyre had his target in sight. He took out his phone and pretended to be reading a text when he was in fact taking photographs of guests, who were engaging in conversation with the person he'd been following for the past week.
As he finished snapping the latest group he couldn't help glancing back at the camera roll, at the beautiful brunette with the deep-brown eyes, sexy smile and killer curves, who had crossed paths with his target a half hour earlier. He'd definitely had a visceral reaction to her, but what had really bothered him was the fact that he didn't know who she was.
He'd studied the party guest list at great length, matching names to faces, long before he'd come to the consulate. But he didn't remember her face, which was extremely odd, because she had the kind of heart-stopping beauty he would not have forgotten.
Her long, thick, dark-brown hair fell over her shoulders in flowing, silky waves, and her facial features and olive skin, implied that she was a mix of cultures. He'd seen her greet several people, including the bride-to-be, with a warmth that seemed very familiar. So, who was she and why hadn't she been on the guest list?
He opened up a text and sent her photo with one questioning word—name?
He'd no sooner done that when a waiter passing by with a full tray of glasses suddenly stumbled, sending sparkling wine in every direction, including the front of his shirt.
"Sorry, so sorry," the young man said.
He gasped at the sudden, cold wetness. His shirt was drenched.
A woman who'd been standing quite close to him began squealing about her dress, and there was a general commotion as waitstaff came to clean up the mess and offer towels and apologies to those who had been soaked in champagne.
He pushed the conciliatory waiter away, muttering that he was fine, and stepped out of the fray, searching once more for the person he was supposed to be watching.
It took him only a minute to realize his target was no longer in the living room.
He walked through the crowd with a growing sense of uneasiness. He couldn't help but wonder if the dropped tray hadn't provided the perfect distraction to slip out of sight. He could have been made and the sudden champagne spill might not have been an accident at all.
He quickened his pace, walking out of the living room and down the hall.
He'd studied blueprints for the consulate in great detail. He knew there were nine rooms on the first floor: the main living room where most of the partygoers were gathered, a smaller sitting room, the library, the dining room, which was filled with several long buffet tables, two restrooms, a small office, and a small bedroom with attached bath. There were additional offices, bedrooms and bathrooms on the second floor, while five bedrooms and five bathrooms took up the third floor, and where the more private and personal rooms for the family in residence were located.
He also knew there was a back stairway off the kitchen and if one needed to make a discreet exit or entrance, there was a short tunnel out of the basement that led to an alley a block away. He'd used that tunnel to get into the party without an invitation.
As he moved through the rooms, he couldn't help noticing that the bride-to-be didn't seem to be present, either. Nor did the beautiful brunette he'd seen talking to Jasmine and to his target.
He made his way down the hall. He needed to get upstairs, but he wouldn't be able to get past the guard without bringing attention to himself. The back stairway was a better bet.
He moved into the banquet prep area next to the kitchen, walking confidently among the servers. No one paid him any attention, which was exactly as he wanted it. He stopped by a pantry closet, shrugged out of his suit coat, and grabbed a chef's coat, putting it on over his clothes. Then he entered the kitchen.
It was controlled chaos: smoky, steamy heat coming from the ovens, lots of people rushing around, and beyond all that noise was a back hallway, a stairway. He expected to find a guard there but there was no one stationed at the bottom of the stairs. That seemed odd, too. The Kumars had brought in additional security because of the Larimer diamond.
He went up the stairs, bypassing the second floor in favor of the third. There was a door at the top landing. He opened it and peered down the hall, shocked to see the two security guards who had been following Jasmine sprawled on the floor, unconscious. There was no sign of blood, but there was a terrible smell in the air.
He pressed the material of his chef's coat across his nose and mouth and made his way toward the guards. A nearby door was ajar. He pushed it open and saw a woman lying on the ground. She was struggling to move, her eyes flickering open, then closing.
His heart jumped. It was the beautiful brunette in the clingy black dress. He rushed over to her.
"Jasmine," she stuttered. "Took Jasmine."
Her words sent a rush of alarm through him, but first he had to get her away from the terrible and obviously toxic smell.
He pulled her to her feet.
She swayed against him. "You? Who?" she murmured, her gaze meeting his.
He didn't bother to answer as he half-dragged her, half-walked her out of the bedroom and down the hall to the back stairwell. He closed the door to keep the fumes out, then opened a small window at the top of the stairs.
He pushed the woman as close to the window as he could. She took several breaths and seemed to gain strength with each one.
"What happened?" he asked.
She stared back at him in bemusement, her eyes cloudy and unfocused. "Someone…took Jasmine. Didn't see. Air…bad."
He heard a shout from the hallway. The guards had been discovered. It would be only seconds before security would be all over this area, and he couldn't allow himself to be caught up in whatever was about to happen. "Stay here. Someone will find you. They'll help you."
He didn't answer her question as he dashed down the stairs. As he hit the bottom step, he ran into several guards coming through the kitchen. "Heard a woman scream," he said, pointing toward the stairs. "Up there."
The men ran past him, probably thinking he was just one of the cooks. He made his way into the kitchen, where the servers were still moving about, although there was some chatter about an emergency. He slipped through the door leading into the basement without anyone noticing. Stripping off his chef's coat and tossing it aside, he jogged down the steps, into the wine cellar, and out another door, moving past old furniture and boxes, finally reaching the far end of the room where a large bookcase had previously blocked the door to the tunnel.
He quickly realized that the bookcase had been moved, and the once hidden door was clearly visible. He went through the door with wary steps, pulling out the gun he'd tucked under his coat, keeping it at the ready as he maneuvered his way through the tunnel. The final door led to four stone steps and an alley behind a restaurant near Central Park. There were no lights, no security cameras—nothing but dumpsters and dark shadows.
He walked down the alley, ending up at the park, as sirens blazed through the air. He wandered down another path, disappearing into a thick thatch of trees, and staying in the shadows as he worked his way back to the front of the consulate.
There were four police cars out front. They'd set up barriers around the front of the consulate. A steady stream of people flowed out of the building in their cocktail dresses and expensive suits.
Was his target among them? Or had his target been involved in whatever had happened to Jasmine Kumar?
Unfortunately, he was too far away to identify anyone, and he'd just lost the best chance he'd had in weeks.
As ambulances pulled up in front of the building, he took out his phone, his hot breath swirling in the cold night air. He punched in a number, then said, "We have a problem."
* * *
Parisa was only dimly aware of being carried downstairs and put in an ambulance. Upon arrival at the hospital, she was treated with oxygen in the ER, and had blood drawn to see what toxins she'd been exposed to. With an IV in her arm, providing some much-needed fluids, her head finally began to clear.
Through the glass window of the examining room, she could see numerous people milling about in the hallway, including uniformed police officers and men wearing suits and badges. She also saw Jasmine's father, Raj Kumar, as well as Westley Larimer and his father Phillip.
Everyone looked impatient and terrified as they listened to a female doctor report on her condition. She knew that the doctor would tell them what she'd already told her—that while they didn't have the bloodwork back yet, her vitals were strong, her oxygen levels were returning to normal, and barring any other unforeseen problems, she should make a full recovery.
But the people in the hallway probably weren't that interested in her prognosis. They wanted to know if she was ready to talk about what happened.
First, she had to remember…
She'd been chatting with Jasmine in her room when something had been pumped into the ventilation system. Two men had come in and grabbed Jasmine. But she hadn't seen anything, had she?
Closing her eyes, she willed her memories to come back. She saw shoes, black and brown. Men's shoes. What else?
She was frustrated that her mind couldn't come up with more details. She felt like she was trapped in a thick fog, a terrible nightmare.
The door clicked, and her eyes flew open as Raj, Westley and two men in suits entered her room. As the door was about to close, a third man stepped inside, and she caught her breath at the familiar blue eyes of Special Agent Damon Wolfe, one of her best friends at the bureau.
His gaze widened when he saw her, and he gave her a short nod, but made no mention of their relationship, or her real job, as he introduced himself as a special agent with the FBI.
The dark-haired man in the gray suit was Kabir Bhat, director of security for the consulate, and the balding man in black slacks and a wool coat told her he was Martin Vance, an NYPD police detective.
"Parisa, how are you feeling?" Raj asked, his innate sense of politeness probably prohibiting him from asking what he really wanted to know.
Westley had no such problem. "What happened to Jasmine?" he demanded. "Did you see who took her?"
"Give her a chance to answer," Damon cut in. "Ms. Maxwell, can you tell us exactly what happened?"
"Jasmine and I were in her bedroom when we smelled something very strong. I looked at the vent, and I could see thick particles of air blowing into the room. Jasmine jumped up and then she immediately fell to the floor. I tried to get to her, but as I hit the ground, I could barely breathe. I felt paralyzed. The door opened, and I saw men's shoes: black Nike basketball shoes and dark-brown boots."
"What about their clothes?" Detective Vance asked.
"All I saw was black. I'm not sure if they were wearing jeans or slacks."
"Did they say anything?" Kabir Bhatt asked.
She thought about his question. She felt like she had heard something, but what? Had it only been her own thundering heartbeat, her own breath? "I don't think so."
"If you couldn't move, how did you get out of the bedroom?" Westley demanded. "The guards found you in the stairwell."
"I—I don't know," she stuttered, not sure if the handsome man with the penetrating green eyes had been real, or if she'd somehow made her way there in search of clean air. Everything seemed very dreamlike. "I remember trying to crawl out of the room. I kept blacking out. And then I woke up by the stairs."
"Why did you and Jasmine go upstairs?" Westley continued, his gaze suspicious. "Why did she leave the party?"
"She said she wanted to catch her breath. She felt overwhelmed." She paused. "The guards—they were outside the door. What happened to them?" She looked at Damon as the other men exchanged a long look.
"They didn't make it," Damon said. "One died at the scene, the other in the ambulance on the way to the hospital."
Her heart twisted at that piece of news. How had they died, and she'd managed to survive? And what was happening to poor Jasmine? She had to be terrified. She had such a gentle, sweet soul.
"What did you and Jasmine talk about?" Mr. Bhatt asked.
"Her engagement, how she met Westley, wedding plans, that kind of thing. We were catching up."
"And you hadn't seen her before tonight in how many years?" he continued.
"Fifteen." She glanced at Raj. "I'm so sorry."
He nodded, his expression grim. "This isn't your fault. We're just trying to piece together what happened and why."
"Isn't the why fairly obvious—the ring?" she asked.
"Yes, but we don’t understand why they didn't take the diamond and leave Jasmine behind," Raj answered.
"That would have made more sense," she murmured. Unless there was going to be a ransom demand for Jasmine.
"I never should have given Jasmine that ring," Westley said, shifting his weight back and forth, his face tight with tension. "I just wanted her to feel like a princess for one night. But she didn’t want to wear it. She felt awkward and nervous. That's why she left the party, isn't it?"
"She did say the ring felt heavy, and she was glad she wouldn't be wearing it that often." As the blood drained from Westley's face, she felt guilty at her words. "But she also said how much she loved you, and that she appreciated the magnificent gesture."
"She did?" Westley asked, eager to hang on to that thought.
"Yes. How did the kidnappers get Jasmine out of the building?" she asked. "There were so many people around. Was everyone rendered unconscious?"
"No, only the people on the third floor were affected," Raj said. "It appears that they left through a tunnel in the basement that we were not aware of. It was a brazen kidnapping."
"And well-orchestrated," Detective Vance put in. "They had to have had inside help."
Mr. Bhatt bristled at that comment. "We were extremely diligent in providing security for the event."
"It wasn't good enough," Vance said, angering the Bezikstani official.
"The FBI is happy to offer our resources moving forward," Damon interrupted.
"The consulate is under Bezikstani jurisdiction," Mr. Bhatt reminded Damon.
"And we'll cooperate with the American authorities," Raj said, sending his security guy a stern look. "Getting my daughter back is all that matters."
"Is there anything else you can tell us, Ms. Maxwell?" Detective Vance asked.
"I really wish there was," she said.
"Why do you think the kidnappers left you behind?" Westley asked, giving her a hard look, as if he thought she was somehow involved in the kidnapping.
"They probably thought I was going to die as the guards did, or that I offered no value to them."
"Are you sure it was Jasmine who wanted to go upstairs and not you?" Westley persisted.
"It was Jasmine." She wasn't going to take offense at the innuendo. The man was beside himself. She could cut him a break. "I want to help find her. I just don't remember anything else."
"Perhaps more details will come back to you as you recover," Damon said.
"I hope so."
"The doctor told us that she wants you to have additional breathing treatments before you're discharged," Damon continued. "While you're doing that, I'm going to have someone collect your things from your hotel, and we'll make sure you have a safe place to stay until we know what's going on. While you can't identify the kidnappers, they may not know that."
She was relieved to have Damon take charge. When the others left, she could speak more freely with him, and he might have information that the others didn't want to share with her.
While she didn't believe the kidnappers would come back for her now, the fact that she hadn't died along with the guards might trouble them down the road.
"Please take care of yourself, Parisa," Raj said, genuine concern in his eyes.
"I will. I am praying for Jasmine's safe return."
"We all are," he said, as he and Westley left the room, followed by Detective Vance and Mr. Bhatt.
She looked at Damon with a sigh of relief. "Thanks for putting an end to that."
"It didn't seem like you had anything else to add. Unless you were holding back?"
"I wasn't. And I didn't want to break my cover if I didn't have to."
"But you weren't working a case tonight, were you?"
"No. The Kumars are old family friends. I lived in Bezikstan from the age of thirteen to sixteen when my father was the US ambassador to Bezikstan. Raj Kumar was the minister of commerce at the time. They became close friends as they worked together, and our families did the same."
"Were your parents at the party?"
"They're traveling; they couldn't make it. I just finished up an assignment in San Francisco, so I thought I'd take a few days off and come to New York. I was planning on getting in touch with you and Sophie as well."
"We're always happy to see you. Preferably not in a hospital room. How are you really feeling?"
"My chest is tight, and my throat is sore, but considering the alternative, I can't complain." She paused as the nurse came into the room.
"It's time for your treatment," the nurse said.
"I'll leave you to it," Damon told her. "What hotel are you at?"
"The Parker, room 307." She looked around for her bag, so she could give him her key, but it was nowhere in sight. "I guess my purse is still at the consulate."
"I suspect so. The building has been evacuated while they test the air levels for toxins, but when the authorities can get back in there, we'll get it to you. I'll have someone retrieve your things from the hotel. I'll come back when you're done."
"Thanks." She was happy to have a few minutes to regroup. She needed to collect her thoughts and see if there was any detail she'd forgotten that might help them find Jasmine.