SHORTLY AFTER 1 P.M., the FBI arranged transportation for Prince Omar, Ali, and Kord to the Saud home. The rain had ceased and receding waters made driving easier.
“Ali, contact the men at the house. I want all of you to hear this,” Prince Omar said once in the vehicle. When the three bodyguards were in listening mode, the prince began again. Obviously not concerned about the FBI agent driving the car hearing every word. “Authorities have enough cause to keep Malik in custody forty-eight hours while they investigate his story and a possible connection to the assassination plot. According to US law, they need evidence to incarcerate him any longer. In my opinion, he’s not being held long enough to verify his statements. But if released, he will be sent home for us to deal with. He’s lucky to have his life.”
No mention of Yasmine.
“Do any of you have reason —and proof —to distrust Malik?” His voice was shrouded in anger.
None of them expressed doubts.
If a thirty-two-year-old man had been sneaking around seeing Kord’s teenage sister, which he didn’t have, Malik might have a few broken bones. The one consolation was Ali acting as press secretary. A fine man in Kord’s opinion. Hot-tempered and highly intelligent. Although Monica distrusted him. Kord could be closer to Ali and the prince, a strong team. And if Malik was at fault, his treachery ended now.
The vehicle pulled up to the gate, but it was open.
“Why is the gate unlocked?” Kord strained to see any vehicles.
“Food delivery.” Ali rubbed his face, no doubt worn-out like the rest of them. “The driver is prompt every afternoon.”
“Who do you use?”
“A service on Wilcrest.”
Working without sleep had hit Kord hard this morning, and at times it clouded his judgment. He blinked and studied the van parked in the rear. The food delivery service had an impeccable reputation, but something wasn’t sitting right with him.
“Ali, once we’ve parked, let’s talk to the driver,” he said.
“I’ve met him, and he’s trustworthy. I made sure he passed security clearance.”
“The one you’ve spoken to could be a great guy, but I’d like to talk —”
“Makes sense.”
Once Prince Omar was escorted inside the home, Ali and Kord made their way to the kitchen pantry, where fresh food was being stacked on a counter.
“You’re a different driver from yesterday,” Ali said in Arabic.
A short, round man with olive skin and dark hair sized up Ali before responding. “This is his day off.” He answered in English, his voice holding no hint of an accent.
“I’d like to see your identification.” Ali’s size alone spoke of intimidation. Possible face-off? Kord might recruit him for the FBI.
“I left it in the van.” He added a small box of bananas to the counter, and the cook examined them.
Ali glared down his nose at the driver. “We’ll retrieve it together.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Ali crossed his arms over his massive chest. “We’re doing our job for Prince Omar. Ensuring his family’s safety is our priority.”
“I’ll join you,” Kord said. Ali nodded and he followed.
Outside, the spring weather held a hefty breeze. Typical March. The closer they walked to the white food-service van, the more the driver sped up his pace.
“Are you new to the food industry?” Kord kept stride beside him.
“I’ve been driving this van for eight years.”
Kord touched his Glock inside his jacket. “The owners have been in business for six years.”
The man chuckled. “Seems like eight.” He opened the driver’s side of the van. “I thought I’d left my wallet on the rear seat.”
Kord and Ali waited.
“Maybe I dropped it.” He entered the van and the door slid shut. The lock clicked.
Kord reached for the driver’s door at the same time Ali grabbed the passenger door. Both locked.
The engine roared to life. The driver slammed the van into reverse, knocking Kord and Ali backward. The tires squealed in protest, and the van whirled around, heading straight for the gate. The driver lowered his window and fired their direction.
“The gate controls.” Ali rushed toward the manual panel in the garage with his phone to his ear.
Kord fired repeatedly at the moving target while racing after it. Bullets flew through a passenger side window. The van swerved as though Kord had hit the target. Bullets soared into the metal and one hit a tire. The van pushed through the gate on three wheels.
Yanking his phone from his jacket, Kord pressed in the secure line that fed to HPD, giving the driver and van description along with license plate numbers. Second call went to SAC Thomas while Kord hurried back to Ali.
“Are you all right?” Ali said.
Kord nodded. “Made the calls. I got his license plate, and the security camera at the gate will have it too.” He pointed to the rear entrance leading to the pantry. “The food’s probably poisoned.” Alarm jarred his senses.
While bolting through the door, he remembered the four boxes of fresh produce and the ability to hide an explosive device.
“Get those boxes out of the house.” Kord’s arm stung, and a quick look showed blood had seeped through his left jacket sleeve. Ali’s question made sense. Grabbing two boxes, he pushed through the pain to carry them to the far corner of the property. Ali was right behind him with the other two. Near the rear west corner, they carefully laid them on the water-soaked grass.
“Get on back to the house,” Kord said. “If a bomb’s here, you’ll be blown with it. Don’t think you’d do well as vegetable soup.” He lifted produce from a box, listening and looking.
Ali did the same. “My loyalty is to the amir.” He snorted. “Here it is. Five minutes and counting. Have you ever disarmed a bomb?”
“Only a trip-wired device in your neck of the woods. Anything else is . . . Monica. She can do it.”
Ali tore across the grounds to the house, his phone in hand. Kord called her. Didn’t matter who got to her first.
When she answered, he said, “Bomb on west side of grounds.” He pressed End and dropped the phone on the grass.
Staring at the bomb, he noted, in addition to the timer, a cell phone was attached and could also serve as a trigger for the explosive device. Anyone with that phone’s number could initiate a remote detonation at any moment.
The sophistication of the bomb was a long way from a wire across a dirt road in a third-world country. Seconds ticked away as he kept one eye on the timer and the other on the rear of the house, as if his concentration could hurry her or delay the driver from remotely triggering the explosive.
Monica raced toward him.
Three minutes, eleven seconds.
Not sure how those short legs pumped her body so fast. Ali hurried behind her carrying what looked like a small tool belt. Smart man. She’d need it. Once she was beside Kord, she knelt with her focus on the device. “The last time I did this was in the downtown underground tunnels,” she whispered, not once looking his way. “Then I had a coverage suit, Kevlar vest, a mask, and a pair of Nomex gloves. But I can work without them. First off, I need wire clippers before some jerk detonates this baby.”
Ali handed her the tool.
Kord didn’t respond. From experience, he understood she needed to concentrate on each step, and talking must put her in the right zone.
Two minutes, forty-seven seconds.
In the distance, sirens grew closer. His phone vibrated.
“Answer it, Kord,” she said with the voice of an angel. “I have this.”
“It can wait.”
“Unless you’re praying, you aren’t a help.”
One minute, fifty-one seconds. He turned his phone off.
She explored the device.
One minute, eleven seconds.
If her God was watching, they all could use the help.
Fifty-eight seconds.
Monica peered at the wires and clipped. “Not yet,” she said. “There’s another wire.”
Twenty-three seconds.
“Where are you?” She smiled and clipped a second wire. “We’re good.”
Seven seconds remaining.