The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(41)

“But why not issue demands? It doesn’t make sense to remain silent.”

“ISIS, al-Qaeda—they don’t always do the expected. Remember Peter Kassig’s case? They sent his family an e-mail saying Peter was their guest. The only predictable thing about terror groups is that they’re unpredictable.”

Rif was being kind, not mentioning anything about political prisoners and orange jumpsuits. Her father would never be recorded denouncing the West. He’d die first.

She scanned the lobby, grateful for the soldier’s presence. She had to admit she felt safer with him around. Her father’s disappearance had left her distracted.

She pressed speed-dial 4 and spoke to Papa’s chief pilot. “Please prepare the jet, destination Kanzi International Airport. I’ll be there shortly.” She hit the end button.

“What about the appointment with your new best friend?”

“I’ll deal with her if and when she follows us to Africa. The jet will be ready in an hour.”

“Guess there’s an upside to being a Paris.” Rif’s gaze drifted over her face.

“Beats my usual ride.” She spent more time in bare-bones former military planes than she did on her father’s luxurious Gulfstreams. Still, given that every hour counted, she was grateful for convenient transport.

“Let’s—” Her phone rang. Helena. She held up a hand. “You okay?”

Her father’s wife was breathless, agitated. “I know who did it.”

“Did what?”

“Kidnapped your father.”

Cold sweat dotted Thea’s forehead. “Who?”

“I found Christos’s Moleskine. You’re at the hotel, right? I’ll be there in two minutes. My limo is almost there. Meet me out front.”

“Helena, wait—”

Her stepmother broke the connection before Thea could press for more information.

“She knows something?” Rif asked.

“So she says. Her limo’s close. Let’s find out what she’s all worked up about.” She strode toward the door. Rif caught up to her with his long strides.

“Be careful. This could be a trap.”

“Maybe. But I’m not letting her out of my sight until I examine the evidence.” She held the front door for Rif, knowing he’d want to scout the entrance area.

She lifted a hand, protecting her eyes from the setting sun dead ahead on the horizon, waiting for Helena to arrive.

“What’d she say, exactly?” Rif asked.

“That she found Papa’s Moleskine and knows who took him. She sounded agitated, and she’s normally even-keeled.”

“Think this is for real?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

A black Hummer limo cruised toward Constitution Square. Undoubtedly Helena. She didn’t have a license, so she always had a driver. Papa found it endearing.

Were they finally catching a break?

The limo stopped at the red light, Thea’s gaze glued to its tinted windows. The light changed, and the vehicle started its sweeping turn toward the hotel.

She had started down the steps to meet the vehicle at the curb, when a concussive blast rocketed her backward. Every vertebra in her back screamed from the impact as she slammed against the stairs behind her. Rif dove on top of her, covering her body with his as white-hot heat surrounded them. Her breath escaped in short gasps. Pieces of the limo smashed into the fa?ade of the hotel and rained to the ground around them. Screams filled the air, but they sounded far away. A doorman who’d been standing at the curb lay in a pool of blood, his empty eyes staring at the sky.

“You hurt?” Rif knelt beside her.

“Just dizzy.” The ringing in her ears made it almost impossible to hear, even though she could see that Rif was shouting.

She rolled onto her side and sat up. Disoriented, she tried to shake off the aftereffects of the blast. Soot covered her face and was tangled in her eyelashes. The limo was a flaming black skeleton, scorched in places down to the frame. No way could Helena or the driver—or the Moleskine—have survived the blast.

Sadness filled Thea’s heart. Her stepmother had been kind, the best thing that had happened to her father in a long time.

And now Helena’s knowledge about the kidnapping had died along with her.

Sirens sounded in the distance, their penetrating wail competing with the hotel security guards’ shouts.

Thea stood, regaining her equilibrium.

Furtive movement on a side street caught her attention. A charcoal Audi S8 inched forward, perpendicular to where they stood. At first she couldn’t see the occupant because of the glaring sun. Then the car moved. She stared at the driver, who was holding a cell phone. No, it couldn’t be. . . .

It was.

She pointed to the Audi.

“Henri . . . Papa’s chef. It’s him!”





Chapter Thirty



The loud explosion outside the hotel shook the windows in Gabrielle Farrah’s room, reminding her of when she was stationed in Gaza. Without knocking, she yanked open the door to Max’s adjoining suite. He’d insisted on treating her to a luxurious room, provided it was connected to his. It sure beat any accommodations she could have afforded on the government’s dime—as long as she could lock the door from her side.