Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(89)

Cohen said, “She killed Kane?”

“She had him killed. Guy by the name of Mark Fadden did the dirty work.”

Almasi said, “No one will believe such a crazy story.”

“Fadden’s dead,” I said. “Just so you know.”

“I don’t know anyone named Fadden.” But she smiled. Probably all to her benefit that her hired hand was dead. Hard to testify from the grave.

“What I’d like to know, while we’re standing around being civilized”—my voice was thick—“is why. Why you told your brother, James, to allow those weapons into Iraq. Why you told him to send a special-ops team on a mission and then let the bad guys know they were coming. Why you had to kill innocents like Malik’s mother, who was only trying to help us.”

I was guessing about who’d given the orders, but it sounded right. I felt a cold satisfaction when I read the truth in her eyes.

She was—in fact—our Alpha.

I stole another glance out the window. The stretch of grass lay empty.

Almasi said, “Why is a complicated question.”

I looked at her cold face, the arrogant confidence that she would not only get away with her crimes but profit from them. In that moment I didn’t care what tragedy might have motivated her. Rage exploded through me, unspooling lines of fire through my veins like heated wire.

I pushed her back down the length of the trailer and into the chair where Cohen had been sitting. I yanked my knife from my pocket and opened the blade. Her eyes went wide, and her pulse leapt in her throat. I looked around, found the roll of duct tape, and sawed off a length, which I slapped over her mouth.

Her face turned ashen.

I grabbed the table they’d used with Cohen. The surface was red and sticky.

“Sydney,” Cohen said. “We need to go.”

“Not yet. We’re waiting for a ride.”

I looked on the floor and found the pliers she’d dropped.

“Is this what they used on you?” I asked Cohen.

He looked at me, then at Almasi. He nodded.

I leaned my weight into her, pressing her into the chair, and grabbed her manacled hands. I forced them onto the table.

She bucked in the chair, curling her fingers tight into her palms, her skin slick with sudden sweat. I wrenched her left ring finger free and pressed it down, holding it in place.

Cohen moved to the other side of the table. I didn’t risk a glance, afraid of what I might see in his face. Approval or condemnation. Both terrified me.

Then he took the duct tape, used his teeth to tear off a length and strapped down her wrists above the cuffs. She kicked her feet against the floor and rocked her body. The chair banged against the floor.

“She killed Jeremy Kane,” Cohen said.

“And a lot of other people.”

“And she’s the one who wants to kill the boy you went to find. And you.”

“That’s her.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “I’ll do it.”

“This won’t look good in a trial.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He held out his hand. “I know exactly how it’s done.”

I glanced at his bandaged fingers, then gave him the pliers.

He pressed the tip just under the left side of her fingernail. A bead of blood appeared. She gave a muffled scream behind the gag.

I leaned in. “You feel ready to talk now?”

She nodded hard, her breathing labored, the pulse in her throat galloping with her heart.

“Smart woman. I’m going to remove the tape. Make a sound, you lose the nail. Understand?”

Another nod.

I kept my grip on her finger while I peeled back the tape, ready to slap it on again if she drew breath to scream.

Her eyes stayed on the pliers.

I said, “Let’s start with your husband.”

“What?” Her eyes darted to me, and two spots of pink appeared on her cheeks.

“Arvin Almasi. Let’s talk about him.”

“We haven’t been together in years.”

“But you’re still married, aren’t you? Still protecting his family in Iran.”

“His family can rot in hell.”

“Not his family,” Cohen said. “Her child.”

Almasi’s lips drew back, and she made a guttural snarl. But side by side with her wrath came a flicker of panic.

“Shut up,” she said.

“I heard her on the phone,” he went on. “She has a daughter in Iran.”

She snapped her teeth. “You’re wrong.”

But pieces of the puzzle jostled into place, the outline of a picture taking shape.

Not greed. Blackmail.

I said, “Is she Arvin’s?”

She lifted her chin and stared us both down. “Fools. Both of you.”

“He’s blackmailing you with the life of your child.” Here it was. That grief. Some of my rage ebbed before a dull gray sweep of horror. “You and Arvin married just before the 1979 revolution that put the Islamists in power. He was an engineer who claimed to be madly in love with you. You had a child together.”

“You’re wrong.”

I nodded to Cohen, and he brought the pliers back to her finger.

She squirmed. “Stop! Please.”