using a phone, so I’m posting you this.’”
The pen rolled over the pad.
“Sign it with ‘Ciao’ and two small Xs. And now a T, with a full stop.”
Tess looked up, her forehead creased. “You’ve been reading my emails.”
“Do it.”
Biting her bottom lip, Tess returned to the note. When she was finished, Hamid snatched it, smiled and stomped on Tess’s right foot. Tess yelped. The pen skidded onto the dirt by Flynn’s nose. Hamid ground in her heel a couple of seconds before releasing. Tess crumpled to her knees, air scraping into her lungs. Jesus. Flynn bucked against his guards but all it got him was a smack on the head.
Hamid stepped back, sniffing. “Oh, and thanks to the information on your laptop, I’ve discovered the identity of your other whistle-blower. She will soon meet the same fate as the first. Nice and tidy.”
A cry squeaked out of Tess.
“It’s over.”
“Never,” Tess breathed, raising her chin. “If I found out the truth about al-Thawra, someone else will, too. They’ll take you down, along with Denniston and Senator Hyland.”
Wait—Senator Hyland? He was in on this? Shit, Flynn was even more dead.
“No. You have kindly revealed a crack in this organization and I am fixing it. I am going through your so-called evidence piece by piece to ensure there will be no more lapses.”
Tess pushed to her feet with a slight grunt. “You can’t win this.”
“I already have and your death will seal it. In a matter of days, the US and its allies will announce war on Somalia. Very soon, the senator will be president.”
“With you behind the scenes doing his dirty work.” If Tess was scared, she hid it well. Wrap it up, sunshine. This ain’t comfortable.
“You say that as if you think it is he who is in charge of me,” Hamid said, brushing a streak of dirt from her robe.
“He’s got you believing you hold the power here? You know that sucking people in and spitting them out is what he does best? You’re his pawn, as much as these people.”
“Oh, I am looking forward to the hour I get to spit you out.”
A swishing noise. Hamid was climbing the ladder. The pressure on Flynn’s lower back released. More scrambling marked one soldier’s departure, followed by another. The one remaining guy rubbed Flynn’s face in the dirt and let go.
Flynn inhaled dust, pain stabbing his chest. A cracked rib? The hatch clonked shut, sucking up the beam of light.
“I have nail scissors,” Tess said weakly, nodding to his bound hands. “You took me by surprise with that move on Hamid. I should have done something, tried to grab a gun, or...”
“You couldn’t have done anything. And for future reference, don’t try. I can look out for myself. You should, too.”
In a minute she’d snipped off the ties. He rolled onto his back with a groan and pressed his fingers into his ribs.
“It was worth a shot,” she said. “Broken?”
“Don’t think so.” Hope not. He hoisted himself onto his elbows, suppressing a wince, and wiped his eye clear with his jacket sleeve. “Your foot...”
Tess swept her leg around in front of her. Even in the gray light a scarlet bloodstain stood out, spreading over the toe of her sock, following the path of a darker stain like fresh lava over old. The sock was stuffed with something—a bandage?
“They ripped out your toenails.” The pricks. As torture went, it was old-fashioned but painful as hell, by all accounts. At least nails grew back—given the chance. “What did they torture you for?”
“A dossier of the evidence I have on them—they wanted to know whether there were copies and where they were.”
“Did you tell them?”
“Everything.” Her answer was strangely short.
“There’s some shit going down here, isn’t there?”
“Oh yeah.”
He caught her other leg and trailed his hand down to the foot. More blood, but dry. She pulled both feet away.
“Hamid’s a psychopath, in case you hadn’t worked that out,” she said.
“Hamid’s a woman.”
“You noticed. I’d better take a look at your head—I might have to close the wound again.”
“And an American. What’s with that?”
She pushed to her feet and unrolled his bandage. “Yep. Born and raised in Chicago. Ex-marines, ex-CIA. Her real name is Sara Hawthorn.”
“Sara. The most wanted man in the world is a hot Chicago cougar called Sara.”
“Hey, if she’s your type, you have problems.”
“A woman heading a jihad?”
“Al-Thawra is no jihadist group, despite what their thugs believe.”
“Really? They kind of give it away with all the ‘death to the infidels’ shit.”
“That’s what Hamid—Sara—wants people in the West to believe,” she said, her voice cut with bitterness. “Hell, it’s what we’re quick to believe, isn’t it? That we’re under attack from whacked-out extremists from the other side of the world? It’s harder to understand if the cracks are in your own country.”
“Now you’re sounding like her.”
Featherlight fingers drew through his scalp. He bit down on his cheeks.
“This doesn’t look too bad—the strips have held.” She knelt in front of him, her knees and legs splayed awkwardly. To protect her toes? With a finger under his chin, she raised his head so his eyes were level with her chest. What could he do but explore the hint of cleavage diving into her T-shirt? Sure, he could shut his eyes, but he was no monk, and hey, this could be his last happy moment.
He inhaled. Earthy and musky. He shouldn’t find that sexy, but...damn. He’d never been into women who reeked of perfume—or worse, tasted of it.
Crap, she was talking. Mind out of the cleavage, mate.
“...goons are mostly Muslim, answering the call to jihad, but they’re being fooled as much as anyone. It’s all a cover.” She bent slightly to get something from her bag, bringing her cleavage within millimeters of his nose.
Focus. “A cover for what?”
She snipped something—surgical tape?—and pressed it on his wound, shooting sparks through his skull. He forced himself to imagine what was under that T-shirt,
