At the airport in Lyon, Muhammed Burke greeted Olivia and Logan by their aliases. The NATO operative was tall and slender and looked like he might be in his mid-thirties. He led them to an old Mini, of all things, and spoke English to brief them on the latest while driving like a lead-foot through the maze of Lyon. “The police stormed Taaha Khan’s apartment last night. The place was empty.”

Olivia couldn’t believe it. Had they come all this way for nothing? She leaned forward from the cramped backseat. “Any sign of him or Mathilde?”

“They came up with nothing.” Muhammed regarded her in the rearview mirror. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses, looking the part of convenience shop attendant from his mussed black hair to white t-shirt to his canvas tennis shoes.

“You’re kidding.”

At passenger pickup, Logan had offered Olivia the front seat but was swiftly corrected by Muhammed. The SEAL might be an ace in combat, but he knew bugger-all about moving around Islamic society and Olivia had only been able to divulge so much before they touched down in Lyon. She wore a niqab complete with a veil across her mouth and brown contact lenses. There was no way on earth she would have taken the front seat. Such a mistake would have raised suspicion before their mission began, even if Logan’s role was that of a British national.

“Can you take us there?” she asked.

“Don’t you want to drop off your gear first?” asked the NATO operative.

Logan glanced back and gave her a thumb’s up. “Not while the trail’s hot.”

“I think it started growing cold when Khan escorted Mathilde to the van two days ago,” said Muhammed, turning on the blinker.

“What else can you tell us about him?” asked Logan.

The black steering wheel spun right. “Syrian, entered France illegally.”

“Why do you think he kidnapped Mathilde?” Olivia regarded the bridge spanning the River Rhône ahead, memorizing every landmark.

“Other than her being pretty?” Darting around vehicles in heavy traffic, Muhammed grinned. “I have no idea. Usually guys like Khan try to keep a low profile. Could be he’s just a freak.”

“What else do you have on him?” asked Logan.

“He became a suspect jihadist after the car bombing outside the Basilica Notre Dame, Lyon. He was one of the onlookers—that’s when we put a tail on him. Found out he was keeping company with a faction suspected to have al Qaeda and ISIS ties.”

“Suspected?” asked Logan. “Don’t we know?”

“It’s a tough group to crack. They keep to themselves. We also can’t forget that no one’s seen Kahn since that picture was taken with Mathilde Petit.”

“Hmm. A lot to delve in to.” Olivia tapped her lips through the suffocating cloth. “Maybe this isn’t a lost cause.”

“I hope not,” said Muhammed. “After all the strings NATO pulled to take ownership of the shop.”

Logan reached across the console and rapped the man’s arm. “That’s setting your priorities, dude.”

Turning the corner, Muhammed tilted his head to the right. “We’re coming up to the alleyway now.”

“Don’t drive down,” Olivia cautioned and pointed to a café. “It’s time for supper—we can eat a meal, digest the lay of the land and slip out the back after.”

“Makes sense to me,” Logan agreed.

They reverted to speaking French in the café. Logan was more fluent than Olivia had imagined. Who knew a Yank SEAL could inflect such a romantic tongue? Especially with a voice so deep. If he kept it up, the man would have all the French birds in the café swooning.

As with all meals in France, fast food wasn’t in the vocabulary. The good thing? By the time they exited into the alleyway, it was dark.

Olivia walked behind Muhammed, sandwiched with Logan pulling up the rear. She kept her head lowered, but took in everything out of the corners of her eyes. Half a block up, Muhammed used his NATO issued bump key to open the door. “This way.” He led them up one flight of stairs and to the rear apartment.

Logan watched for action while Muhammed worked his magic. The hallway was oddly silent as if the tenants knew the police had been there and they were all laying low.

The place was stripped bare, but littered with grime. Olivia ran her foot forward, making a track through the filth on the carpet. “It looks like they won’t be receiving their cleaning deposit back.”

Moving into the kitchen, Logan checked under the sink. “Too bad they didn’t leave their trash.”

“The police could have taken it.” Olivia proceeded down the hallway, peering into empty bedrooms along the way, though she was heading for the WC. It was just as grimy as everything else. “Do you have any plastic bags?”

“No,” said Muhammed, following.

She pulled back the moldy shower curtain. Black hairs caught her eye first but once she focused, something lighter drew her attention to the tiled floor in front of the toilet. She dug in her bag.

“What are you looking for?” asked the NATO operative.

Pulling out the clear plastic bag with her toiletries, she held it up. “This.” She dumped the contents into her purse. Then using a pen, she scraped up the hairs from the floor, and a few more from the shower and deposited them in the bag.

Logan leaned on the door jamb. “Good thing they haven’t sterilized the joint, huh?”

She ran her fingers across the zip. “I don’t know if it will lead to anything, but we’ll send these in for analysis.”

“I can take care of that,” said Muhammed.

Olivia slipped the bag into her purse. “I’ll handle it, thanks.” She didn’t want this evidence going anywhere but to Asa.

***

Their apartment was only a few blocks away from Khan’s abandoned flat and the convenience store that posed as their front was another block down. It was late and Logan had felt more than a little out of his element, though he wouldn’t be admitting anything to Olivia. This spy thing posed a whole new world for him. As a SEAL, he’d been trained to go into hostile situations with guns blazing after the fieldwork had been done. Since Kahn’s apartment had been cleared out, he didn’t think to look for hairs in the perp’s bathroom and send them in for DNA analysis. The down side? DNA analysis wasn’t fast. Even with the equipment at ICE, Asa had told him it still took a couple of weeks, and that was pushing it.

Safely behind locked doors, Olivia took off her niqab and scrubbed her fingers through her hair. “Christ, that thing’s suffocating.”

Muhammed stared. “Blonde? Why didn’t you wear a wig?”

“Didn’t need one, did I?” She held up her finger. “What I need is a sleeping baby and a pram. Can you have one here first thing in the morning?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looked to Logan while Olivia wandered to the back room. “There are two Glock 38s in the top drawer in the kitchen. Is there anything else you need?”

Logan pulled open the drawer and took inventory. “Plenty of ammo. I guess that’ll do us.”

“See you in the morning then?” Muhammed dropped a ring with four keys into Logan’s palm. “Two are for the apartment and two for the front door of the shop.”

“Thanks.”

Once Muhammed showed himself out, Olivia wandered out of the back room and leaned against the door jamb. “There’s only one bedroom.” She pointed to her right with her thumb. “And one wash closet. It looks like NATO took the husband-wife thing literally.”

“What? You mean no one got the memo that we’re not actually married?” Logan turned full circle. The place was a box made to look trendy. An open kitchen had a marble-top breakfast bar separating it from the living room that had a television, a cozy chair and a couch. On the far side of the kitchen a desk and chair was squeezed into the corner by the bathroom door.

He tossed his duffle on the floor. “I’ll take the couch.” After moving to the kitchen, he opened the fridge. “A bottle of chardonnay and a loaf of bread. Compliments of NATO.”

Olivia reached around him and grabbed the wine. “What did you expect? We’re in France. Besides, we own a convenience store.” She opened four cupboards before she found the glasses. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

She pulled a bottle opener out of the first drawer she opened and set it on the counter. “You do the honors. I have to change out of this abaya before I melt.”

“I’m sorry you have to wear that thing.” He twisted in the corkscrew.

“Goes with the territory. I’m just glad to be away from the mountains of Iceland. Reykjavik reported a high of fifty degrees…and it’s June. Brrr.” Wheeling her suitcase into the bedroom, she shut the door.

“Make sure the shutters are closed back there.”

“Duh,” her sassy reply rumbled through to the kitchen.

By the time she came out, Logan had poured both glasses and had set up his laptop on the desk.

“Have you contacted ICE?” she asked.

He regarded her over his shoulder then snapped his face back to the screen, swiping a hand across his eyes. Since it was fairly warm, he’d expect any normal partner to slip into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, but not Olivia. Miss Universe came out wearing a silky negligee, reminiscent of the Gulf of Oman. He shook his head and focused. “Setting up encryption now.” Once Logan was sure their internet connection was locked down, he fired off a message to Garth: Ready for business.

Almost immediately, a response came back. What took you so long?

Strolled around the neighborhood. Called on an old friend, but he’d moved.

Where did he go?

Olivia shouldered in, taking over keyboard. No clue. Sending gifts in the morning via pigeon. The drop off location for evidence was an iron milk box at the back of the shop.

You are too kind. I wish you well with your new venture.

After signing off, she pulled up the area map.

Logan gave her a nudge. “You’re awfully familiar with my laptop.”

“Yeah, it’s just like mine.” All business aside from smelling like a bouquet of exotic flowers, she pointed. “This is where we are. Rue Tronchete.”

“I know.” Logan had studied the map before they’d left Iceland. “What’s the deal with the stroller and the sleeping baby?”

“First of all, most people won’t get too close if the baby’s asleep, so they won’t know it’s a fake. Secondly, they won’t be suspicious of a mother hanging around a school.” She pointed. “Here’s Fénlelon-La Trinité where Mathilde was last seen, at least before the picture of her with Kahn. See? It’s right across from Parc aux Daims. I can push the pram around the park and talk to just about anyone without bringing suspicion.”

“Hmm. I think I like the idea of walking around a park better than my role.” Logan’s MO was to play the part of lazy shopkeeper, smoking an e-cigarette that doubled as a camera and recording device while he got to know the clientele and learned the local gossip. “I don’t even smoke.” The first obstacle was finding the sept with links to Taaha Khan. Forget the chitchat, Logan preferred to go straight for the guttural.

“Yeah, but if you do, you’ll look more authentic. The best way to infiltrate the locals is to sit in front of the shop and watch people stroll past. That’s an awesome cover—just don’t inhale.”

“I’d rather be setting explosives.”

“Something tells me you’ll get your chance.”

“On a trail this cold?”

She threw back her sassy shoulders. “It’s our job to turn up the heat.”

He stood, but before he fetched her glass of wine, he leaned toward her and took one more inhale—what was she wearing? Jasmine? Probably. Logan never could resist jasmine. Then he plucked the goblet from the counter and held it out. “Are you going to drink this?”

“Thanks.” She took a sip then closed her eyes, a pink tongue slipping across her lips. “Mm.” Mercy, did she have to make everything look erotic? It was a sip of French wine, not ambrosia from heaven.

Logan busied himself by pouring another glass for himself and taking a good long drink. There he was, stuck in a match-box sized apartment with a gorgeous woman who was a PTSD disaster. Though he’d been growing stir crazy at ICE, he should have rethought things before jumping into this mission with both feet. Christ, he knew a handful of Arabic phrases, his French was marginally better—good enough not to be pegged as a Yank. Worse, according to Olivia, his British accent made him sound like a wanker and he’d better stick to French.

“You want a top up?” she asked.

He turned. Olivia grinned like a Stepford wife holding a bottle. His gaze slid downward. Without a bra, her nipples strained against the pink silk giving him a wrapped invitation. His tongue went dry as he held out his half-full glass. “Why not?”

She stepped nearer. His skin tingled. In fact, her scent awakened more than his skin.

“What are you wearing?” he asked.

“My nightie, silly.”

“I mean your perfume. It’s distracting.”

She waggled her eyebrows. “I thought a spritz of Dior would suit. After all, we’re in France.” She set the bottle on the counter. “Cheers?”

Logan tapped his glass to hers. “Cheers.”

Their gazes locked as they drank. God, she was too pretty, even with brown contact lenses. Logan went to move past to the sink, but in the tight quarters, their bodies brushed ever so lightly. He stopped, his breath catching. Moist with chardonnay, her lips were so damned close, all he needed to do was dip his head and he’d taste her. He’d wrap his arms around that tight body and crush those nipples against his pounding chest.

Her gaze dipped to his lips as she swirled her pointer finger directly over his heart. “We can’t.”

His knees wobbled. “Absolutely not,” he croaked, slipping past and placing his glass in the sink.

She followed with her own glass but, when she stopped, her arm pressed against his. “I’ve done too many bad things. The job sucked the guts out of me until there was nothing left.”

He could only imagine what she’d been through. “It must have been hell infiltrating Khalil’s world.”

“It was.” She leaned into him more as if she needed the human contact, yet not the affection. “If only I could block it from my mind.”

Logan hesitated before he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll tell you one thing; that was a bad dream. We’re on a new mission and I’m here. Never forget I have your back.” He kissed her temple like he would a sister. “You got that?”

She nodded, tensing at first, but with her next exhale, her muscles eased. Regardless, from the expression on her long face, Logan wasn’t sure she was convinced.