Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(19)

They’re over and done with, a pile of bones you can use to stand tall.

—Peter Hayes, Clinical Therapist, VA Hospital.

A trace of light nudged at the edges of the world, and a man’s voice dropped through the drugged depths of silence.

“?Cuánto tiempo?”

A rustle of movement. Fabric.

“Ella debería despertarse en cualquier momento,” someone answered.

My brain labored to parse the words. How long? Followed by, She should come around any minute.

The first voice I didn’t know, but it took me only a few seconds to recognize the second as belonging to Zarif. I made up my mind to kill the bastard at the first chance.

“Ms. Parnell?” he said.

I lay as boneless as the dead and worked to sort out my whereabouts without any visual cues. A warm, fading light filtered through my closed lids. Late-afternoon sun, I guessed. So I’d been unconscious a couple of hours. The surface beneath me was soft and smooth and smelled of leather. The scents of roasting meat and vegetables stirred in the warm air, accompanied by the aroma of baking cinnamon, coriander, and cumin, smells I recognized from my favorite Moroccan restaurant. Maybe I was still on the square. That gave me hope. Whoever heard of torturing someone to death in a café?

I felt no pain, save for a residual burn in my arm from the injection. And I wasn’t restrained. I took these as good signs.

“She is coming back to us,” Zarif said in English. “Sydney, you are safe.”

I opened my eyes. Zarif was leaning over me, a furrow between his eyes.

“You son of a bitch.” I threw a fist, hoping to break his nose.

But he caught my hand and then patted it, as if I were a child. “I am sorry. I had no choice.”

He released my hand and stepped away as I pushed myself to a sitting position and waited for the world to stop spinning. I found myself on a leather sofa in what looked like a millionaire’s living room. High, timbered ceilings, a wood-planked floor covered with woven carpets in reds and blues, and white walls adorned with carved masks and framed oils of local scenes. Each painting had its own personal spotlight, and I’d swear the door to the room was thirty feet away. Sunlight slanted through a high row of windows on the southwest wall and lay in mellow trapezoids on the floor. I was in the home of someone so wealthy they didn’t care if the carpets faded.

Just visible outside were an expanse of lawn and a row of distant trees. If I squinted, I could make out faraway hills. I definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Or even Ecatepec.

A man in his early thirties stood behind Zarif. He wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and an expression of alarm. I narrowed my eyes at him, and he flushed, as if I’d caught him thinking things he shouldn’t. Like maybe how to remove my eyeballs without getting blood all over the sofa.

Zarif took a chair a couple of feet out of swinging range. “Do you feel all right?”

“Peachy. This how you get all your dates?”

“My apologies for the rough treatment. But I couldn’t let you see where we brought you. If your enemies are willing to torture you to get the answers they want, then I’d rather you didn’t have those answers.”

“Covering my eyes would have been sufficient.”

Zarif shook his head. “My men were nearby, but even with every precaution, I couldn’t be sure who was watching, or who in the restaurant might talk. I had to make it look good. For both our sakes, you and I cannot be seen as allies. Any story you tell later must be convincing.” He brought his palms together, almost as if in prayer. “There is a great deal at stake, Ms. Parnell. Even more than you imagine.”

“You’re not just a security guy at a local mosque, are you.”

The room dimmed as a cloud drifted over the sun. The younger man switched on a lamp. At a sudden pulse of pain, I pressed my fingers to my temples.

“The headache is a residual effect,” Zarif said. “Would you like some water? Maybe a pain reliever?”

“Yeah. Opioids with a cocaine chaser.” At Zarif’s look, I summoned a faint laugh. “Acetaminophen or some ibuprofen will be fine.”

“Of course.” Zarif spoke in rapid Spanish to the other man, who nodded and disappeared through the door.

“You’re going to tell me what this is all about,” I stated. There was a fluttery anticipation in my chest—why kidnap me unless he had something important to share? Hope is the thing with feathers.

“I will tell you what I can,” Zarif said.

The younger man returned with a bottle of water, which he placed on the table along with four orange capsules.

“Ibuprofen,” he said.

At a look from Zarif, he retreated, closing the door behind him. I picked up the pills and washed them down with the water, then set the half-empty bottle on a coffee table the size of a city block. “I’m listening.”

“Three months ago, a man came to me and asked if I would be willing to protect a young Iraqi boy.”

I straightened. “You mean—”

“Wait, please. He told me he worked for the American embassy.”

“He was a spy?”

“A diplomat.” Zarif smiled. “Probably a spy. It’s how things work. I mulled his request over for a few days, but ultimately I decided it was too risky. We Muslims must walk a very careful line.”