KORD GRABBED MONICA and together they knelt back-to-back on the concrete and fired in the direction of the shooters —at least two from opposite directions.
Sheets of rain distorted their vision, but it also was a disadvantage to whoever wanted them dead. A chain of expletives exploded in his mind. This was why he refused to believe in a God. They were the good guys. He yanked out his phone and called for backup.
Monica took out a streetlight, then another, in the fog-like rain.
One tiny lady with lots of guts. “We’ve got to get out of here.” Kord twisted and destroyed a light inside the café.
They moved toward a parked car hugging the curb and crouched behind the wheels. Bullets flew around them.
“Backup can’t get here soon enough,” she said in the mass of nature’s noise and gunfire.
“We can take these guys.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Sirens grew closer. Gunfire exploded against their car cover. The sound of a vehicle peeling out met his ears before HPD arrived. She crept around the car. Another spray of bullets indicated a shooter still had them in his sights.
“Stay down, Monica. A hero’s plaque on the CIA’s Memorial Wall doesn’t do you any good. Nor will I get any more kisses.”
Three HPD cars whirled onto the street, and when the shooting stopped and a second vehicle sped off, one of the squad cars took off after it.
“We’re not letting that guy get away.” She raced to Kord’s Charger.
He bolted to the car first and had the engine roaring before she slammed her door.
Kord trailed behind the HPD vehicle down Franklin, the wheels sloshing through the flooded streets. The suspect’s car faced the same slow progress and then picked up speed when it turned and hit the on-ramp for Highway 59 north.
The suspect raced ahead on the highway where the road lay slick. “The last thing we need is for him to kill himself.”
“No answers from a dead man,” she said. “I want names.”
“Sure would hate to make you mad.”
“That goes both ways.”
He chuckled despite the situation and passed the HPD vehicle with its glaring lights and siren. “He’s traveling 90 miles an hour.”
The suspect’s car hit a patch of water and hydroplaned. Flipped twice, landed upside down in the middle of the road. Exploded. Burst into flames.
In the diluted haze of lights and destruction, Kord and Monica assisted two HPD officers in freeing the man trapped inside the burning car. They battled hot, rising flames, shielding their faces while moments ticked by on the life of the man pinned inside. His screams in Arabic pierced through their attempts to free him. Kord ripped off his shirt to protect his hands from the hot metal. Monica did the same with her jacket. They struggled together with the officers to yank open the searing driver’s door. Kord reached across the man to release his seat belt.
“Monica, you won’t believe this, but it’s Youssof Dagher,” he said, knowing only she would comprehend the significance.
Kord pulled him by his shoulders from the burning wreckage. The officers helped move him onto the side of the highway. Dagher’s body was twisted in a mass of raw flesh, his cries pushing him to unconsciousness. In the distance the call of an ambulance sounded closer.
Monica bent to the man’s side, the rain increasing in intensity. “Youssof, I can’t imagine your pain. But help is coming. Hold on. Be strong.”
At that moment, Kord saw a woman who cared more about a criminal’s physical pain than his lousy choices. Kord accepted his growing feelings for her, not knowing where it might take him.
Paramedics lifted Dagher onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. The four stood wordlessly watching the vehicle disappear in the same haze of light that had brought them here.
“Choices,” she said.
He turned to her.
“They define us.” She swiped beneath her eyes, but he couldn’t tell if it was the rain or a tear.
“We have questions,” one of the officers said.
“We’re FBI on assignment.”
“Figured so. What do you say about getting into our car and out of this rain?”
Kord and Monica obliged and dripped water over the rear seat of the police vehicle. They displayed their FBI creds.
The officer who’d spoken to them sat on the front passenger side. He handed their IDs to the driver before giving Kord and Monica his attention. “What happened?”
“I suggest you contact SAC Thomas at the FBI office.” He gave his supervisor’s cell phone number. The call wouldn’t be a surprise.
“Got to verify you two first.”
Kord couldn’t blame the men. HPD’s role in protecting the city meant confirming information. The idea of Youssof Dagher dying before answering questions played on his mind.
Monica coughed, raspy, rattling.
“You running a fever?” Her lips had been a bit too warm when he kissed her.
“I’m never sick.”
Within five minutes, the police officer and Kord had talked to SAC Thomas and the two were free and ordered to return to the Saud home. They hurried to his Charger and back into town. On the way, he phoned Ali and relayed the details of the shooting.
Monica coughed again.
“Is that her?” Ali said.
“Yep. Claims she never gets sick, but she’s been trained in the art of deceit.”
“From now on, remind her to take better care of herself.”
“I imagine she’ll remember on her own.” Kord rubbed his face. “I’ll notify Jeff. You’ll update Prince Omar?”
“On my way to wake him. See you in a few minutes.”
Kord reached over and touched her forehead. “You’re burning up.”
“And since when is an FBI agent a medical authority?”
“Don’t need fancy letters after my name to see a doctor is in your future.” The woman beside him, the CIA operative who worked harder than any man, required help that he couldn’t provide.
“A glass of orange juice and a couple of Tylenol, and I’ll be fine. Both are at the Saud home.”