really Big oops.
Cole yanked the defector—his defector, now, after weeks of hunting—out of the line of fire, and they both stumbled into a tiny doorway alcove. A tiny Berzhaani doorway alcove with a securely locked door. How the hell had he ever agreed to come back to Suwan?
As if there’d ever been any question. Cole, would you like to come back to black-ops fieldwork for this one job, after which we’ll say wham, bam, thank-you ma’am and drop you like the hot potato you are?
Of course he’d said yes.
A shot pinged against the pale stone of this old home, showering them with chips and dust. The defector’s hand tightened on Cole’s arm. “You have a plan. You must have a plan.”
“For this?” Cole laughed, short and entirely mirthless. “Sorry, Dr. Aymal. This isn’t your lucky defection.”
For the man had made it out of Afghanistan without incident, escorted and flanked by CIA exfiltration experts, and then they’d handed him over to the Berzhaan team— who should have seen him onto a plane headed for the States. But a little bobble here, a little bobble there…they’d lost him. Cole didn’t yet have the full story on that, but if the guy’s luck held true, he could well see how it had happened.
Because who’d have thought Cole would be under fire from his former fellow CIA contract employees? Dark ops men of superhero proportions who hadn’t re-upped, but who instead had come to the Middle East to work for a security consultant. Until now, Cole had thought they still worked for that man.
He’d been wrong.
Boy, had he been wrong. Walked right into this one, didn’t you? Whoever they worked for now, they weren’t on Cole’s side any longer. And they were bold. Bold enough to open fire in the narrow streets of this dignified old neighborhood on the edge of Suwan.
“C’mon, Jox!” The voice of a man who’d once worked beside Cole shouted out from behind cover across the street. Worked beside Cole closely enough to know the nickname based on his CIA station name. Definitely not working alongside Cole any longer. “Get real! Give it up. We’ll even let you walk away.”
But not Aymal. That was a given.
And Aymal was too important to risk. He carried a mental map of weapons-exchange locations—and key pieces of intel regarding an impending terrorist strike. None of which he had divulged so far, nor seemed inclined to divulge until his feet hit safe ground. U.S. ground.
Was his fake nose slipping with his sweat? Cole gave it a firm nudge, as though he were pushing up glasses; there was no give. Just the expected itch. Without turning around, he said to his defector, “Tell me that if I manage to get you through this alive, you’ll put half the terrorists hiding in Afghanistan out of business.”
“Most certainly,” Aymal assured him. Eagerly, too. The guy spoke some English; he had to know the offer Cole had just received. “I’m certain your government considers me a valuable asset.”
“Oddly, I consider me a valuable asset, too,” Cole muttered, scanning the roofline across from them. Two-story stone buildings lined the street, butted up side to side. A woman’s balcony jutted out of the second story, elaborate scrollwork framing the screening that allowed ventilation but kept the women out of sight. Seemed like there should be some way to use that…but no. Too far to the side.
Then he caught a glimpse of movement on the roof. Hmm. Give it up? I don’t think so. To his once-friend-nowenemy, he finally shouted, “I don’t see that happening.”
“Trust is such a fleeting thing,” the man shouted back. “Too bad you don’t seem to have much choice.” He unleashed another shot at them to prove his point and it skipped over the corner of the stone and across Cole’s side, right through the leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He flinched, cursed, and didn’t give it so much as a cursory inspection. If it burned that damned bad, it was a surface wound. Behind him, Aymal, too, flinched—away from the solid impact of the bullet in the wooden door.
Cole really hoped there was no one home.
To their pursuer, he said cheerfully, “There’s always choice.”
But he wasn’t looking at the car that hid the two men, and he wasn’t about to return fire in this populated neighborhood. Instead, he looked up.
Yup, there was someone on the roof. Three little figures, clutching a stick bat and a big red ball and a—okay, he didn’t know what that last thing was. Didn’t matter. It would do the trick. He waved at them, a wiggle of his fingers. Selena would smack that hand just for bringing the kids into this—what if they were our own?—but they were safe enough. To his newly sworn enemy, he called, “They do have cops in this neck of the woods, you know.”
“I happen to know they’re busy right now,” the man said, all too confident.
Dammit. They must have arranged a diversion. Cole looked at the kids again, made up his mind. “Get ready to move,” he murmured to Aymal.
“Where?” Aymal’s voice held a desperate note. A not unreasonably desperate note.
Cole nodded at the car currently serving as shelter for the two men who’d chased them this far. “There.”
“But—”
“Look, you do your thing with your defector stuff, and I’ll do mine with the getting-us-out-of–this-alive stuff, okay? Be ready.” And he looked back to the roof, motioning to the kids. Move to your right. Universal gesture language, carefully performed by the hand not holding his semiautomatic pistol. Clearly puzzled but just as obviously curious, the kids shuffled over until he stopped them. Right over the bad guys, they were—bad guys who were running out of patience, and who fired off a couple of shots to express their displeasure. “Seriously,” Cole told Aymal, not taking his eyes from his new allies, “we’re gonna move. Any minute…” A new gesture for the kids, then, though drop your toys was a harder one to convey.
But then understanding dawned, and the kids looked to one another and to the toys in their hands. Also clear enough in any language. Are you sure? Do you really mean it?
Cole gestured more emphatically. I really, truly mean it. And grasped Aymal’s abaya with the same hand that held the gun, careful to keep his fingers outside the trigger guard.
“Jox, last chance!” Still behind the car. Still beneath the kids, who shrugged at one another, not frightened as they might be. They were up on the roof, out of sight of those below.
And gunfire was clearly not a new experience for them.
They released their toys. Bat, ball and unidentified dropping object, plummeting down just behind the men who had Cole and Aymal cornered.
Aymal yelped, “Na baba!”
A defector with a wealth of languages at his disposal. Cole didn’t speak Barzhaani as well as Selena, but knew the equivalent of you’ve got to be kidding! when he heard it. “Not kidding,” he said, cheerful enough as he watched the toys fall—timing his move, waiting for the inevitable curse or shout of surprise—
There. Now. He gave Aymal a jerk of a jumpstart and sprinted all out for the car, crouched low, ignoring the burn of his side and the hot trickle of blood there. First things first…he
