THE SNIPER could have passed for Chip. Hispanic. Similar height. The dead janitor had been targeted long before today.
Kord and Monica stayed with the janitor until the medical examiner and FBI arrived to scour a crime scene —again. Monica seemed glued to the janitor’s side, as though her presence comforted him.
Kord hoped the first day of Prince Omar’s visit held no indication of what the remainder of the trip would entail. But he’d be a fool to believe otherwise. As a case of mistaken identity, Zain’s death couldn’t be the work of the Saudi conservatives. They’d have fired the kill shot on their own territory . . . unless they wanted to discredit the US. Then who? Iran despised the Saudis. So did others. What about those within the US with motive?
Twice in one day, Kord had witnessed a murder victim inside yellow crime scene tape. The sniper had killed Chip and worn his shirt while he slipped through the school to the roof. Why hadn’t he grabbed one of the shirts hanging in the supply closet? Perhaps he’d already taken Chip’s before discovering the others or Chip surprised him.
The killer had then assembled his weapon and pulled the trigger on Zain, shot in the line of protecting the prince.
Zain, Kord, and Monica walked with danger and understood the downside of their roles. So did anyone who put his or her life on the line for others. But the janitor had gone to work this morning with the goal of helping to keep a high school presentable, operable, and clean. At this point, only the basketball player offered any clue to the killer’s appearance and the black metal toolbox in his hands.
The janitor drew a tissue from inside his desk and wiped his nose. “Chip Garza was a good man. Never late. Jokester. Good family. Never forgot any of our birthdays. We’ll miss him.”
“I’m sorry.” Monica sighed. “That’s a textbook response, when losing a friend to violence is horrible. I pray God gives you peace.”
He pressed his lips together, no doubt to block the tears. “’Preciate your kind words. My dad always said when we take a hard hit, turn to God.”
She touched his arm. “Hold on to that. Do you have a church family, anyone I can call?”
“I’ll get ahold of my pastor once I settle a bit. Thanks, though.” He swiped beneath his eyes. “Bless you, sweet girl.”
Kord hadn’t taken Monica for a God person. Not what he’d originally sized her up to be. Maybe she only said the words hurting people wanted to hear. He’d not speak to her about it unless he sensed a problem. He hadn’t decided about God, an all-powerful being who created and destroyed in whatever order He desired.
How did she rationalize Zain’s and Chip’s senseless murders?
Monica swung her gaze around the supply closet. She excused herself and walked to a far corner, where she bent to examine a bit of dust. Although neither of them had found anything substantial, she’d doggedly persisted by retracing every inch of the closet. Kord joined her.
“The killer’s skilled with a knife and a sniper rifle. He’s calculating, intelligent.” She peered at him as if he were going to comment. “This confirms military training, and a run through our databases with specifics could give us a range of suspects.”
“The boy who gave us the lead is aiding an FBI sketch artist. My thoughts are Middle Eastern, but he could be Hispanic. Some pass for either race.”
“Is today political, religious, or oil related?” she said. “Or all of them, depending on the origin?”
“That part of the world uses all three. Toss vengeance into the mix.”
“We have a can of worms and no hook.”
He resorted to a huff instead of sarcasm. “The real bait is a Saudi prince with a price on his head.”
By the time Kord and Monica dodged traffic in the downpour and drove back across Westheimer to the Frozen Rock, the barricade had disbanded. He phoned Prince Omar and told him they’d be there shortly. The prince still needed to admit his mother into the hospital and meet with her doctors. Kord and Monica would be part of the group driving her to MD Anderson.
Prince Omar had experienced a grand US welcome. Kord sensed determination rising above his own grief to protect those within his responsibility. Too many enemies wanted the prince and his family taken down. Until the US had those responsible in custody, the prince was walking a shaky path.
Kord pulled onto the busy street, his thoughts flying at the speed of lightning.
“Tell me about Zain,” Monica said.
Frustration swirled in his gut. “I don’t need a shrink.”
“Right, and I’m not a hold-your-hand kinda girl. I asked a question, so suit yourself.”
Maybe he was edgy. “Here’s the CliffsNotes. Some years ago while in Saudi, Zain and I were on a joint forces rescue mission together. Prince Omar’s second wife and his son had been kidnapped. We got them out of the terrorist camp. You get to know a man real well when facing life and death. Zain’s killer is living on borrowed time.”
On the way to the Saud home, Monica used the secure phone to text Jeff with a list of toiletries and clothing items for him to retrieve from the trunk of her car. She cringed at the thought of only a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and toothpaste being there. Once she learned the attire required as Kord’s assistant, she’d make additional requests.
Kord’s reputation and what she’d seen in action impressed her. He’d completed several successful missions in the Middle East and escaped death against tremendous odds. The right man for her to be working with as long as he didn’t have an arrogant streak. At this point, she hadn’t detected one, only a bit of an ego. Now to figure out why his enemies would fear him. His skill set? Daring? His alliance with Prince Omar and his family? Or information she hadn’t acquired yet?
Kord turned his Charger down a driveway that led to the iron-fenced grounds of the Saud family estate. He stopped at a sixteen-foot-high metal gate separating the rest of the world from the prince and his guests. She studied the house, or rather the mansion, unlike anything she’d ever seen. The neoclassical style in stone and stucco displayed the wealth to maintain the property. According to her report, the home was thirty-two thousand square feet and presided over three manicured acres. Seven guest suites, eight additional bedrooms, eleven full bathrooms, and five half baths. Monica could only imagine the interior design.
Kord lowered his window and pressed the button to the home’s alarm system —monitored live by a private security firm around the clock.
“Kord Davidson and Monica Alden,” he said. “Prince Omar is expecting us.”
“Yes, sir,” a man said. “Your license plate is not in our system. This will take a few moments to verify you and your passenger. Our facial recognition doesn’t have either of you on file.”
“Since when? We were given authorization this morning.”
“New measures have been instituted. I’ll do my best to expedite the matter. Each of you will need to exit the vehicle, approach the kiosk for a facial and retinal scan. Then a fingerprint check. Expect ninety-second delays while your identities are confirmed and filed into our system.”
“Check your records. We’ve been cleared.”
“How long would you like to sit outside the gate?”
He muttered a few choice words and grabbed a baseball cap from the backseat to prevent recognition from anyone spying on the home. She didn’t have a thing with her to shield her identity.
Monica bit back a laugh. Obviously the man at the security company had spoken with Kord types before. “Want me to go first in case you open fire on the monitor?” she said.
“I’ll restrain myself.” He planted the hat on his head and exited the car.
While Monica waited for her check, she took in the exterior of the grounds and the street for signs of potential problems. Although law enforcement patrolled the area and kept constant surveillance, small inconsistencies could mean unwanted casualties. The neighborhood boasted of quiet affluence. Those who held the highest ranking were of old money, certain to frown on international visitors invading their empires. Massive oaks hid what residents wanted disguised and showcased what they wanted others to believe.
Hovering gray clouds indicated more rain. Flash flood warnings affected the low areas of the city, making some streets, roads, and underpasses impassable. Her T-shirt offered little warmth since it had been soaked while on the roof of the high school and clung damp to her skin.
Kord gestured for her to take her turn at the security camera. She left the car, and he joined her on the left side, blocking her from the street view.
“Oh, to have changed clothes before Prince Omar arrived.”
“Nothing we can do about how you look.”
She took a cursory look at herself and cringed. Her stained brown T-shirt and tattered jeans made her look like a reject from the cleaning crew. With what she’d been briefed about Prince Omar and his extravagance, he’d regard her with less than an ounce of respect or brains. But regrets never solved anything, and she’d been given this assignment because of her experience and abilities. What did Kord or the prince expect when she’d been pulled from an undercover job?
When she passed the security procedures, the gate opened. His frown annoyed her.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“We’ll talk later. A word of advice —don’t expect a welcome committee.”
“I’m CIA and I’ve faced these people before. Play your intimidation games somewhere else.”
He chuckled. Who was this man?