FRIDAY AFTERNOON Monica took her place inside Morton’s steak house as a hostess. CIA operatives and FBI agents, dressed as staff, monitored their posts. She walked to the glass door. Snipers were in position across the street at her 10:00 and at her 3:00. The parking lot held a mix of law enforcement, and the city’s cameras had every foot covered. Soon Kord would arrive in the limo. Ali insisted upon being part of the operation, as well as Saad and Wasi.
She prayed to be alert and filled with wisdom. Kord had put himself in far too much danger. She’d do the same thing. But in a few short days, Kord had touched a part of her that she hadn’t believed possible. Neither was she sure she wanted, needed, or deserved that.
At 2:29 p.m., the Mercedes limo stopped in front of the restaurant. The bodyguards, dressed in suits, emerged and scanned the area before Ali opened the door for Kord, disguised as Prince Omar. Two agents in the hostess area opened the restaurant doors to greet the arrivals. Monica held her breath as Kord left the limo. Zain had been killed by a sniper in a similar situation.
The small group walked inside with all the flair of royalty and no incidents.
Two operatives escorted the entourage to a private dining area. The restaurant doors remained unlocked. How easy could this be for the killer?
Now the wait.
The prince, like others in his country, supported moving beyond a dependence on oil. Those goals and ambitions for a country to stay afloat in a yacht instead of a rowboat meant acquiring allies to make it all happen. A worthy project, and she commended Prince Omar for his dedication. He simply needed to live through whatever was planned against him.
She’d gained respect for the prince.
A couple entered the restaurant, and she explained they were closed for a private party. They made reservations for dinner.
Two men in business attire requested the bar, and she repeated the same. Their disappointment came through in language she preferred not to hear.
An impeccably dressed man entered, Hispanic, three-piece gray suit, conservative silk tie, and jet-black hair worn above his collar. Slender. An attitude and expensive shades. He smiled at her and she returned the gesture.
“Good afternoon.” His accent indicated Spanish, but a little high-pitched.
“Sir, we’re closed until four thirty for a private party.” Her words sounded into the ears of agents and operatives.
“All I need is a table for one.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I can make reservations for later on this afternoon?”
He reached inside his suit coat. She tensed, then slowly relaxed. A wallet. He presented her with a bill. Benjamin Franklin smiled at her. “Will this help?”
“I’m afraid not. I must ask you to leave.”
He swore in Spanish, then stiffened. “The door’s unlocked for anyone to enter. Which means open for business.”
“I’ll take care of the oversight once you’ve left.”
“Allow me to speak to your manager.”
“He’s with the private party.”
“I’d like to use your men’s room.”
“I’m sorry. Do I need to call someone to escort you out?”
“Your rudeness will cost your job. I’ll stay until I can speak to the manager.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m calling security.” Monica touched her weapon with her left hand, habit.
The man whipped out a firearm and aimed it at her face. “I know Prince Omar is here. Take me to him now.”
“Stop.” A male agent moved into the hostess area.
The intruder swung his attention to the agent, and Monica drew her weapon.
“Don’t move,” the intruder said. “Drop your weapons, or one of you is dead.”
“We’re not budging,” she said.
He felt for the door behind him and backed through. A woman with two teenage girls stood outside the restaurant doors, crowding the entrance and limiting a potential rooftop shot.
The man took off running toward the mall area, and Monica chased after him with the agent on her heels. The intruder dashed around a few pedestrians crossing the street.
Not a clear shot for her or anyone.
She sprinted after him as he whipped down the street and into a parking area. Her warnings didn’t deter him. She itched to take a shot but not with the mass of people.
He pushed through some teens and ducked behind a car, then aimed his firearm her way. She knelt beside a car, and his shot went wild. Kids screamed.
She had a clear shot and fired as he twisted around a pickup truck. She followed to where the man lay facedown on the pavement, a puddle of red gathering from the right side of his head.
The agent hurried toward her.
“Call 911,” she said and bent to feel for a pulse. “He’s alive.”
The shot had knocked a wig askew.
Monica reached for the hairpiece.
The killer was a woman.