Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs. Jina Bacarr

the smell of her stirred something in him he hadn’t experienced in so long the ache to conquer her made his blood hot. His need unrelenting. He wouldn’t admit his ego was bruised, if only slightly, when the girl in the beaded black wig had slipped away from him. Though he was certain she was of a venal nature, that didn’t deter him from wanting her.

      Because she’d made him hard in the alley, rubbing her body against his bare chest? Teasing him with her nipples pointing through her black bra?

      She was recalcitrant in her refusal to back down to him and that attracted him, even if his credo was that a smart man didn’t chase after women for the simple reason he had no time to bother with the hunt. He kept telling himself his main job was to obtain intelligence, not satisfy his carnal needs. He hungered for secrets in the same way other men needed sex. Besides, didn’t his training demand he clean the scene and eliminate the witness?

      With the beautiful girl in his arms, he kicked open the door with his boot, then checked the hallway. Deserted. He made a quick exit down the backstairs.

      Training, my ass.

      He wanted to get laid.

      7

      Dizziness invades my head and nausea rolls through my stomach, one wave after another. I try to take a breath, but my lungs hurt. Dammit, I can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Panic makes me grind my teeth, possessing me with a fear so intense my heart jumps in my chest. What happened?

      Damn, I can’t remember. My brain is swimming in a swirl of saffron fog, clinging to me like wisps of memories lost in a swirling sea. Unfortunately, my body is also suffering from a partial paralysis from whatever drug the Russian gave me and it won’t give up its secrets. I roll my head from side to side, begging for some answers, but all I feel are achy arms, stiff neck and, yes, my butt hurts. Not from the tight fit of a dildo jammed into my back end and bruising the soft flesh, but like someone jabbed me with a needle.

      Wait. Someone did jab me in my rear.

      I hear a man laughing. Was it him?

      In a whirlpool of memory mist and damnable recognition, everything rushes back to me—the alley, the one-eyed Jack and the Russian. Vodka breath, fat, cold fingers, body ripe with sweat. I almost got the guidance chip from him, but I can’t remember much after he sprayed mist into my ear. Chloral hydrate? I don’t know. He could have added the sedative to the vodka he offered me, but I don’t remember drinking it.

      I do remember I couldn’t breathe, my brain circuits zapping and zinging out of control. Worse, I failed at my mission. As a TA special agent trained in exfiltration, I’m more than a swallow—a female operative who uses sex as a tool. I’m also an intelligence agent who specializes in getting friendly agents out of hostile territory. It was my job to find the Russian and bring him in.

      Where am I now? I stretch out and my feet touch a wall, my left shoulder another wall. I sense I’m confined in a small space. A coffin? Oh, God, no. It can’t end like this. Not after everything I’ve been through, not when I’m so close to finding Sharif. I must bring him to justice. He destroyed my life and my work.

      I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to will my brain to focus. Images form in my mind. The young Arab boy…his red scarf…the unforgiving desert sucking him into its bowels. I let my thoughts dwell back to that day I chased after him. I was ready. I heard the voices. I did make an important discovery—

      One of the greatest antiquities of the ancient world…

      Two years earlier Syria

      I race toward the spot where the child disappeared, my boots kicking up dirt, my body so tense I can’t breathe, the mood of the desert so quiet my ears hum in silence. As if it waits to see what I’ll do, if I can recover the bounty it’s taken to its breast as payment for my folly.

      No. I won’t let the boy suffer for what I’ve done.

      I pump up my speed, but I don’t seem to be moving any faster. What’s wrong? My rational mind tells me I’m running as fast as I can, yet my body floats in a macabre dance, my legs light and airy like a two-dimensional cartoon figure stuck in slo-mo. All the while, I chide myself for allowing this to happen. I should have seen the signs sooner. On closer inspection, I make out a dark layer where there should be bedrock. When I reach the mound I can see it’s a vast, shapeless mass, covered with scattered brush and scarcely any traces of footsteps except where the winter rains formed ravines down its perpendicular sides and laid open a sinkhole on the surface of a recently irrigated field.

      And somewhere down at the bottom of the hole is a small boy.

      Crying.

      Muff led cries, but cries. I swallow hard, my heart beating again. He’s alive.

      “Missy Breezy, my brother, help him!” The older boy grabs on to my shirt, pulling and tugging at me. I wrap my arms around him to comfort him.

      “Don’t worry, we’ll get him.” I point up the hill. “Run back to camp. Tell them what happened. I’ll go down into the hole and—”

      I feel my boots slipping, my tall frame pushing down into the earth. Before I completely lose my balance, I shove the boy away from me. “Go, run!” I let out my breath, not taking my eyes off him until I’m certain he’s out of danger, then, holding on to nearby brush, I lean over, straining to see down the hole. “Mo Ahmed!” I call out, using my nickname for the little boy, but I see nothing. More disturbing to my frantic nerves, I hear nothing. Is he so frightened he can’t speak? Or is he—

      Not daring to put that thought into my rattled brain, I lean farther over the hole, calling out his name again, heedless of my own safety, already hearing the shrieking of the boy’s mother, the men shouting orders to one another. “Mo Ah—” I don’t finish the words before the ground gives way underneath me and I plunge down the hole, landing with a thud, then rolling over onto my side, choking and sputtering on a mouthful of dirt.

      I wipe the grit out of my mouth, realize my sunglasses flew off my face, but other than that I’m okay. Within seconds, the dust clears from my eyes and I spin around looking for the child. He’s nowhere in sight.

      Where did he go?

      “Missy Breezy!” I hear voices coming from above me. Ahmed and his wife, along with the other diggers, peer over the side of the hole. I look up, figure I must have fallen into a well shaft about fifteen, twenty feet deep. I see portions of stone steps jutting out through the dirt wall. How far down do they go?

      “Your son’s okay!” I call out with assurance, hoping I’m right. I heard him crying, so he must have pulled himself up and wandered away, but where? I’m surrounded on three sides by rough-cut walls. A daring thought traverses through my brain at lightning speed. A big hole near a series of steps leading downward was an attempt by builders to stop grave robbers from getting access to the rest of the tomb. Is a tomb nearby? I look around, squinting. A pile of dirt covers the other wall, dirt that sucked me down with it. A terrifying thought comes over me. Suppose the child is buried under that dirt—

      “I come down,” Ahmed calls out, and I can hear him scuffling closer to the edge of the sinkhole.

      “No, it’s too dangerous!” I yell back. I don’t want him to panic when he doesn’t find the boy with me. “Get a rope. I’ll tie it around him and you can hoist him up.”

      When I find him, I finish silently, wishing I had my flashlight. The sun decides to be on my side after all, casting a sobering light onto the area. I see an amphora-shaped jar, unbroken and intact, lying less than a foot from me. My brain records it, yearns to grab it and examine it, but I have one thing on my mind. Find the boy. A chill races through me when I see a small opening I missed earlier. With new hope filling me up, I bend down and call out, “Mo Ahmed, are you in there?”