Four
Parisa didn't know what woke her up—it might have been the click of the door, or the sudden stream of light—but instinct brought her out of bed and to her feet as a dark figure came toward her. She saw the glint of a badge and for a moment, she was confused.
Was it the police officer who was supposed to be downstairs by the front door?
"What's going on?" she demanded.
Then she saw the gun in the man's hand, and her training kicked into gear.
Her first goal was to disarm him, which she managed to do with a swift waist-high kick that sent his weapon flying. She battled on, using her fists and her feet to fight. The man was bigger, but she was quicker.
She dodged several blows, but a stumble by the dresser gave her attacker an advantage, and he landed a punch against the side of her face that sent her reeling, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, she had to fight to stay conscious.
As he came at her again, she jerked to the right, knocking him off-balance.
She sprang back up to her feet, but he was too fast, and suddenly his hands were on her throat, and he was bending her over the dresser with a deadly force. As she looked into his dark, evil eyes, she knew this was not the man who had been assigned to watch her door.
Where the hell was he?
She grabbed at her attacker's arms, kicking her feet, trying to find leverage, but she was losing air. Her brain was spinning. Lights were flashing before her eyes.
And then a man charged into the room.
He grabbed her assailant by the arms, pulling him off her.
She sank to the floor, gasping for breath as her rescuer went after her attacker with deft, trained moves. While they were fighting, she crawled across the floor and grabbed the gun her attacker had discarded. As she stood up and took aim, her attacker bolted out of the room.
Her rescuer turned his face into the light that was coming from the living room, and she gasped.
"You?" It was the mysterious stranger with the compelling green eyes. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Saving your life—again."
She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "It's five o'clock in the morning."
"I was going to wait until the sun came up to speak to you, but when I saw that guy go into the building, I had a bad feeling. My instincts were correct."
She didn't know about his instincts, but hers were screaming caution. "How did you find me? How did you get in here? Where's the guard that was downstairs?"
"He's by the front door—unconscious. I'll answer all your questions, but right now, we need to go." He didn't look at all concerned by the gun in her hand. "Someone just tried to kill you."
"I'm aware of that. Is the guard dead?" Her stomach turned over at the thought of that man being killed because of her.
"Good. We need to get him help."
"You can call from somewhere else. Put on some shoes, grab what you need—"
"I'm not taking orders from you," she interrupted.
"I saved your life twice. Doesn't that offer some sort of trust?"
"No. And I was perfectly capable of saving my own life."
He gave her a speculative look. "You sound pretty confident—for a translator who works for the state department."
He knew who she was, and she had no idea who he was. That put her at a disadvantage, and she didn't like it. "I've taken a lot of self-defense classes. How do you know what I do?"
"I know a lot of things. And I want to talk to you, Parisa. But we need to get out of here before your assailant comes back with some friends."
She wanted to argue, but he made a good point, although how he'd found her at an FBI safe house raised a lot of red flags. Maybe he was undercover for some other agency. Judging by his combat skills, he'd been trained somewhere.
"What's your name?" she asked, as she put on her sneakers and threw her long, wool coat over her leggings and T-shirt.
"Jared."
It might be a bad decision but going with him seemed less risky than staying put. She threw the attacker's gun into her suitcase and then tucked her own gun into the waistband of her leggings. Jared grabbed her bag, and she followed him down the stairs.
She stopped by the door to check on the guard. He was lying face down, with a big bump on the back of his head, but he had a pulse and was breathing, with no evidence of massive blood loss. She'd call Damon as soon as they got out of the building.
Jared went out the front door first, motioning her to hang back for a moment. Then he said, "It's clear. My car is nearby. Let's go."
She didn't want to hop into his car, but there were no taxis around and she couldn't wait to get a ride. Hoping she wasn't making a huge mistake, she got into the silver Ford Focus, while he put her bag in the trunk and then slid behind the wheel.
"Don't worry, you're going to be fine," he said as he started the engine. "And you do have a gun, so…"
"So, don't mess with me," she finished, pulling it out from under her coat.
"You seem pretty comfortable with a weapon. Was that also part of your self-defense training?"
"It was," she said, ignoring the sarcasm in his voice. "Where did you learn how to fight?"
"I took some martial arts classes."
"More than a few, I'm guessing. Where are we going?"
"There's an all-night diner not far from here. Why don't we get breakfast?"
"You want to eat now?" she asked in surprise.
"I'm hungry. And I'm sure you're going to argue if I try to take you anywhere but a public place."
"Fine. Give me your phone. I need to get someone to take care of the officer."
He handed it over. She couldn't help noticing it was a cheap throwaway phone that didn't even have a lock on it. She punched in Damon's number, which she had memorized.
He answered with a wary, "Yes?"
"It's Parisa."
"What's wrong?"
"I was just attacked at the apartment. I'm all right, but the guy got away."
Damon swore. "What about Briggs?"
"He was knocked out, but he's alive. Can you get someone over there to check on him?"
"Yes. Where are you now?"
"I'm going somewhere else."
"On foot?"
"No, I'm in a car."
"Come to my house."
"That's not a good idea."
"Then go to the FBI office or to the police station."
"I can't. The person who attacked me was wearing a uniform. I don't know if he was an FBI police officer or NYPD, but someone discovered my location. I can't trust anyone. I need to stay out of sight for a while."
"What else can you tell me about your attacker?"
"Not much. It was dark. I saw a uniform and the gleam of a badge. He had dark eyes. I'm assuming his hair was also dark. Beyond that…" She was frustrated with the lack of detail she could provide. "I know it's not much to go on."
"Maybe we can get more from Officer Briggs."
"I doubt it. He was hit on the back of the head. I have to go. Don't call me back on this phone. It's not mine. I'll be in touch with you when I get a chance." She set the phone down on the center console.
Jared gave her a speculative look. "Was that the police or the FBI?"
"Does it matter?"
"They want you to come in. But you can't trust them."
"I can't trust you, either." He knew her name. He knew about her job. He'd found her at the safe house.
What else did he know, and who the hell was he?
"Then why didn't you tell them about me?" he challenged.
As their gazes met, a shiver ran down her spine. It was a good question. Why hadn't she told Damon about him?
"Well?" he pressed.
"I honestly don't know. But you're right, we need to talk."
* * *
Parisa's right eye was swollen and her dark hair was a tangled mess, but her brown eyes were sharp and alert, and even in leggings, a T-shirt, and a black wool coat, she was a very attractive woman. She was also an enigma, an equation that didn't quite add up. She'd fought her attacker like a pro. And she'd handled her weapon as if it were a natural part of her. Was she really a translator for the state department?
Jared suspected she was not.
He wondered who would break first.
Parisa sipped her coffee as they waited for their breakfast. She sat facing the door to the diner. The sun was starting to rise as the clock moved toward six thirty, but it was still dark outside. There were only a few other people in the restaurant: a woman in a nurse's uniform and an older man who was reading the newspaper. One waitress worked the counter while a male cook appeared to run the kitchen.
He would have preferred to be in Parisa's seat, but she'd slid in to that side of the booth before he could stop her.
"Well?" she prodded. "You said you wanted to talk, so talk."
"You said you wanted to talk, too. Why don't you begin?" he countered.
"All right. What's your last name? Were you invited to the party at the consulate or did you crash?"
"My last name is MacIntyre, and I was not technically invited to the party."
"You might want to think of a better answer. The police and FBI are going through the surveillance video from the party. I'm sure you're on it. They'll be contacting you."
"Good to know. Did you see who took Jasmine Kumar?"
She stared back at him, her gaze assessing. "Someone obviously thinks I did, based on what happened at the apartment."
"That's not an answer."
"What were you doing upstairs at the consulate?"
"I was looking for an available bathroom. The ones downstairs had long lines."
"You were wearing a black chef's coat—as if you were in disguise. I think you came up the back stairs by the kitchen."
He tipped his head. "So, you do remember something."
She frowned. "I just remembered that."
"What else?"
"I know you didn't want security to find you in the stairwell, that's why you rushed away. How did you get out of the building? Did you use the tunnel exit from the basement?"
"There's a tunnel from the basement?" he asked, preferring to get more information than he wanted to give.
"The police said the kidnappers probably took Jasmine out that way." She paused, tilting her head to the right as she gave him a speculative look. "What's your deal? Who are you? What do you want from me? How did you find me at the safe house?"
"That's too many questions."
"Take them one at a time."
"I can tell you this—I didn't have anything to do with the kidnapping."
"That's not enough. Tell me more," she said, a determined glint in her eyes. "Are you working for someone? Homeland Security? FBI, DEA, ATF?"
"That's a lot of initials. What you need to know is that I want to help you find Jasmine."
"All those agencies have a better chance of finding Jasmine than you or I do."
"Maybe not. We might have the inside track."
"I can't imagine why. And I'm not going to work with you, until you tell me who you are."
"You think working with the FBI is a better option after one of their officers just tried to kill you?" he asked.
"I'm sure he wasn't really an officer."
"But he knew where you were, and that apartment was clearly a safe house."
"Most people wouldn't know what a safe house looks like."
"An empty apartment with a guard—it wasn't a tough guess."
"How did you find me there? You better tell me something, or I'm going to walk out the door."
He smiled at her challenging words, feeling remarkably charged up by the conversation. He liked a woman who could keep up, and this woman was not only keeping pace with him, she was charging ahead. He had no doubt she would make good on her threat to leave if he didn't give her something. "I followed you from the hospital to the apartment."
"Why didn't you come looking for me when I first got there?"
"I decided to wait until morning, until you were awake, but then I saw a guy approaching the building. He had on a uniform, but the way he was moving gave me pause. When he went inside the building, the front door stayed open. That seemed odd. I went to investigate and saw the guard on the ground. That's when I knew you were in trouble."
She shook her head in bemusement. "I can't believe you followed us from the hospital, and we didn't see you."
He shrugged. "Maybe the person who took you to the safe house isn't that good at spotting a tail."
"He's very good, which means you must be good at avoiding detection."
He ignored that as he leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. "Now, it's your turn. Who are you, Parisa Maxwell?"
"You already know. I work for the state department."
"What I know is that you fought your attacker like someone with training. You picked up the gun like you knew exactly what to do with it. You didn't scream for help. You didn't call the cops or the FBI until we were away from the building, and when we came into this diner, you picked this table and your seat, so you could watch the door."
"I was being cautious."
"Are you a cop? Private security? FBI? Military? A spy?"
"I asked you the same exact questions, and you didn't answer. Why don't we cut to the chase? What's your job? And why were you at the party?"
He decided to tell her something, so they could move the conversation along. "I'm a reporter. I came to the event looking for a person who might have information for a story I'm writing."
"Who? And what's the story?" she asked suspiciously.
"Ben Langdon. You were talking to him at the party. It looked like you were friends."
Her eyes widened. "Ben Langdon is a college student. Why do you want to talk to him?"
"I've recently discovered that Mr. Langdon was in Paris at the time of an explosion at a Left Bank café. Two people died."
"Are you talking about the bombing at Café Douceur before Christmas?"
"Yes." His gaze narrowed. "I'm surprised you know about it. It didn't get much public attention here in the States."
"Why on earth would you think Ben was involved in a terrorist attack?"
"I'm not sure of the level of his involvement. But I do know Ben dated a woman in Paris named Sara Pillai. Sara is a Bezikstan citizen. Her stepbrother Isaac Naru belongs to the radical group taking credit for the Paris explosion—Brothers of the Earth. Both Sara and Isaac disappeared after the bomb went off. Ben stayed in Paris for four days and then returned to NYC two weeks ago. When I learned he was going to a party at the Bezikstan consulate, I went there to see if he might use the opportunity to meet up with Sara or Isaac again."
She stared back at him, clearly weighing his story for the truth. "Okay," she said slowly. "Did that happen?"
"I don't know. I was watching Ben, and then a waiter crashed into me. When I untangled myself from the crush of champagne glasses, Ben had disappeared. That's when I went looking for him."
"Upstairs."
"Yes. When I got to the third floor and saw the guards on the floor, and you struggling to get up, I pulled you out of the room. I wanted to find Ben before I got caught upstairs and questioned by security."
"Did that happen?"
"Unfortunately, no. Which is why I decided to look for you at the hospital. I wanted to talk to you about Ben. When you left with the FBI agent, I followed you. I'm hoping you might be willing to help me out. You have a connection to the Langdons, and you owe me for saving your life."
She frowned. "That's an interesting story, but I don't feel like it's the complete truth."
He didn't answer as the waitress set down their plates. When she left, he said, "Tell me about your relationship with the Langdons—that's not top secret, is it?"
She dug into her eggs and took several bites. He did the same, hoping he could get her to open up.
Finally, she said, "I lived in Bezikstan for three years when I was a teenager, while my stepfather served as the US ambassador. Ben's father, Neil, was my teacher. He was more than a teacher, actually. He was a mentor and a friend. He and his wife, Elizabeth, often came to dinner at the embassy. I babysat Ben several times during those dinners. He was about five at the time. He was a sweet, loving kid. He loved playing cards. I taught him how to play spades."
"Sweet kids sometimes grow up to be terrorists. Did you know Sara Pillai or Isaac Naru?"
"I don't believe so. How old are they?"
"Isaac is twenty-nine. Sara is twenty-two. Sara and Ben attended the same schools in Bezikstan, but she was one year older. Isaac actually grew up in Mumbai but moved to Bezikstan when his father married Sara's mother when he was seventeen and Sara was ten. Any of that ring a bell?"
"No. Isaac is two years younger than me and didn't arrive in Bezikstan until after I was gone, and Sara would have been seven when I left." She paused. "Do you think that Jasmine's abduction is tied to this terrorist group?"
"I was shocked by the kidnapping, so I honestly don't know. But it's something to consider."
"Jasmine is like a big sister to Ben. Ben's father told me that Jasmine took Ben under her wing when he started college here in New York. I don't think he would be a party to anyone hurting her."
"Maybe he's not. But Ben did visit the consulate several times this week. And someone had to know the layout very well in order to pull off this kidnapping in the middle of a huge party."
"Have you shared these thoughts with the police, the FBI or the Kumars?"
"But you had a chance to track me down," she pointed out.
"I thought you might be more willing to share information with me than those agencies."
"Why would I be?"
"Remember that part about how I saved your life…"
She finished off her eggs and hash browns while she thought about that, and he downed the rest of his omelet. He hadn't told her everything, but hopefully it was enough to get her interested in working with him. She hadn't told him who she was yet, but he was damned sure she was working for one of the agencies she'd just mentioned. He didn't think she was a cop so that left FBI or possibly Homeland Security. With her international connections, she'd make a valuable asset. But had she been working tonight? Or was she just a guest at the party?
She wiped her mouth with a napkin and sat back in her seat. "You said you haven't talked to law enforcement about the kidnapping, but have you spoken to anyone about Ben's possible connection to the Paris blast—to Sara Pillai and Isaac Naru?"
"Yes, I've spoken to the authorities, and there are multiple agencies looking for Sara and Isaac. I'm not sure who's aware of Ben's relationship with Sara, but I assume I'm not the only one who knows Sara was dating Ben in Paris. They were not in hiding. They went on picnics by the Eiffel Tower, went dancing at night, like two young lovers."
"Who do you work for, Jared?"
"I work for myself. I'm a freelance journalist."
She sighed. "I can believe you're freelance, because you seem very comfortable operating off the radar, but I don't believe you're a journalist. Or, you're not just a journalist."
"Well, I don't believe you're a translator, or just a translator. But we can still work together, Parisa."
"How would we do that?" she asked.
"I'd like you to talk to Ben, use your family connection to get in the door, maybe get me in the door. Ben won't know you have any idea that he could be involved in the Paris bombing."
"I'm not against helping to determine whether Ben was involved in a terrorist attack in Paris, but my priority right now is finding Jasmine."
"The events could be connected. Brothers of the Earth originated in Bezikstan. Have you heard of them?"
"I've heard the name, but I haven't been following politics in Bezikstan." She paused, her lips tightening. "Here's the problem—I just don't trust you, Jared MacIntyre—if that's even your real name."
"Jared is my name. And you don't have to trust me. You just have to trust your instincts."
"My instincts are telling me that probably every other word out of your mouth has been a lie."
"At least some of my words are true," he said lightly. "Don't forget I've saved your life twice."
"How could I forget when you keep reminding me?"
"That was the last time."
"Sure." She pushed her plate away. "Okay. Here's the deal. I need to drop out of sight for a while."
He liked that she was moving on to more practical matters. "I have the perfect place."
"I also need to pick up a prepaid phone, but I don't have any money. My purse is still at the consulate."
"I can help you out. Should I call you Officer or Special Agent or what?"
"Parisa works." She paused, giving him a hard look. "I want to make something else perfectly clear, Jared. If you are playing me, you will not be happy with my response."
Purposeful fire burned in her dark eyes, and his gut clenched with inexplicable desire. Since the first moment he'd seen her, he'd felt like he'd been sucker-punched. Even now, bruised and exhausted, she was stunning, and he was swimming into dangerous waters. This beautiful woman had a ruthless—possibly deadly—side. On the other hand, so did he.
"That goes both ways," he told her, then extended his hand across the table. "Shall we shake on it?"
She slid her hand into his, and he held on to her fingers for seconds too long, feeling again that odd sense of intense connection. He didn't know her. She didn't know him. They were both probably lying about a lot of things. But there was some innate truth between them.
One of these days, he'd figure out what that truth was.