MONICA WOKE with the sensation of a tree lying across her chest. The familiar smell of her room at the Saud mansion told her she was safe —and sick. No point in opening her eyes until she remembered . . . Finding the mystery man on the café’s security footage. The pouring rain. Shooters. HPD in pursuit of a getaway car. Youssof Dagher nearly dead. She battled the weakness. Head, throat, and chest pain. What had she missed? Her mind started to drift and she forced herself to figure out how she’d gotten into bed. Oh yes. Kord carried her from his car. A doctor told her she had double pneumonia. She moaned and hoped neither of the princesses had heard about it. Thank goodness her condition wasn’t contagious.
God had taken care of her when the shooters first opened fire.
No other way to explain it. Thank You.
While in God territory, she thanked Him for sparing Kord’s life too. A gentle tug at her spirit brought the unforgiveness of her past center point in her mind. How could she talk to Kord or anyone about God if she shoved aside what He asked of her? She listened when others complimented her skills and then brushed aside their accolades. Even appeared strong when others joked about her faith. But no one knew the real Monica E. Alden. The E stood for Elizabeth, not elite or exceptional.
She failed in the good-enough arena —for Kord or any man.
She’d gotten so far from God with Liam. Difficult to admit even to herself. Forgiveness had become an ocean she couldn’t cross. She’d viewed Liam as her soul mate, her savior of sorts. Looks. Charm. Intelligence. The two worked missions others deemed impossible. Monica believed it was God blessing both of them, and Liam agreed.
Don’t go there.
She took a journey in her mind to escape the nightmare, to a place she used to visit at her grandparents’ farm. Instantly she relaxed. She and Granddad walked along the creek. He taught her about the different plants and types of trees on the green, rolling acres. Most times, his conversation moved to God. “Little girl, you can do in life what matters most as long as God’s in it. He’ll show you the way.”
Her eyelids fluttered. An IV bag dripped into her veins.
“How are you feeling?”
Sounded like Fatima. Monica looked toward the voice to see the sisters on a sofa. “I’m better. How long have you been here?”
“Since you returned in the early hours of morning.”
The shades were pulled. Had it been a few hours? This was awkward. Blinking to shove aside the drowsiness, she glanced at the time: 4:36 p.m. How had she slept so long? “It’s Sunday afternoon. You’ve been here all this time?”
Yasmine walked to her bedside. “Mr. Davidson said you’d be upset at sleeping so long. He said ‘cranky.’”
“He was right. I should talk to him.”
“He’s not here.” Fatima reached into her pocket and produced a folded slip of paper. “He gave this to our brother for you.”
She took the note.
Monica, Youssof Dagher wakened. I’m heading to the hospital. It’s about 1 p.m. Call or text when you get this. Mind the doctor and the princesses.
Kord
She sighed and refolded it. Her cell was missing from the nightstand. “Do you know where my phone is?”
“It’s in my room,” Yasmine said. “We didn’t want it bothering you.”
Normally the vibration roused her.
Yasmine quickly brought it to her. No texts or calls to return. She pressed in Kord’s number. “Can you talk?”
“First off, how are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Medicine is on the nightstand.”
She turned to see two bottles of prescription meds and a bottle of syrup that was probably for her cough. “I’ll take it in a few minutes.”
“I’m wrapping things up with Agent Richardson. On my way back there. Will give you an update then.”
“Do we have enough info to close this case?”
“No.”
“When will you be here?”
“Within thirty minutes. The doctor will be making another house call around five thirty.”
She’d wasted far too many work hours. Yet she should be grateful. “Thanks for taking care of me.”
“Get used to it.”
But they didn’t have a future together. She pressed End and placed her phone beside her. “The doctor is coming in less than an hour. I need to get cleaned up.”
“We’re here to help you,” Fatima said. “The steam in the shower will be good for your lungs, and you can sit on the bench.”
She didn’t have the strength to get out of bed.
“You can’t do this by yourself,” Fatima said.
Yasmine shook her head. “We’re afraid you’ll fall.”
A heavy dose of humiliation warmed her, not the first occurrence in this mission. “Not since my mother has anyone helped me bathe.”
“Oh, we’ll honor your modesty,” Fatima said. “I’ll start the water. Washing your hair will be the biggest obstacle. We can do this together.”
She choked back emotion. “How can I thank you for tending to me like a baby?”
Fatima touched her face. “This is a small kindness for what you’ve done for us.”
“Self-defense classes are on hold.”
“Yasmine and I will practice.”
Monica wanted to cry. Crazy medicine. Stupid pneumonia in both lungs. Since when did a CIA operative resort to tears because of a shower? They slipped down her cheeks despite the self-talk.