“Just calm down,” Moore told Samad in Arabic. “I’ll get you out.”
Samad did not answer and continued thrashing and gasping for air. If Moore got too close, he could be knocked out, so he drew up slowly, then, seeing a chance, he darted closer and grabbed one of Samad’s wrists as Towers glided up to them in the Zodiac.
“Come on, the boat’s right here,” Moore barked.
He jerked Samad forward, past him, then shoved the guy up toward the Zodiac, where Towers seized one of the handles on the hull and used the other to haul Samad aboard. As the man collapsed onto the deck, his clean- shaven face and head glistening with water, Towers drew his pistol and said, “
Samad glared at him.
Moore breathed the sigh of a lifetime. They’d done it. He clutched the Zodiac with one hand and just hung there for a few seconds, the tears threatening to fall. He wasn’t sure how he felt: overjoyed one second, wanting to commit murder the next, and those conflicting emotions overwhelmed him. For the moment, all was right with the world, and he wished Frank Carmichael were there to see it. The water was their home, be it an ocean, a river, the bottom of a pool.
Towers had already tossed a pair of handcuffs to Samad and ordered that he bind his wrists behind his back, which he did. “Hey, I can’t help you up,” he told Moore. “I’m covering him.”
“No problem, buddy. I’ll be right there.”
The satellite phone began to ring.
Moore whirled and faced the Zodiac, reaching up to pull himself into the boat. The water moved strangely.
And in the next pair of seconds, Moore freed his Glock from its holster, shoved the pistol into the water, and jerked the trigger.
Epilogue
The Starbucks in Old Dominion Center, known as the Chesterbrook store, was a stand-alone building with a fireplace on the second floor. It was one of three Starbucks near the George H. W. Bush Center for Central Intelligence, and the lines were sometimes out the door during the morning rush. Moore was not fond of waiting fifteen minutes for a five-dollar cup of coffee, and so he’d told her to meet him there at four p.m., during the slower time, when the blenders and cappuccino machines weren’t humming quite as often. He sat in a chair near the entrance, creating profiles of the people around him and those ordering at the counter. He summed up their entire lives within seconds, where they’d grown up, where they’d gone to school, whether or not they hated their jobs, and how much money they made. He assigned them sexual orientation, marital status, and political affiliation. Being a keen observer was a prerequisite for his line of work, but the game now had nothing to do with that and everything to do with calming down.
Every part of his body still hurt, and he’d mentioned that to Towers, who said he’d only been shot up by some drug-smuggling thugs, which was pretty much routine for a BORTAC guy. Their last handshake at the airport in San Diego had carried with it the heart and soul of the entire joint task force. Even Towers had choked up. Moore vowed to stay in touch with the man. A good man.
With a groan, Moore checked his phone again. This is what you got for being fifteen minutes early — extra time to let the nerves run wild. SEALs were not late. Ever. Well, there was no message to cancel and blow him off. She was still coming. He imagined her floating through the glass doors in a short dress, heels, and wearing a delicate diamond necklace. So European. So incredibly sexy. Her voice like a musical instrument from another century.
“Mr. Moore?”
He glanced up, not into the eyes of a beautiful woman but into the frown of an unshaven face, dark features, and curly black hair. The guy was about Moore’s age, handsome but not arrogantly so.
“Who are you?” Moore asked.
“Dominic Caruso.”
Moore sighed. Slater had called Moore earlier in the week to say this guy Caruso wanted to talk to him, that he was a “good guy,” and that Moore should “trust him.” Slater had been unwilling to say anything else, and Moore couldn’t pull up much on the guy, save for the fact that he’d been a fibbie but had left the Bureau. There was nothing after that. Moore was supposed to call Caruso to set up a meeting as a favor to Slater, but despite Slater’s reassurances, Moore hardly trusted the stranger, and there was no way in hell he’d volunteer information about any of his operations.
Caruso proffered his hand; Moore ignored it. “Do you think we can go somewhere more private to talk?” Caruso asked.
Moore tried and failed to hide his disgust. “How’d you find me?”
“You told Slater you’d be here. He told me what you look like.”
“I guess he’s one of your fans. Unfortunately, I’m not.”
“You will be.”
“Look, this isn’t a good time. I’m, uh, supposed to meet someone right now, and she’s much prettier than you.”
“I understand. I just need a little information.”
“And what do you plan to do with it?”
Caruso smiled guiltily.
“Who do you work for?” Moore asked.
Caruso opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, then said quickly, “I’m sorry I bothered you. We’ll be in touch again.” He gave Moore a brusque nod and left.
He was about to call Slater when his coffee date entered, wearing a wrinkled sweatshirt, jeans, and jogging shoes. His shoulders slumped, if only a little. The dark hair was pulled back to reveal those spectacular cheekbones.
She saw him, gave a tentative wave, then beamed as she approached. “Hey, there. Glad you’re finally letting me pay you back.” Her English was very good, but the accent made it sound even better, older, like she was in her thirties and much closer to his age.
They shook hands, hers a delicate piece of silk, his a leathery talon. “The timing worked out,” he said. “Which is no small miracle.”
She nodded, and he crossed over to the counter with her and ordered. He took her for a latte girl. She ordered a venti coffee, black. He was impressed and ordered the same. She held up her debit card and mouthed the words
“You’re very welcome. There’s a fireplace upstairs.”
“It’s still summer.”
“Yeah, but it’s a gas fireplace, and they keep it lit all year. It’s really nice.”
On the second floor they dropped onto a leather sofa, set their coffee cups on the table, then stared for a long moment at the fire and the pairs of college kids from Marymount seated around them, their heads buried in their computers as they barely looked over to grab their drinks.
“Were you ever that serious?” Her voice came softly, so that no one else could overhear.
“I wasn’t serious till I got in the Navy.”
“And now you’re really intense.”
He grinned and reached for his coffee. “So how much do you know?”
