Taking Fire (6 page)

PART II

Retribution

“The more you trust, the greater the betrayal.

The more you love, the greater the harm.”

—Unknown

10

U.S. Embassy, Muscat, Sultanate of Oman,
six years later

“Lord love a duck.” Looking shocked and pleased, Ted Jensen pushed back his desk chair and stood when he saw Bobby Taggart standing in his doorway. “Would you look what the cat dragged in.”

Jensen was the principal security attaché to the U.S. Ambassador in the American embassy in Oman, but when that grin split his face, Bobby saw traces of the Alabama farm boy he knew and loved to hassle.

“Thought someone woulda killed you by now,” Jensen added, his grin widening.

Bobby gripped the rough hand his old friend extended across a sleek, lacquered desk. “So did I. Trust me, it's not for lack of trying on their part.”

Jensen laughed, rounded his desk, and trapped Bobby in a hard bear hug.

Bobby hugged him back, truly glad to see him. Back when he and Ted had been Special Forces, they'd served together on many deployments. Saved each other's ass more than once, too.

“Damn, it's good to see you, man!” Jensen finally released him. “I really was afraid you were dead.”

“Highly exaggerated rumors,” Bobby assured him.

“You look damn good, given that ugly mug of yours.”

“Says the man with the face like a waffle iron.”

Jensen chuckled. “So how've you been, Boom Boom? I heard about the exoneration. I always thought those charges were bogus; it never made sense that they charged you in the first place.”

Jensen's expression invited both venting and a sympathetic ear if he needed it. Maybe if he were good and drunk, he'd indulge in a little info share. But when he was sober, he rarely talked about the Operation Slam Dunk debacle.

“Water. Bridge,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “In the meantime, I'm good. Apparently, not as good as you.” He made an appreciative scan of the lavishly furnished office. “You're clearly top dog in these parts.”

Jensen sank down into his cushy desk chair. “The doghouse may be fancy, but I'm still guarding a junkyard.”

“So I've heard. That's why I'm here.”

Jensen narrowed his eyes and studied Taggart's face as if he'd mistaken him for someone else. Then he figured it out. “No shit?
You're
the big-shot, hush-hush badass the Department of Defense sent to bust my chops?”

“Drew the short straw, yeah.”

“Huh.” Thoughtful, Jensen reached into his top desk drawer, pulled out two glasses and a bottle of Scotch, then poured them each two fingers.

“All the straws seem to come up short these days,” Bobby added after tossing back the Scotch. “You okay with me trying to poke holes in your operation?”

Oman wasn't exactly a hotbed of terrorist activity, but given its strategic importance at the mouth of the Persian Gulf and the volatility of the entire Middle East, the State Department wasn't taking any chances. So the DOD had deployed the International Threat Analysis and Prevention team to assess the embassy's security, recommend upgrades if necessary, and authorize the resources to ensure that it got done. Because Mike Brown and the rest of the ITAP team were running training maneuvers in Central America, Bobby had caught the first flight over. And since Jensen was in charge of security here, Bobby was going to be tromping mud all over his nice, clean floor.

“Well,” Jensen said, “I've got a good team here. We've got a solid plan in place. But if I've got problems, I want them found. I don't want a Benghazi disaster on my watch.”

“Ditto.” Bobby leaned forward. “So where do you want me to start?”

“You mean right this minute? Well, that's a big hell no. We haven't seen each other in five years, it's almost six o'clock, and we need to catch up. So you can attack the defenses first thing in the morning. Tonight we're gonna go tie one on for old times' sake.”

“All right,” Bobby agreed, although if he wasn't going to work, he'd rather get some shut-eye. “I guess I'm in.”

“Great. Just give me a minute to deal with some of this paper.”

Bobby sank back into the chair as Ted rifled through the stack of paperwork on his desk. Maybe his friend was right. Maybe a stiff drink, some “good ol' days” conversation, and then a good night's sleep were in order. Especially after the ridiculously long flight with the requisite delays and jet lag.

It was funny how they'd ended up together again. After Jensen had retired from the military with a stellar record, he'd joined the diplomatic service. After Bobby had been booted out of the Army on a trumped-up less-than-honorable discharge, his only opportunity to stay in the action had been with Fargis, the private military contractor he'd worked for in Afghanistan. Yet now he worked for an elite covert branch of the Department of Defense. How was that for irony?

A female voice from the hallway yanked him from his thoughts, and he snapped his head around. An ice-cold knot instantly tightened in his gut.

It
couldn't
be.

But it was. He'd recognize her voice from the grave—even though he hated to admit that.

Jensen confirmed Bobby's worst nightmare. “Ah, here comes Talia. I can introduce you two right now, since you'll be working together.”

“Talia . . . Levine?” The knot twisted.

Ted quirked a brow. “Yeah. You know her?”

Jesus Christ. “I didn't see her name on the TO.”

“No,” Ted said with a curious look. “My head security investigator just retired last month, so you'd have seen
his
name on the table of organization. Talia's on loan until I hire a replacement. I wish I could steal her from the embassy in Tel Aviv on a permanent basis. She's only been here a week, but it's clear that she's damn good.”

Bobby stared at Ted blankly.
Talia. Here.

Ted leaned back in his chair, clearly puzzled by Bobby's reaction. “I take it you know her?”

But he'd already tuned Ted out, his voice fading to background noise like a freighter sinking into a deep ocean fog.

Bobby stood slowly, walked to the door, and stepped out into the hall. And there she was, walking toward him, head down, concentrating on a sheaf of papers.

She hadn't spotted him yet, but she would if he didn't unglue his feet and get back into Jensen's office.

But there he stood, unable to move. Barely able to breathe, as anger and a treacherous rush of excitement seized his chest and ramped up his heartbeat.

She looked the same. Knockout gorgeous and kickass cool, still slim and sleek and in total control. In Kabul, she'd worn camo or khakis, her hair woven into a thick black braid. Today she wore a white cotton suit with a snug skirt, and the blue top beneath her jacket looked soft and silky. Her heels were as black as her hair, which she'd pulled into an elegant and sexy knot at her nape.

Even before she looked up, he knew that the angles of her face, which he'd memorized by sight, by touch, and by taste, would be as golden and lovely as they'd been when she was his.

Except she'd never really
been
his. He'd been her target, her patsy. By all rights, he should hate her. And he
had
hated her, almost as much as he'd hated himself for falling into her trap. She'd been doing her job, and he'd been doing her.

That part was on him. He'd been a big boy, and he'd fucked up. Over the years, he'd found a way to live with himself, to keep fighting the good fight, to not allow even the hint of another mistake. It wasn't forgiveness; it was acceptance. The same thing he'd given her: acceptance of her skills of deception and seduction, of her loyalty to her country.

But forgiveness? Oh, no. That wasn't in the lineup, not for her, any more than it was for him.

Now here she was again. And for a moment, all he could remember was what it had been like to be her lover.

So much for being over her.

He hadn't thought that seeing her again would immobilize him; he felt like a turtle lumbering across a busy freeway. Nowhere to go to escape the inevitable collision. Unable to move fast enough to avoid certain disaster.

She'd almost reached him when she lifted her head to talk to an aide walking beside her. Her dark eyes landed briefly on his face as she walked past him, and his heart rate shot off the charts.

An instant later, she stopped, stood motionless for a long, pulsing second, then slowly turned around.

All the blood drained from her face when she realized it was him.

All the breath left his body.

After six years and countless regrets, he had the same reaction to her as he'd had the first time he'd seen her in the Mustafa Hotel bar. A searing connection, a sizzling electricity that was not only sexual but intensely soulful and deep.

Oh, God. Not again.
He couldn't survive her again.

Their eyes were still locked—stunned, ­disbelieving—when a blast rocked the building like a magnitude-ten earthquake.

The jarring crash of shattering glass, falling concrete, and horrified screams joined with the acrid stench of billowing smoke and the hideous pain that consumed him. The concussion from the explosion knocked him off his feet, and he fell face-first to the floor, his vision blurred, his ears ringing above the pounding in his head.

He tried to get to his feet. Couldn't. Tried to focus. Couldn't do that, either. Thick, oily nausea roiled through his gut. And the last thing he saw before he passed out was a black high-heeled shoe flying across the shattered glass and plaster littering the embassy floor.

11

Heat above her. Cracked floor below. Ashes raining down.

Talia lay on her stomach, the side of her face pressed against the hard marble floor. Through the veil of her hair, all she could see was smoke. And ruin.

Afraid to move, she lay perfectly still, blanketed from reality by an eerie sensation that she was watching a scene from a newsreel. She closed her eyes. Shut it all out. Tried to convince herself it was a nightmare.

But deep inside, where the truth couldn't be denied, she knew she was in trouble. No nightmare smelled like this. No dream made the floor beneath her tremble. Or made her body weak.

She should get up. Knew on an instinctive level that she had to get out.

Gathering her strength, she pushed up to her knees and gasped when sharp pain ripped through her arm, ending her disconnect from reality.

Head spinning, she stayed motionless on her knees, covered in ash and plaster dust. Her arm burned and throbbed; blood dripped off the fingertips of her left hand; her ears rang as if a grenade had exploded right beside her.

But a grenade couldn't do this much damage.

Fire, smoke, and ash everywhere. Fallen walls, shattered glass, twisted steel, and crumbled piles of concrete.

Nothing but a bomb could have wreaked this kind of devastation.

The embassy had been bombed!

Self-preservation finally kicked in, and adrenaline surged through her blood, snapping her out of shock mode. And her heart ramped into overdrive as she realized another horrific truth:
she
had been the target of the bombing.

Hamas had found her. They'd somehow uncovered that she'd once been Mossad. This was the fear she'd lived with for six years. That somehow they'd discover her and dig through the cover she'd once used as a photojournalist, link her to Mossad, then tie her to her work against them.

And now it had happened.

They wanted her dead and wouldn't be satisfied until she was. Or until they destroyed everything she loved.

Everything she—

Meir!

She bit back a wild, primal cry. She had to get to her son! She should have gotten Meir out of harm's way yesterday, the moment she'd found out about the systematic assassinations of the rest of her old Mossad team. But she'd had to be careful to not make any moves to alert Hamas that she was on to them; even booking the flights for tonight had been risky.

And now it might be too late.

She automatically reached into her pocket for her phone. It wasn't there. It must have fallen out during the blast. She searched the floor on hands and knees, scrabbled through piles of debris, but couldn't find it. Not her phone. Not her attaché case. Nothing.

She had to get to a phone. She had to reach Meir's bodyguard and warn him.
Stop. Think.
She willed herself to calm down.

Meir got out of summer school at four. He'd asked her to let him spend time at a new friend's house for a couple of hours after school, and she'd agreed.

After all, Jonathan would be with him. And Jonathan must be taking him home right about now. If now was somewhere close to six p.m., which was when the bomb had detonated.

She knew the time because she'd left her office at six, walked down the hall, and then everything had gone black. Had she passed out for a while? There was no way to know how much time had passed; she only knew she had to get to Meir.

Scrambling to get her feet under her, she tried to stand—and went right back down. For several seconds, she sat with her head between bent knees and breathed deep until the light-headedness passed.
He'll be all right
, she told herself as she pulled off her single shoe. The other one was gone, lost with everything else.

She tried to stand again. Landed on her ass again and swore.

She didn't have time for this, but she had to wait for the dizziness to pass. And while it did, she assured herself again that Jonathan would never let anything happen to Meir. She'd fully vetted the bodyguard before she'd taken this post in Muscat a week ago, and she trusted him completely.

Surely he would hear about the bombing on TV or in the news feed on his phone. He'd know what to do, where to go. He'd keep Meir safe. And as long as Hamas thought she was dead, her son would stay safe. There was no reason to panic. But until she made contact with Jonathan, she couldn't completely believe Meir was okay.

She
had
to get to a phone.

On this attempt to stand, she took her time and stood slowly. Made it to her feet. Made herself breathe. For a dizzying moment, it was all she could do to maintain her balance and stare in horror.

Hell burned all around her. This end of the embassy complex had been reduced to blown-out walls, fractured glass, and piles of burning rubble. The roof gaped open through a jagged hole. Another alarm blasted in her head. The rest of the roof could fall anytime. She'd be damned if she survived the bombing only to die if the roof collapsed on top of her.

Have to get out of here.

She took an unsteady step, then another, and looked around for other survivors.

“Can anyone hear me?”

Her heart dropped when no one answered.

She called out again. Waited again.

Please. There must be more survivors.

But again, she heard nothing.

Then she spotted her aide.
Oh, please, God. Not Saul.

A chunk of concrete the size of a desk had fallen on his back, pinning him to the floor. Blood pooled beneath his head. He wasn't moving.

She'd just met him this past week but already felt close to him. He was an amazing young man, smart, eager, and excited about the baby his wife was due to deliver in four months. Choking on the thick smoke glutting the air, she staggered over to him, dropped to her knees, and searched for a pulse.

He was gone. Fighting tears and now even more desperate to ensure that Jonathan got Meir to safety, she searched Saul's pockets, feeling like a ghoulish thief, and finally found his phone.

Torn between grief and hope, she punched in Jonathan's number—and got nothing. The phone was dead. The screen was black.

If she hadn't already been on her knees, despair would have taken her there. But then something clicked in her head. If she didn't get hold of herself right now, didn't shut out the grief, the survivor guilt, and the fear for her son, it would paralyze her. She'd die here, and she'd never see Meir again.

There was no shame in grieving. But there was no honor in giving up.

Above all else, the rigorous training she'd been subjected to as Mossad had instilled both physical and mental strength.

With renewed conviction, she rose to her feet again and searched for a way out. As she did, a sudden blast of memory hit that seemed as surreal as the devastation around her.

Right before the blast, she'd seen Bobby Taggart. Large and lean and as uncompromisingly male as she remembered. It made no sense, but he was here. In the building when the bomb detonated.

Propelled by renewed urgency, she started searching for him, shutting out the voices that reminded her that she'd betrayed him, that he must hate her. And if he didn't hate her now, if she found him alive, he'd soon have every reason to.

He couldn't be dead.

She couldn't accept that possibility. Couldn't accept that he'd shown up after six years, only to die right when she needed him most.

“Taggart, where are you?” she yelled into the smoking ruins.

She'd been within three yards of him at the time of the explosion, right outside Ted Jensen's office. She headed that way, stumbling over wedges of concrete, plowing through fragmented wreckage and broken glass as though rabid dogs nipped at her heels.

Shards of glass lay like booby traps, cutting her bare feet. She could deal with the pain later. She had to find—

Her breath caught when she spotted him, and she fought off a deeper kind of pain.He was lying beneath a metal door frame that miraculously stood while the walls around it were all caved in, burying Ted's office and Ted along with it in chunks of concrete. There was nothing she could do to help Ted, but Taggart might still be alive.

“Please, please, please,” she whispered, choking on air thick with ash and smoke.

She crawled over and around more fallen concrete, skirting hanging electrical wires that sparked and sizzled when they hit the floor.

Winded, coughing from the smoke, and near collapse, she finally reached him. And, thank God, she found a pulse.

Cuts and bruises peppered his arms and the side of his face. There was blood everywhere, but she couldn't find any signs of major injuries other than a bleeding gash on his head.

Head wounds bled a lot, and she told herself staunchly that all this blood didn't mean he had a bad head injury. Didn't mean he was going to die.

He groaned. The sound amped up her heart rate and brought her a first glimpse of hope.“Taggart.”

When he didn't respond, she pulled a ruined chair off of his legs.

“Taggart!” She shook him lightly as she tried to catch her breath.

He rewarded her with another groan and this time with a little movement. He lifted his head and promptly let it drop. “What . . . what happened?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Embassy? Oman?” He lifted his head again and squinted at her. “Talia?”

“The embassy was bombed.” She shrugged out of her ruined jacket and started ripping it apart. “We've got to get out of here.”

She wiped blood from his face and away from his eyes. Then she tore strips of the lightweight cotton fabric, made a dressing, and tied it around his head.

“Sorry,” she said when he winced. “It's got to be tight. The cut needs pressure to stop the bleeding.”

“Bombed?” he repeated, his slowness to connect reflecting his confusion.

“Can you stand?” With no time to explain more or to wait for his answer, she helped him push up onto all fours. He was clearly weak and dizzy, so she let him rest for all of ten seconds. “Come on. All the way up.”

Adrenaline could pull off miracles, and even though he outweighed her by a good hundred pounds, she managed to get him to his feet.

He swayed drunkenly.

She grabbed his arm, slung it over her shoulders, and shored him up. Wrapping her other arm around his waist, she clutched his belt to help keep him upright.

Taggart wasn't in any shape to help her, and she could move much faster without him. But she didn't consider leaving him behind for one second. She needed him. She owed him for what she'd done to him. Owed him more than he'd ever know. And she would not leave him here to die.

“You've got to pull it together,” she demanded. “We've got to move. Now, walk.”

“Wait . . . just wait—”

“We can't wait.” The building groaned and creaked, a precursor to imminent collapse.

“The roof could cave at any moment.” Another electrical wire swung dangerously close. “There could be a secondary explosion. Now, move, damn it!”

He took one unsteady step and stumbled, nearly taking her down with him.

“Do
not
pass out on me.” She strained against his weight. “Help me. Walk. Please, please, walk!”

Time was more than an enemy; time was death. For him. For her. And possibly for Meir.