Intimate Danger. Amy J. Fetzer

keep track of every U.S. citizen on foreign soil.

      “You could die and none would find you.”

      “Is that a threat?”

      “Tell me the truth!” He left the chair so quickly it shot back and hit the wall. “What are you doing there? What did you see?”

      “Nothing!”

      “Why have you come without escort?”

      “I did, you killed him!”

      His rage gave his eyes a demon glow, and she was thinking up some juicy lie when he backhanded her across the face. Clancy reeled with the impact, hitting the wall, her face exploding in hot pain.

      Her eyes watered and she worked her jaw. “That’s not going to get you anywhere.” She spat blood at his feet.

      “You cannot escape.” He stepped close and she put her hands up.

      “Okay, okay, no punching! Maybe we can work a deal.” She moved to him, her expression giving new meaning to the words Come on, honey, I’m yours. “Just you and me.”

      He smiled as if she were the stupid kid in the class and reached for her.

      That’s all she needed. She grabbed his wrist, dug her thumb into the apex of his finger and thumb, and twisted hard, forcing his arm and elbow backward. He reached for her, for the chair, but Clancy threw her weight into it, lowering him toward the floor. Then she slammed her knee into the side of his head. He dropped like a stone. Clancy stepped back.

      “Now, that’s what I’m talking about,” she muttered, stunned it worked and warmed with her victory.

      The pain in her kneecap burned up her thigh and she rubbed, then quickly searched him for the cuff keys. It took a second to get them off. She put them on him, hands behind his back, then stole his gun and a fistful of bullets.

      Grabbing her purse, she swept everything off the table and inside, then dropped the tracking chip to the floor. She crushed it under her heel. Screw you, Cook.

      Richora stirred, pushed up, and she kicked him in the head. He flattened to the floor and Clancy gripped her bag and looked around. Now what, smart-ass?

      The window was painted shut, and there was one door with another ten policia on the other side.

      Choufani moved through the blackened remains. What once stood eight wood crates high, now barely covered his boots. He squatted, pulling a pencil from inside his jacket to flick at the evidence. The piles of crates had exploded up and down into the floor. The gulley around him was more than twenty feet wide. What could have done this? A large bomb, certainly, but the depth and width of the explosion told him it was high-magnitude explosives. Yet everything was right where it had been, except contained. No real scatter, but the bodies were in pieces and shriveled.

      Choufani dug, moving charred wood and burned rifle stocks. That wasn’t all that was in here, he knew. But this was all he’d been allowed to see. The group had not trusted him enough, but there had been more than small arms in the crates.

      In the black debris soggy from firemen’s hoses, from the rain that had graciously fallen since the explosion—he found something angular. He started digging with his hands, the black muck climbing up his arms. He loosened the object, frowning at the long slightly curved piece that was practically untouched by the flames. Black and dense, it was as if it had melted. He tapped it on his watchband. Solid plastic? Not resin, nor steel. So then, what was it?

      He lifted his gaze from the sooty block to the warehouse. Jail for arms was a great deal less…uncomfortable than for acts of terrorism. Even in Libya, they had strict ruling over crimes. If it were not so, Muammar Abu Minyar al-Qadhafi would not be in power. But was it worth dying for? Your beliefs, your country, yes, but keeping secret a cache of arms? They could be had across the border for a price. In Libya, an AK-47 went hand in hand with the rising of the sun.

      In Tunisia, not so, Choufani thought.

      But the dead had taken their intended target with them. Destroying their weapons rather than be taken alive. Unfortunately, this was not the first shipment.

      He straightened and went to the forensic table, pieces of evidence bagged and logged. Broken jaws of teeth, a charred hand. He knew these men, and others like them. He had prayed four times a day as they did. For Choufani, they had achieved their goal.

      To make the world see Islam their way.

      Clancy had no way out and minutes before someone came in here and saw that she’d beaned the big jefe. She struggled to open the window, and sunlight blinked off her diamond ring, a hawking big thing she’d had redesigned after her marriage ended. It was worth too much to be pissy and toss in the Potomac, and she hoped Steven was still paying on it. Quickly, she worked it off, then pressed the edge hard to the glass, running it the circumference of the window a couple of times. It did nothing. Rats. She tried once more, harder, then tapped the glass lightly. Her eyes widened as it tipped outward. Oh my God. She caught it before it fell and pulled it inside.

      Holding her ring in her teeth, she set the glass down, then pulled a chair close. She stuck her head out the window. The area was empty. She didn’t trust it. Putting the ring back on, she lowered her bag out the window. The gun made a heavy thunk when it hit the ground. Her gaze lit on the entrances to the courtyard. One at a side gate and another at the front. Side, she thought and climbed out, dropped to the ground, then slung the bag over her shoulder and under her arm.

      She ducked low, running like a duck toward the gate to avoid being seen through another window. She met the edge and stopped, flattened to the wall. There were two men smoking at the front under the shade, piles of trash and old typewriters in the back. The gate was about forty feet ahead of her. She didn’t know if it was locked or not, and studied it for a second. Man, that’s high.

      Then she heard shouts. Oh, crap. Time’s up. She bolted for the gate. It was locked, and she worked her hand through the bars to the other side and tried opening it. Not locked, but so old it was rusted in place. The pound of footsteps thumped behind her, shouts to surround the area.

      Please, Goddess of the stupid people, don’t let me die here.

      She ran back toward the building. Then as fast as she could, she took off, leaped at the scroll ironwork, pulling herself up. They were right behind her, and as she swung her leg over, someone fired.

      The bullet hit the stucco wall, chipping away a large chunk near her butt. Oh, jeez.

      She threw herself off and fell to the ground so fast she didn’t have time to get her legs out in front of her. She landed on her side, and for a moment was stunned. The voices were closer, men trying to get over the wall or shoot through the gate. Clancy pushed up, got a knee under herself.

      Then a pair of heavy hands slapped on her shoulders, grabbed tight, and dragged her into the jungle.

      When the woman came flying over the gate, Mike couldn’t have been more surprised—and disappointed. He’d expected to find his men. One, at least. She dropped to the ground, and he thought, That’s gonna leave a mark. Then he heard the troops, the gunshots, and didn’t think about his decision to help. But she fought him, landing a kick to his shin, and all he could do was drag her.

      Out of sight, he gritted, “Stop fighting me, damn it.”

      Clancy turned wide eyes toward the voice. An American. Where did he come from?

      He didn’t give her the chance to ask, moving on long legs, pulling her with him, then paused long enough to toss her unceremoniously over his shoulder and grab something off the ground. Then he was off again, running hard, each jolt punching the air out of her lungs and making her want to puke down the back of his trousers.

      “Stop,” she choked. “Stop!”

      He didn’t.

      So she cupped his rear and squeezed. He nearly stumbled. “Stop, damn it, please!” she hissed. “I can run.”

      Mike