Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
July 10 th
8:49 A.M.
He was a little early for his nine o’clock meeting, but Cooper was happy to have this time to survey the house in question, and the area of the city in which it sat.
The house was on the outskirts of the nicer side of Cairo. By most American standards, the house was nothing fancy, a simple two-story brick house set on about an acre of land. There was a vegetable garden, a few crops planted, and a couple of farm animals. At this hour of the morning, the building appeared quiet, there was no movement he could detect, and he had no idea how many people were inside.
Knowing he could be walking into a trap had him on high alert, but trap or not, there was no way he wasn't coming here to gather whatever intel he could to prove his mother and stepfather’s innocence.
Eighteen years he and his siblings had known something wasn't right, and they had yet to find a single shred of evidence to prove it.
It didn't matter that the night his mom and stepdad had been taken into custody, all of the kids had made a discovery that shook up the core of their world.
While Jake and Jax had lost their mom when they were small, so the idea of their dad moving on with someone else hadn't been a big deal to him and his siblings, their mom remarrying just a couple of months after their dad’s death had led to a whole lot of anger.
It was only after he realized there was more going on than he had known at the time that he regretted those last few months of his mom’s life. The anger he’d taken out on her, the belligerence that came from confusion, and the way he’d spoken to her when he was talking to her at all. At thirteen, he’d known his parents loved each other, and it made no sense to him or his brothers that their mom would remarry so quickly.
No sense at all.
But after his mom had been hauled away in handcuffs and someone from child protective services had shown up and ordered them all to pack bags, they’d found something that changed what they thought they knew. A sofa bed was in his mom’s bedroom, one that someone had been sleeping in before their house was stormed by cops.
His mom and stepfather weren't sharing a bed.
Even as a young teen, he knew that meant more was going on than he’d been aware of.
The problem was that other than his brothers and stepbrothers, nobody else seemed to care.
Branded traitors who conspired to have his stepdad’s Delta Team ambushed and killed so they could continue their illicit affair, they would have spent the rest of their lives behind bars if they hadn't committed suicide.
Which never sat right with any of them either.
No way would his mom give up like that. She was a fighter, and she’d instilled that same fight into every one of her five children.
They would never give up. None of them. Not until they proved that their mom was no traitor, no killer, and that she had been murdered not taken her own life.
That was what he was hopefully going to do while he was there in Egypt. A couple of months ago, their inquiries had led them to a university professor who claimed to know something about their mom and her CIA career. A career neither he nor his siblings had even known that she had until she’d been ripped away from them.
It wasn't fair and he intended to right those wrongs.
So he climbed out of his vehicle and headed toward the quiet brick house.
There was no movement as he approached, and when he pressed the buzzer at the front gate, he almost wondered if he was in the right place. Even though two months had passed since their search for answers had led them to the professor, it had taken this long just to pin him down for a face-to-face meeting.
Paranoid didn't begin to describe the man. He took the meaning of the word to a whole new level. He would communicate only in brief, heavily coded messages sent from throwaway email addresses, unable to be traced. When they’d insisted that they needed more, he would only agree to meet with them in Egypt. It was obvious the man must know something about some pretty powerful people if the only way he felt safe to speak to them was in a whole other country.
About a minute after pressing the buzzer, the front door to the house opened, and a man came strolling out. He wasn’t dressed in traditional Arab clothing, just jeans and a black T-shirt, with sneakers on his feet. His hair was mussed like he’d just climbed out of bed, but his eyes were clear, although distrustful, when he pulled out a key and unlocked the padlock, swinging open the gate.
“Cooper Charleston?” the man asked.
“Professor Mahmoud?” he asked back.
Giving a brisk nod to confirm his identity, Cooper also acknowledged his with a nod. The professor said no more as he followed the older man down the short path and inside the house. Despite the heat of the day, it was cool inside and quite dull. They bypassed a small living room to the left, and what looked like an office to the right before coming into the large room at the back of the house. It was mostly a fairly basic kitchen compared to what he was used to back home, with a huge wooden table taking up most of the remainder of the space.
Other than himself and the professor, two other occupants were in the room. One was an older woman who he assumed was the wife of Tarek Mahmoud, and the other was a person dressed all in black sitting in the corner of the room. From the baggy clothes the person wore, it was hard to tell their gender, age, or anything else about them.
Whoever they were, unless they had information on his mother and why she’d been betrayed and labeled a traitor, Cooper didn't really care who they were or why they were there.
His purpose for coming to Egypt was singular.
Get answers.
Prove his mother’s innocence.
Nothing was going to get in the way of that.
Taking a seat at the table when the professor indicated that he should, Cooper waited expectantly. It had been a long night. After his nightmare, he hadn't attempted to go back to sleep, he was tired, hot, and dirty, and he didn't want another year to pass without being able to clear his mom’s name.
The professor, on the other hand, didn't seem to be in any rush.
He took his time, collecting a cup of tea and a plate with some Egyptian bread from his wife. Once he had everything set up at the table, he nodded at his wife who quickly hurried from the room but didn't bother casting so much as a glance at the figure in black.
Shoving aside his natural curiosity, Cooper focused on his goals. “What do you know about my mother?” he asked, tired of waiting.
“I recognized her picture when you were asking questions about her,” the professor replied, which wasn't really an answer, he knew that already.
Ever since he and his siblings had grown up, they had been asking around about their mom and stepdad. All six of the boys had joined various military branches, and now they worked together as the world-renowned Prey Security’s Charlie Team. With the support of their boss, billionaire and former SEAL Eagle Oswald, they used most of their time when they weren't running an op for Prey to look into what had happened to their parents.
Of course, they had pursued all the obvious steps, trying to get answers, evidence, and proof of guilt from the military and the government, for which none was ever produced other than a form letter stating their mother’s guilt without providing anything to back it up. They’d then started doing their own investigations, eventually leading them to the world’s most renowned Egyptology professor.
Tarek Mahmoud.
Who had somewhat reluctantly reached out to them when they were asking around.
Who now sat before him with an inscrutable expression Cooper couldn’t decipher and a relaxed demeanor that belied their paranoid interactions before he arrived here.
Frustrated and close to the end of his rope, his patience snapped.
Before Professor Mahmoud knew what was happening, Cooper was out of his chair, had a hand around the man’s throat, and his back shoved up against the wall. “For almost two decades, I have thought of little else but clearing my mother’s name and proving she didn't do what she was accused of. I'm not playing games. You are going to tell me everything you know about her and what happened to her or I am going to cut you apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left of you.”
July 10 th
9:12 A.M.
Yes, please do that .
The thought ran unapologetically through Willow’s mind as she watched the big American man threaten Professor Mahmoud from her spot chained and gagged in the corner.
Not so tough now, are you ?
Satisfaction soothed away some of the pain from this morning’s beating. Despite her promise to herself that she would fight until the end, Willow was starting to realize that the end might be coming sooner than she would like.
Already, her body was becoming too weak.
So far, Professor Mahmoud had been careful not to hit too hard, break bones, or cause internal damage. He wanted her alive and suffering for as long as he could draw it out. But a blow to her arm this morning when she’d instinctively thrown it up to protect her face, had sent nauseating pain spiraling through the limb and out into the rest of her body.
Broken?
Maybe.
There were no outward signs of a break, but that didn't mean the bone hadn't splintered. Without the benefit of an x-ray, there was, of course, no way to confirm, but she was sure that at least a couple of ribs were cracked, and the throbbing pain in her face from yesterday’s beating told her that her cheekbone might be fractured as well.
Besides that, she was positive she was a tapestry of black and blue from her head to her feet.
The end was coming.
Definitely sooner than she wanted.
But what if this man, towering over Professor Mahmoud, who was trembling like the coward he was, was in fact, the answer to her prayers?
Was it possible he was here for her?
It wasn't like she had come traipsing to Egypt without telling anyone where she was going. Willow had to tread carefully with what information she shared with her friends and colleagues. Professor Mahmoud was well-connected. A celebrated Egyptologist, he traveled the world lecturing as well as working for one of the top schools in the country.
Messing with him was dangerous, but it was more dangerous to allow him to keep doing what he’d been doing. It wasn't even a question of whether or not he was doing it, Willow knew that he was, she just needed proof if she was going to stop him.
Which was why she was there.
Only she hadn't expected to get caught and wind up a prisoner of the man who knew exactly what she was doing there.
When she hadn't returned home or checked in, she was sure that at least one of her friends or colleagues would have reported her disappearance to the cops. They knew enough to know that she was investigating the professor for ties to a terrorist organization. Surely, when the cops learned that they’d pass along the intel to the appropriate agencies. Then someone would come for her .
It was a hope she’d been clinging to valiantly these last two weeks, and now she hardly dared to believe that this man could be here to rescue her.
From his height and the muscles bulging beneath his black T-shirt, stretching it to the limit, and the confidence he exuded with every movement, every word, there was no doubt that he was military. If he was here for her then likely special forces. It wasn't like the government could start a war over one missing journalist, but surely, they’d do something to try to rescue her.
“Tell me what you know about my mother,” the man growled again, this time his words registered.
His mom.
Whoever the American man was, he thought the professor knew something about his mother.
If she could, she’d tell him that Tarek Mahmoud didn't recruit women, he recruited men to join Allah’s Warriors. Young men. This man looked like he was probably a couple of years older than her own twenty-nine years, which would mean his mom was most likely around fifty, much older than the professor’s target demographic.
“Y-yes, of c-course,” Professor Mahmoud stammered, no longer the tough guy he was when he was beating on her. It was one thing to pretend you were strong and powerful when your victim was so much physically smaller than yourself. It was quite another when the man staring you down with hatred in his eyes was bigger than you.
Releasing his hold slowly, the American nodded at the table, and Professor Mahmoud scurried over to it. Instead of taking a seat alongside him, the man stood beside the professor’s chair, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a glare on his face.
“Start talking,” he ordered.
Mahmoud nodded like his head was one of those bobble-headed statues people put on the dashboards of their cars. “I d-don’t know much,” he prefaced. When the American did nothing but stare him out, he continued, “I recognized the picture. Such pretty green eyes. The kind you don’t forget. I saw her here in Egypt a long time ago. Eighteen years.”
That sparked something in the American’s eyes. “How do you remember it was eighteen years? That’s quite specific considering it’s almost two decades ago.”
Another manic nod from the professor, his eyes darting about as though seeking help from somewhere. However, she was the room’s only other occupant, and she sure as heck wasn't going to help him. Not for any reason, but certainly not when she wasn't sure if the American was here solely about his mother or if this was some sort of ruse to get intel on whether or not she was alive and being held there.
Wishful thinking, Willow.
Of course it was, she just wasn't ready to accept that yet. If the man was there because of her, he would have done more than give a single disinterested glance in her direction. As badly as she wanted to rid herself of the gag and call out to him, beg him for help, tell him that she was being held against her will, she held back because she couldn’t know for sure he was a good guy.
American, yes. Military, she’d bet everything she owned on it. But that didn't mean he was one of the good guys. What if he was one of those guys who had become a mercenary or something? What if he was a bad guy now?
Or what if he was one of the good guys and had a whole team waiting outside to swoop in and save her? If she did anything now, not only would she incur the professor’s wrath in the form of another beating—he’d informed her before the American arrived that he had a visitor coming, and if she spoke or drew attention to herself in any way she’d be punished—but she might ruin whatever plan her potential savior might have.
“Y-yes, yes. Eighteen years. The year I married my wife,” Professor Mahmoud explained. “That’s where I saw her. We threw a large party, and she was one of the attendees.”
From the expression on the American’s face, he was trying to take that information and figure out how it fit into what he already knew or suspected.
“That’s all I know,” Professor Mahmoud said, a hint of defiance in his tone now.
Given what she knew of the man, she was positive that was a lie. He knew more. If he didn't, he wouldn't have told this man that he had recognized his mom’s picture. Whatever game the professor was playing, it didn't seem like it had anything to do with her.
Which meant this man likely didn't have anything to do with her either.
That meant she had nothing to lose.
Even if the American was a threat, she’d only be exchanging the frying pan for the fire, it wasn't like her position could get any worse than it already was. If she stayed, then all she had to look forward to in her future was pain and then, eventually, death.
If she risked it, then maybe the American would save her even if that wasn't why he was there.
As though he could read her mind, Professor Mahmoud immediately got up. “I'm sorry, I must ask you to leave. I have a speaking engagement this morning that I must get ready for. I'm sorry I don’t have more information for you, but at least now you know that your mother had some sort of business here in Egypt not long before she died.”
Clearly, the American was debating his options, and Willow was about to risk screaming through the gag and begging for help, but Professor Mahmoud shot her a murderous glare. Even if the American was inclined to help her, it didn't mean he’d be able to get her out of this house alive. The Warriors owned this whole street. All the professor had to do was alert them, and neither she nor the American would be leaving this house alive.
Defeat had her snapping her mouth shut before she made a sound.
Why risk the American’s life when there was the tiniest thread of hope that he was there for her, that he did have a plan in place, that maybe she would be going home?
Finally, the American nodded. “If you think of anything else, please contact us.”
“Of course,” Professor Mahmoud said like he actually cared about anything other than himself and his own beliefs and goals.
Watching the American walk out of the kitchen, Willow couldn’t help but feel that her only chance at survival had just walked out with him.
Had she made the right choice?
Or had she just sealed her own fate?