Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(26)

Zarif raised an eyebrow. He’d removed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. His forearms were muscular. They probably hadn’t gotten that way playing golf.

He stared out over the garden. “Do you believe in coincidences, Ms. Parnell?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps this death is more than a horrible fluke. Perhaps it is how it begins.”

“It began a long time ago.” I closed the paper. “If Kane died because of what happened in Iraq, it shows even more the danger Malik is in.”

His eyes came back to me. “Did you learn anything?”

“A few things. Enough of an opening to get my fingernails in. But Malik is—”

“—as safe here as he could be anywhere. Nothing changes.”

I rose. “I need to get home.”

He stood as well. “Your flight leaves later tonight. One of my men will take you to the airport. You will be blindfolded until you are in Mexico City.”

“Just don’t stab me with anything again.” I picked up the newspaper. “I’d like to keep this.”

“Please.”

I folded the paper and tucked it under my arm. “Who are you, Zarif? This home. All these men with their guns and radios and patrols. This isn’t because you work security for a mosque.”

“No. But I am not at liberty to say more.”

“How did Strider find you?”

“I did not ask him.”

“But you vetted him.”

“Actually, no. I don’t know anything about him.”

I shook my head. “You’re bullshitting me. You wouldn’t take an unknown child from an unknown man. Either you know more about him than you’re sharing, or someone you trust asked you to do it.”

“Someone did. A friend of yours.”

I blinked. “Who?”

“Hal Beckett.”

My breath hissed between my teeth. “Hal’s involved in this?”

Zarif’s shrug was eloquent.

I said, “He was the one who approached you about Malik.”

“That is correct.”

Hal had been one of Dougie’s closest friends. After Dougie died, it was Hal who helped me bring home his military working dog, my partner, Clyde. It was Hal who kept me upright at Dougie’s funeral and who checked in with me now and again—probably a promise he’d made to our mutual friend. Still robust at sixty, gentle, and smart, Hal was something of a distant father figure for me, offering the attention I hadn’t gotten from my own dad.

But thinking of him this way had been a mistake. Hal worked for the CIA. And if the CIA was after Malik, then trusting him was impossible. I was furious with myself for not taking a closer look at Hal Beckett as soon as Sarge mentioned the CIA.

Had Hal brought Malik to Zarif to keep him safe? Or to hide the boy until he was ready to use him?

Or was there something more?

“Do you know where Hal is now?” I asked.

“I have heard nothing more from him. He mentioned a job. Perhaps he is out in the cold.”



Zarif escorted me to a black Mercedes SUV. Before I got in, he blindfolded me.

“Your duffel is in the passenger seat,” he said. “Hamid will ride in the back with you. To make sure you are comfortable.”

“And to make sure I don’t peek.”

“That, too.” He helped me into the vehicle and closed the door.

I fumbled for the button to lower the window. “Zarif?”

“Yes?”

“Tell Malik I’ll be back. When it’s safe for him.”

“If it is safe.”

He had that right.

For what seemed like hours, I sat in silence with the equally silent Hamid, bracing myself first against a series of hairpin turns as we descended out of the hills, then along a string of roads that eventually led, judging by the smoothness and sudden acceleration, to a highway.

I spent the time thinking over everything I’d learned that day. The enigma of the Iranian, Zarif. The men and weapons Malik and his uncle had brought in from Iran. I threw out theories about why a loyal American would invite enemies into Iraq, then hide their presence, but came up with nothing that made sense. I thought about the man who had helped Malik escape, then brought him to Zarif. Strider was only one fly in the ointment, but I spent a lot of mental energy on him. To Strider’s credit, Malik trusted him. Then again, by the time Strider found him, Malik would have been desperate to believe in anyone.

Finally, I turned my thoughts to Jeremy Kane. Sarge had told me that the Alpha wasn’t interested in going after the others involved in the cover-up in Iraq—Kane and Tucker and Crowe. But Sarge wasn’t exactly a man I trusted. And maybe something had changed. As soon as I arrived home, I’d get the details of the murder and start peeling back the corners. The death would be handled by Denver Major Crimes. But no one would question my interest in the murder of a fellow transit cop. And no one but an ass would refuse my help.

The car slowed, then accelerated. The engine revved.

Had I started a war by coming to Mexico? Were my own hands stained with Kane’s blood?

I pressed my palms together, almost in prayer.

Whatever the cause, the battle had begun. And it had already cost two lives—Angelo Garcia and now Kane. Maybe others I didn’t know about.