Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(18)

“Bullshit!” I slapped my palms on the table. Silverware rattled. “That’s bullshit.” My blood pressure took an express elevator up. “I did not come to you immediately because Malik disappeared again right after Angelo saw him. Fuller and I weren’t sure who we could trust. We still aren’t sure. And now you are lying to me. I’d like to know why. For all we know, he was grabbed at your mosque. And maybe you had something to do with it.”

Zarif took another drag from his half-finished cigarette, the tiny flame blazing with a crackle, then stubbed it out. “What is it you want to do with the boy if you find him?”

“Why?”

“Because now I am part of this charade.”

“Fuller knows people outside the US who are willing to take him in. Who want to take him in. Families who could give him a safe and normal life.”

“A safe and normal life.” Zarif leaned back and tapped his chin with a forefinger. “What does that look like for a boy who—if what you say is true—is being hunted by killers?”

Safe and normal, for both me and for Malik, resided on the far side of the investigation I was conducting. The one I’d allowed myself to be scared away from six months earlier when Sarge came calling.

But I couldn’t share that with Zarif. Couldn’t tell him that the key to Malik’s safety possibly lay in what Malik himself could tell me. In what Malik might be able to reveal about who killed his mother and PFC Resenko, assuming he’d seen or heard anything at all. Answers he’d been too traumatized to offer three years ago, but which I needed from him now.

Answers that could mean exposing him to risk in order to save him.

“Until a family is vetted, I’ve made arrangements for an FBI safe house,” I said.

“First you have to get him there.”

“Yes.”

“And what if he is safe where he is?” Zarif pressed. “What if he is safer if you don’t find him? These men you say are looking for him know who you are. They dumped a dead man outside your hotel room. What kind of message is that? Maybe you can elude them here. But as soon as you return to Denver, they’ll have you. They will ask you about this FBI safe house, and you will sing.” He jabbed a finger at me. “Because we all sing.”

As if that thought hadn’t given me nightmares from the moment I decided to walk off the cliff. “What if he isn’t safe, Ehsan? What if he’s in danger?”

“And your presence will make the difference? You’re that good?”

My face grew hot. “For a man who’s never seen this boy, you seem quite invested in the outcome.”

Zarif’s look had hardened to the point where his mild spectacles made me feel as though I stood on the wrong side of a rifle scope. “He’s a child. It is normal to care. But more importantly, if he really was at my mosque, he might return. I’d like to know what risk he brings with him.”

“As long as Malik is somewhere out there, he will never be safe. If he returns to your mosque, then maybe you won’t be safe, either.”

“And you believe you and your Feds can protect him.” He spit the words.

In the square, the pigeons startled, flapping heavily into the air, the beat of their wings a panicked throb against the drowsy afternoon. I jerked upright and scanned the area, but the rest of the world dozed peacefully. Zarif, apparently utterly relaxed, kept his back to the square.

“You are arrogant,” he said.

“I am determined. Malik deserves a real life.”

“And arrogance,” he went on, “has killed more people than stupidity ever did.”

“Would you choose to live your life looking over your shoulder?”

“I’d certainly find it better than a bullet in my heart.”

“Ehsan—”

“There were men,” he said.

“What?”

“Men came looking for the boy a week ago. Americans. Perhaps the men who killed your friend. I told them the same thing I’m going to tell you now. If that boy was ever in my mosque, he came and went without my knowledge. And he never came back, because I’ve been watching. So please—” He clenched a fist but stopped short of smacking it on the table. “Please go away and leave us alone. I am sorry for your troubles. But I want no part of them.”

I said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“Well, then.” He smoothed his suit coat, then placed a two hundred–peso note on the table and stood. “Good-bye, Ms. Parnell. I wish you and the boy, wherever he is, good luck.”

He came around the table with his hand extended. I reached out.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he clamped his fingers around my wrist. “It must be done this way.”

At a sharp burn in my arm, I jerked back. He pulled me to him as if we would embrace. I wrenched violently away and bent to grab my duffel with the stun gun. But the ground dropped away, and I staggered. I opened my mouth to cry for help, but Zarif clamped a hand over my mouth and hustled me toward the door to the restaurant.

“It’s better if you don’t fight me,” he said as the ground stopped falling and instead rose to meet me.





CHAPTER 5

Don’t be afraid of the ugly in your past. The trauma. The failures and mistakes. The what-ifs and the what-the-hell-was-I-thinking and the times someone broke your heart.