Behind the Lies (Montgomery Justice #2)(4)

Theresa didn’t say anything for a moment. Zach knew the truth. She believed that Pendar, his wife, Setara, and their two daughters were dead. Khalid’s group had a reputation for kidnapping for hire—resulting in beheadings, not ransoms. Zach’s assignment had been to discover the group’s location so a smart bomb could take out the man responsible for over one hundred deaths—that they knew of. Pendar had been a godsend.

Until he’d disappeared.

“What does this guy really want?” Zach muttered. No one bargained these days without a major favor in mind.

“He made enemies. He needs asylum.”

“Can we do the deal?” It wasn’t always possible.

“The boss wants to take out Khalid any way we can. He’s willing to take the risk.”

The motorcycle whipped down the brick-covered streets, the uneven ground vibrating his back teeth. He flew past shop after shop, a hint of spice and smoke still in the air from the final hours of life at the street market. Finally, he shifted around a last corner to a part of Istanbul that no tourist should frequent. He turned into the sunset, and the glare blinded him momentarily. Zach blinked and pulled on his sunglasses as the landscape shifted. Fewer buildings, more trees, much more remote.

“Almost to the rendezvous point.” The area was deserted. Zach eased on the gas, his breathing steady, his hands itching to hold his weapon. “I need to find Pendar, Theresa.”

She sighed again. “It wasn’t your fault. He got careless.”

“He wouldn’t have put himself in that position if I hadn’t twisted his arm.”

A figure stepped into the darkening road.

He aimed a submachine gun directly at Zach. The bullets would rip through Kevlar like butter and explode inside him. If they landed true.

“It’s a setup.”

Theresa spit out an unladylike curse.

Zach had no choice. He gunned the gas, leaned back, and forced his bike into a skid, his thousand-dollar leather pants taking the brunt of the slide. The motorcycle slid into the guy, undercutting his legs before he could get off a shot. He fell back with a loud roar. Before the bike slid to a stop, Zach shot to his feet, his father’s reliable Kimber 1911 in his palm. He ignored the pain shooting down his right leg. Warm liquid bathed his skin, but he raced toward his assailant. He had more than a few questions.

A van screeched to a halt. Five men jumped out.

With a harsh expletive, Zach spun around. His legs pumped hard as he dove for cover in a grove of trees at the side of the road, hidden in the shadows, the black of his clothes blending him into his surroundings.

The men scattered, their weapons at the ready, shouting in Turkish.

He didn’t make out all the phrases, except one. Kill Zane Morgan.

Zach shifted. A woodpecker sounded an indignant call and took to the skies.

The men whirled toward the sound. One raced at Zach.

Shit.

Five against one. Not good odds.

The barrel of the submachine gun pointed just to his right. The guy let the bullets fly. Zach took one shot. The bullet hit true. His assailant fell to the ground.

The four men left shouted out and started his way. Zach picked off two more.

The remaining assailants raced back to the van using curses that definitely weren’t part of his original lessons in Turkish. Nothing like on-the-job-training to expand the vocabulary. The men climbed into the vehicle and screamed away.

Zach fell onto his back and tapped his earpiece. “Three dead. I need cleanup.”

His contact sighed. “Can’t you go anywhere without leaving a mess?”

He didn’t joke back. “How’d they know about the meet, Theresa?”

“I don’t know. I’ll get back to you.”

Zach didn’t like the worried tone in her voice, but she’d figure it out. She had his back. She always did.

He shifted and his leg burned. Zach studied the damage. “Damn it. I’m going to be late for the next take.”




Chippendale furniture and Waterford crystal didn’t matter if you were dead. Jenna Walters knew she wouldn’t be leaving her house alive. Not if she stayed another hour.

Standing in the elegant bedroom where her dreams had been created—and shattered—she dialed a well-rehearsed number with shaking fingers, a number she’d believed was her salvation. After the last few months, she didn’t know if she could believe in anything or anyone anymore.

She tucked the phone under her chin and opened another drawer from the priceless mahogany antique.

“FBI,” a formless tone answered.

“Agent Fallon, please.” She cursed her quivering voice. If betrayal could drive away fear, she would’ve been the bravest woman on earth.

She studied the smashed FBI listening device in her hand. The trembling hadn’t stopped since she’d discovered it. He knew. Brad knew what she’d done. What she’d tried to do. There was no other explanation. He was playing with her, like he had for the seven years she’d known him.

She shoved aside the truth of what her husband could do to her as quickly as she pushed the drawer closed. The television rumbled on the news channel in the background. She glanced over at the distraction. The breaking announcement at the bottom of the screen made her still. The phone dropped to the floor. She stared at the words, desperately praying they would change, but of course they didn’t. She stared at the phone on the ground, her lifeline. She scooped up the receiver and stuffed two more nondescript shirts in the duffel. If she’d had any doubts before, they were gone now. No regrets. No more designer gowns. She had to disappear.