“Please,” the man said, chastising the woman. “No more. We can’t have any marks on her body.”
The way he referred to her “body” unnerved her, as if she were already dead and on display on a medical examiner’s table. “Ms. Cerone, you can call me Samuel, and this is Nafisa, but it’s irrelevant. As I’m sure you already figured out, this will be your final resting place, at least until the police discover your body. But until that time comes, I have no plans to torture or interrogate you. Nafisa, on the other hand, if I were to leave you to her, she would carve you apart, piece by piece, I believe, taking her time with each cut.”
Amira’s cheek throbbed, but she looked defiantly at Nafisa. “Do I know you? If so, I don’t recall, and I never forget a face. Ever.”
Nafisa lurched forward, snarling and seething with hatred, but Samuel’s arm shot out and blocked her progress before she could reach Amira. Samuel said something sharply in his native tongue, and Nafisa turned and exited the room.
Must have been good, whatever I did. Wait a second. What language was that?
“Since we’re apparently all friends here already, can you answer me one simple question?”
Samuel’s eyes raised in expectation. “Very well. Ask.”
“What language was that? As I’m sure know, I’m half Ethiopian, and I know my African dialects, but the drug you used must be playing tricks on me, because I couldn’t identify that one.”
Samuel nodded his head slightly, exhaling quickly as if in agreement with her. “It’s Dinka,” he responded crisply, and waited for her to process the information.
Dinka? Amira had been to Africa on multiple missions, the most recent one nearly a year and a half ago when she’d been sent under cover as a USAID worker in Khartoum, where she’d met and partnered with Logan West, John Quick, and Cole Matthews, the three men with whom she’d later formed Task Force Ares. But before that fateful encounter, she’d been sent to southern Sudan, activated as a member of CIA’s LEGION program, a female assassin and army of one. Oh no. It can’t be.
Her features must’ve have given her away, because Samuel smiled at her self-realization. Before he could speak, there was a light knock on the door in the main room of the suite, and Samuel abruptly turned and walked away.
Amira’s mind raced as she struggled to determine what the connection was with the mission in southern Sudan, although for Nafisa, she feared she already knew. I killed someone she loved. As John would say with a corny wisecrack, this is going from bad to CATS, fast. She smiled inwardly, encouraged that the voice of her lover and fellow warrior was always with her. But bad musical movies aside, you have to focus, or you won’t get out of this one, his voice finished.
Amira heard the door open, and a quick rush of muffled conversation reached her. Events were stacking upon one another like children’s building blocks, but she had no control over them. With no control, they’d collapse upon her and pin her beneath the weight, and she’d be left flailing against an immovable force. And when that happened, her life would end. Of that, she was certain.
The only consolation was that her longtime friend and fellow agency employee, Elizabeth Cathy – Beth to her friends – must have safely left their lunch at the Mezeh Mediterranean Grill. She’d been friends with Beth since her early days at the Farm, where the agency trained its new case officers, among others, in the National Clandestine Service.
Elizabeth had reached out to Amira a few months ago, having just returned from a tour as the Deputy Chief of Station in Paris, a deceptively rigorous location from the constant threat of radical Islamic terrorism omnipresent in France. She’d heard about Amira’s father and thought it would be beneficial if the two had lunch. For Amira, it was the first normal conversation she’d had with someone outside of Task Force Ares, and she’d embraced it, opening up to her friend as much as she could without compromising her position on the task force. After lunch, they’d enjoyed a delicious cup of coffee, and then she’d felt a little tired, chalking it up to the emotional release of sharing some of her grief with her friend.
Amira snapped back to the present. The coffee. It was in the goddamned coffee. At least Beth got out, although she thought it could be possible they’d kidnapped her, too. But if they had, they would’ve told her by now. Additionally, Beth would’ve been a loose end they didn’t need. Amira was the real prize in the game whose clock had started.
All thoughts of Beth Cathy were wiped away from the surface of her mind at the appearance of the three new arrivals. No. It can’t be.
This time, Samuel smiled broadly, the pleasure evident in the malicious grin. “I believe you know my good friend here, Trevor Emerson, a former employee of your agency.”
Standing before Amira was a man in his late fifties, a full head of black hair showing flecks of gray. His features were non-descript, minus the deep blue intelligent eyes with heavy lines beneath them that seemed tinged with both genuine happiness and sadness at the sight of her. He’d maintained his weight, and he looked trim and fit for a man his age. At five-foot-ten, his overall appearance allowed him to blend into almost any situation, which had served him well for thirty years as one of the agency’s most-experienced case officers and foreign asset recruiters.
“Hello, Amira,” Trevor said politely. “I have to say, it’s been way too long, and I so wish
