Chapter 23

MATT LEFT HIS bike on a side street and trotted toward the refugee center. When he got close enough to see the gathering crowd, he tugged up his sweatshirt hood so it drooped over his forehead. The sun would cook him soon, but he couldn’t take a chance on being recognized.

He was fucking late. The ceremony had already started. Somebody was speaking, man or woman, he couldn’t tell which. He set the frequency on his transceiver and inserted it in his ear so he could hear the DARK officers’ chatter. Freeing the strap on his belt holster, he slowed his pace and ambled into the audience.

Crowd amounted to about seventy-five people, but more were arriving. All around him people jostled and pressed toward the speaker. They aimed cameras and iPads above those in front of them. Closer to the dais, members of the press also held up recorders.

He located Nadia up there. Seated up front to the right of the speaker, head held high, she wore a shawl over one shoulder of a green dress. Damn, if she didn’t look exactly like Sarika! He drew a deep breath to ease the tightness in his chest. The two DARK officers stood close behind her. In suits, they fit in with the rest of the dignitaries. Except for their gazes, not on the speaker but focused on tracking crowd movements.

He pictured Sandor Cardona’s thick black hair and narrow, wolfish face but saw nobody close to that description. Perhaps the coward sent only his minions and expected to get outta Dodge with Alina Greco. No. Cardona was a hands-on asshole. He was here. Matt just had to find him.

He glanced upward behind the dais, to the window where Wade was manning the communications. Being in the crowd looking toward the stage with everybody else wouldn’t allow him the best vantage point.

The speaker, some D.C. city official, finished her glowing tributes. Matt weaved through the people clapping and toward the right side of the gathering. He skirted the stragglers and made his way to the corner of the dais.

“Hold it right there. I don’t see no fuckin’ press pass on y’all.”

Matt turned to face a linebacker in a D.C. Metro police uniform. The cop held a pistol on him.

Nadia peeled her fingers apart and smoothed the pashmina she’d worried into pleats. She folded her hands and forced herself to sit still. Sari wouldn’t fidget. Sari would be calm and serene. The ruse would hold. People see what they expect to see. She hoped that semi-rule held sway today.

The dais, merely a wooden platform covered in a rubber mat, spread before the entrance to the Capital Refugee Resettlement Center. Walking in the hesitant pace befitting an invalid, she’d made her way up the two steps leaning on the metal cane that now lay at her feet. Not much of a weapon. Thank God she wasn’t left unguarded. A man and woman sent by DARK had accompanied her. And now they had her back, literally. Knowing they stood behind her, armed, wasn’t enough to dull the spiked balls in her stomach.

She took a deep breath, not easily accomplished in the tight-fitting ballistic vest beneath her jacket. Squinting in the bright sun, she surveyed the crowd. People of all hues and shades, traditional clothing from Africa and South America and the Middle East, places ravaged by repression and conflict. She caught wisps of patchouli and jasmine.

Her thoughts drifted to camera placement and framing the faces. This event should’ve been a segment in her documentary, a tribute to Sari’s generosity and kind spirit. Thanks to people like her, these men, women and children would benefit from education and job training and housing through this new center. At least a dozen reporters and photographers, all wearing plastic press passes on their jackets, ranked in front of the dais. A blonde woman wrote furiously on a reporter’s pad when she wasn’t recording on her phone, a bald man held a camcorder to his face, and a man wearing a Sikh turban held up a digital recorder. People still arriving were swelling the number to what she judged was already a hundred.

Among all those, she couldn’t find the one she ached to see. She’d spotted Simon Byrne. And others who stood out. They could be either refugees or other agency people — or even rebels biding their time. No Matt Leoni, and no one resembling Sandor Cardona either. The rebel leader must be here. Somewhere.

She peered over the press corps’s heads. A man in a gray hoodie slouched through the crowd, head covered and bent as if he didn’t want to be identified. A shudder worked through her, and she pulled the pashmina higher on her shoulder. She’d worn it to conceal the bulky vest.

Applause jerked her back. The speaker had finished, and the refugee center’s director was introducing her. No, was introducing Princess Sarika of the Republic of Modena.

Heart beating hard enough to crack a rib, Nadia gripped the cane and pushed to her feet. Her DARK escorts stood and pressed closer. She stepped to the mic.

She’d practiced the speech. Her accent was okay, checked by Sari. Although her voice pitch was a tone higher, if anyone in the crowd noticed, they’d put it down to weakness. She needed no reminder to sound fragile. This had to work. “Thank you to everyone for coming on this joyous occasion.”

To her left, chairs scraped and a man shouted, “Wait! Stop her!”

That imperious voice. Dominic Traynor. He must’ve realized she wasn’t the princess. He would ruin everything. Cardona would disappear. Sari and her family would remain in grave danger. Terrorists would continue funding the rebels.

“She’s not—” Before Traynor could finish, the two officers guarding her tackled him to the floor and held him face down.

Nadia could barely suck in air past the stranglehold on her throat. She turned back to the mic.

The crowd waited, murmuring among themselves. People craned their necks trying to see what was happening on the dais. More commotion behind her suggested the officers were escorting Traynor off the dais and away. Chairs scraped and rattled as the dignitaries again took their seats. The center’s director hovered near Nadia, her mouth tight, her gaze worried. Nadia waved her away. She could breathe again, and maybe she could proceed. Should proceed. She was left unprotected, but…

She mentally shook herself and worked up a smile. “My apologies for that rude interruption.” A thunk drew her gaze downward. The bald man had dropped his camcorder. “It has been my great honor to—”

She watched the bald man reach into his jacket pocket. He looked up at her, his eyes gray ice. She knew that narrow face and narrow nose. Cardona. He was raising a pistol.

She couldn’t move. Her limbs were lead, her feet cemented to the floor.

“Nadia! Down! Get down! Now!”

The pop of gunfire shattered her inertia. Matt. She flung the metal cane at Cardona and dropped, flat, onto the rubber mat. Shrieks and shouts from everywhere. The pounding of people running.

Close by, a gunshot blasted her ears. A heavy body landed atop her at the same time as one more shot exploded.

Silence.

A low voice rumbled in her ear. “I… got him, honey. Are you… okay?” He rolled off her onto his back. The hood of his gray sweatshirt fell away. The smoke around them carried the pungent smell of gunpowder.

She twisted to a sitting position and reached for him. “Matt, how?”

His eyes were closed. He shook his head. On a gut-deep moan, he pressed both hands to his chest. Crimson stained his right sleeve and was spreading.

“Help! Help me! This man’s been shot!

Matt didn’t make it back to DARK headquarters until Wednesday afternoon. Damn hospital. He’d been shot in the arm, not the chest. Docs and nurses deflected his protests with words like infection and loss of blood. Hell. Worse, the only person who came to visit him was Gabe Harris, who shifted from foot to foot as if working up an apology. Never got there. Damned right. Matt didn’t want to make nice with the man.

So here he sat going over everything with Stratton, Byrne and the others. They talked about Nadia, who’d looked so beautiful and pale with an invisible target on her chest. Braver than him, for damn sure. He pulled himself from maudlin thoughts and back to his report.

“I yelled a warning to Nadia as I ran out onto the platform. Cardona fired.” He gestured at his chest, where a bruise, thankfully hidden by his shirt, had bloomed fifty shades of blue and purple. “I fired back, got him in the numbers as I covered Nadia. Arrogant bastard wore no vest. Or maybe he expected to die a martyr. A bullet — reflexive move as he fell — hit my arm.

“Whole thing was a clusterfuck,” he continued. “Too many civilians around. We were damned lucky nobody got hurt. Nobody innocent.”

“We didn’t anticipate that big a crowd.” Byrne scraped fingers through his shaggy hair. “The director told me he’s had phone calls from Congress.”

Matt wanted to say I told you so, but let it slide.

He’d failed to keep Sarika safe, but the docs said she’d heal completely, and he made it to Nadia in time to protect her. Maybe he could trust himself again. Or not. A little self-doubt would hone the edge on his alertness, wouldn’t it?

The painkillers had worn off, and he wanted out of here. Damn arm hurt like a bastard, more than movies would have you think bullet wounds did. He wrapped his chewing gum in its paper and tipped two of his prescription pills into his hand. He’d switch to ibuprofen once he got home.

Wade slid him a water bottle. He winked his thanks to her.

Sarika’s office and everything in it had sustained too much damage to be certain, but everybody agreed it was likely the phony film-crew guys had concealed the bomb in one of their cases. The reason Kelmen was in such a sweat to get the interview over with. The two men expected to have time to exit the building and disappear before the explosion. Poor suckers. Leave no witnesses was Cardona’s style. Alina’s job was to make sure of that. She had her phone in hand when she left Sarika’s office and passed Nadia and him in the anteroom. While he was comforting Nadia, Alina had time to duck into an empty office or her own. She phoned whoever called Security and then triggered the bomb. Killing all the film crew would’ve left no suspects to question. Unlucky for her that he and Nadia didn’t die.

Others added their reports. Officers had spotted three of Cardona’s men during the gathering. Now in custody, the rebels were spilling everything. It might’ve been because somebody hinted that otherwise they’d be turned over to their buddies the terrorists. One led officers to Cardona’s lair and his laptop, where they found proof of the deal with New Dawn and of the attempts on the royals. If more digging found a connection to the Kremlin, Matt wouldn’t be surprised. They also had proof for Modena officials of Alina Greco’s tie to the rebel leader, but nothing indicated that her boss, Minister Ingel, was involved or even suspected her. When her involvement was revealed, he’d turned as pale as snow and nearly toppled over. The rest of the rebel bunch in the country had been identified and would be scooped up at the border or an airport. Dominic Traynor was really in love with Sarika and worried about why somebody was impersonating her, but he also was spying for the prime minister, his reason for skulking around the embassy.

The monarchy and parliamentary democracy in Modena were saved. If only the rescue and clearing up who did what also resulted in saving Nadia’s future with her film company.

When the meeting mercifully came to an end, Stratton took Matt aside. “Hey, man, the wrap-up of yesterday’s fun and games ran long, but I finally collected your Softail. Sweet ride. It’s parked in your building’s garage.” He handed over the keys.

“Appreciate it, Cole. No riding for me for a while.” He pocketed the keys.

“Won’t be long. Go home. Get some rest.” Stratton walked away talking on his phone.