Zero Hour (Blackthorn Security #8)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

F ormer SEAL Commander Pat Burke sipped his espresso and studied the terrorist from across the room. A wave of déjà vu hit him, followed by an unwelcome shiver down his spine. This wasn’t the first time he’d had Al-Jabiri under surveillance.

The first had been a lifetime ago, when he and his unit had been holed up in their observation post outside the training camp, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He still remembered the dry, dusty air of the riverbank, the sparse vegetation, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Five heart-pounding hours of waiting for the signal.

Then it came.

They’d slipped into the encampment under the cover of darkness, following the map ingrained in their heads.

Their orders were to take Al-Jabiri—Codename: Falcon—alive, then destroy the training camp.

That last part had been easy. Blowing shit up was routine. It was the first part that had been a nightmare. Taking a man alive was a hell of a lot harder than killing him.

Exfiltrating with a live prisoner wasn’t simple, especially when you were dodging gunfire from a bunch of overenthusiastic wannabe terrorists in a training camp somewhere in North Africa.

Pat shook his head.

They’d barely made it out in one piece—with their prisoner intact.

Fast forward sixteen years, and here was Amir Al-Jabiri having lunch with a blond beauty in a restaurant in downtown D.C.

“No change,” he murmured into his earpiece, pretending to sip his coffee.

“Copy that,” came the reply. It was Anna’s voice—the team’s logistics manager and the glue that held the office together.

Prison hadn’t aged the Falcon. The terrorist looked fit and healthy for his fifty-three years. His temples were graying—whose weren’t? —but his beard was still dark and neatly trimmed, his body as lean and muscular as Pat remembered.

The Falcon knew he was being watched. A convicted terrorist living freely in the U.S.? Come on. Of course someone would be keeping tabs on him.

Except it wasn’t the FBI. It wasn’t the CIA either, or any other government acronym.

It was Blackthorn Security, Pat’s black ops team. A privately-run, off-the-books security company that handled what the government couldn’t, or weren’t allowed to for political or logistical reasons that Pat didn’t get involved in.

“He’s served his time,” the Secretary of Homeland Security had told Pat over lunch at her country club a few days ago. “We can’t touch him. His lawyer would annihilate us.”

The lawyer was Ingrid Sutton, an ambitious human rights attorney gaining a name for herself from taking on high profile cases, mostly involving really bad guys. Pat had met her once. It hadn’t ended well.

In his book, terrorists like the Falcon forfeited their rights when they blew up and maimed innocent civilians. Before his capture all those years ago, Al-Jabiri had been responsible for a hotel shooting, an embassy terror attack, and two car bombs in major European cities.

You had to be human to qualify for human rights.

The woman sitting across from Al-Jabiri intrigued him, however. He put her around forty, maybe slightly older. She clearly wasn’t of Arab descent—not with that pale blonde hair, fine and straight beneath the folds of her jade-green headscarf. Her eyes were downcast, but she had elegant cheekbones and full lips that demanded a longer, lingering look. No makeup. She didn’t need it, thanks to her natural beauty, but it was strange considering she was out to lunch with someone.

Pat frowned and forced his gaze from her mouth down to her slender hands that were folded on the table, despite the plate of untouched food in front of her. Tapered fingers, unpainted nails. Her knuckles were white, like she was tense or ill at ease. Another anomaly, since there was nothing about her posture that signified she was under duress.

She wore tailored trousers with a silk blouse fastened nearly all the way to the top. Even that couldn’t disguise the slender drape of her shoulders, or the classy tilt of her head as she listened to her companion speak. Was her demure style of dress a sign of respect for her lunch partner? Were they together?

Pat studied their body language.

The Falcon leaned toward her as he spoke, his hands casually holding his knife and fork. His expression was animated—at least as much as Al-Jabiri could be. His thin lips curled into a smile, and his dark eyes gleamed. No doubt he was enjoying her company.

The woman was harder to read.

She smiled and nodded in all the right places, but Pat got the feeling she was holding back. Professional, sharp—but guarded. Still, she was beautiful, and it was easy to see why Al-Jabiri was drawn to her.

Pat took a slow sip of coffee, pretending to read the newspaper in front of him, stealing glances at them every now and then.

They finished their meal and paid in cash. Of course.

“Falcon is on the move,” Pat muttered into his earpiece.

“Copy that.”

The couple headed for the exit. Pat dipped his head, feigning interest in the paper. “One moment,” he heard Al-Jabiri say to his date.

He froze.

Footsteps approached and a shadow fell over his table. Not literally, but Pat could feel the goddamn darkness surrounding the man.

Fuck.

He’d been made. After all these years he wasn’t sure the terrorist would even recognize him.

“Pat Burke,” the Falcon said, his deep voice dripping with disdain. “I see you’re working for the FBI now. Or is it the CIA? I’m never quite sure who’s watching me.”

Pat didn’t bother to correct him. The less he knew about that, the better. “Amir Al-Jabiri. I thought you were still rotting in a cell.”

The terrorist’s eyes slanted. “Not anymore. I’m a free man now.”

Pat didn’t miss the bitter edge to his voice. “That’s a damn shame. Prison’s the best place for a murderer like you.”

The eyes of the woman who had followed him over widened. Pat faced her and said somewhat viciously, “Did you know your lunch date was convicted of four terrorist attacks? Fourteen people died in the last one.” He turned back to Al-Jabiri. “Berlin, wasn’t it?”

She didn’t answer. Nor did she react.

She knew.

Up close, he noticed her eyes were flecked with green, like they were shot through with threads from her scarf. She held his gaze, but it wasn’t defiance he saw there.

Fear? Was she scared? Did Al-Jabiri frighten her? Pat dragged his gaze away.

“I was paroled.” Al-Jabiri smirked. “You’re wasting your time following me.”

Pat smirked right back. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Al-Jabiri sighed. “I thought we’d settled our differences. An eye for an eye and all that. Why are you bothering me now?”

Pat frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?” The last time he’d seen the murdering scumbag had been at his trial.

Al-Jabiri leaned over, placing his hands on the table. The darkness was almost unbearable. “Your lover. The Brazilian model. I thought you knew. I left a note.”

Confusion roiled in his gut.

Astrid? Could he be talking about Astrid?

Born in Brazil, but with a Swedish mother, she’d had exotic good looks and vivid blue eyes, a mesmerizing combination that had catapulted her to supermodel status in her youth. He’d been crazy about her.

A darker vision clouded his memory. A car wreck on an icy road. Head hanging forward, blue eyes shuttered, dark hair wet with blood.

He scowled. “What note?”

Al-Jabiri saw the confusion on Pat’s face and smirked—a dark, evil grin. “I’m disappointed. All this time, I thought I had gotten my revenge, but you didn’t even know.”

Pat stood up, forcing the man to take a step back. His voice was an iceberg. “Know what?”

Al-Jabiri spread his arms, trying to appear unfazed by Pat’s extra four-inches of height. “You took my love, so I took yours.”

Pat blinked as what Al-Jabiri was saying registered. “You killed Astrid? It was you who caused the car wreck?”

The terrorist shrugged.

“You killed her?” Pat repeated, his voice low and deadly.

The woman knew what was coming, because she put a nervous hand on Al-Jabiri’s arm. “Let’s go.” Her voice was soft, urgent.

Al-Jabiri just smiled.

It was rare for Pat to lose his temper, but the shock, the stark realization that this man had killed the woman he’d loved, hurtled him over the edge—and all he saw was red. With a roar, he lunged, slamming the bastard backward into an empty table. In seconds, he had his hands wrapped around Al-Jabiri’s throat, squeezing… crushing… cutting off his air.

He was going to fucking kill him.

The murdering scumbag deserved to die.

Al-Jabiri’s face turned purple.

“Stop! You’re suffocating him!” the woman shouted.

Pat barely heard her.

“You’re dead, you son of a bitch,” he growled.

Al-Jabiri’s eyes started to close.

“Get off him!” The woman clawed at Pat’s shoulders. He ignored her.

The door crashed open. Two men with guns burst inside, dressed like homeless vagrants. The other customers, most of whom had scampered to the far side of the restaurant and were huddling behind the counter, stared in horror.

“Boss, what the hell are you doing?” Viper, ex-SEAL and one of his best men, shouted.

“You’re killing him, Pat,” Blade, his head of operations said, in a more measured tone.

Pat didn’t care. The bastard was going down. He wanted to squeeze the life out of him, right here, right now on this restaurant floor.

Four strong hands hauled Pat off Al-Jabiri.

“He deserves to die!” Pat snarled, struggling to break free.

It wasn’t easy, but his men held him back. They were younger and more athletic than him. Stronger was debatable, but there were two of them.

“Fuck!” he roared in frustration.

The woman dropped to her knees beside Al-Jabiri, who was gasping for air.

“You almost killed him,” she snapped, green eyes flashing.

“I’m sorry I didn’t,” Pat shot back.

“We need to go,” said Blade, pulling him away. “Before the cops show up.”

Viper looked around at the cowering customers, then at his own tattered clothes. “Yeah, this is going to be a bitch to explain.”

Reluctantly, adrenaline still coursing through his body, Pat allowed his men to guide him into the kitchen and out the back entrance, but not before Viper darted back to the table where the couple had been sitting and pocketed a fork.

As they left, Pat turned for one last look. The woman was helping Al-Jabiri to his feet. As if sensing his stare, she turned and met his gaze head on. Her gaze was hard, accusatory, but there was something else in it—curiosity.