“The heavily armed motorcycle fanatics,” Haroun clarified, and Qasim’s blood ran cold. He’d figured as much, but to hear it confirmed was another thing entirely. “They saw me attempting to drag the woman from Sander’s backyard and opened fire. I am wounded.”

Qasim sucked in a ragged breath.

“It is nothing,” Haroun assured him. “A flesh wound only. But plans have changed. This place is no longer safe. If they have not called the police to report my assault already, then they will soon. This town will be swarming with men in badges. You must retreat to our second location.” Their second location… Praise Allah, we have one. “I will come to you once I have secured Miss Fairchild.”

“No.” Qasim shook his head even though Haroun couldn’t see him. “Forget about her for now. Just get yourself to safety. We will try different torture methods on Theodore. It has only been a day. We may still get him to talk by—”

“Ah, habibi,” Haroun chuckled softly. “I always say you worry like a sitto.” And, yes, Haroun was known to compare Qasim’s continual fretting to that of an old grandmother. He was the only man in Qasim’s circle who would dare. Years ago, Qasim had killed men for such insubordination, and his reputation still preceded him. But, Haroun…well, Haroun had been by his side since almost the beginning, and as such was allowed certain latitude. “By all means continue to try make that old Marine talk, but in the meantime, allow me to carry on with my mission. I will use the signal on the phone attached to her motorcycle to follow her like her own shadow. And when the time is right, I will grab her.”

“You have already attempted to grab her twice before,” Qasim reminded his second-in-command, wondering if they’d gotten so close to reaching their goal only to be thwarted at the last minute. Allah might be on their side, but unfortunately, qadar was now living up to her reputation as a fickle mistress.

“Yes.” There was a note of indulgence in Haroun’s voice. “But what is that American phrase you like to use about the third time someone attempts something?”

Despite himself, despite the left turn their mission had suddenly taken, Qasim felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Haroun was one of the few people who knew of his secret fascination with the English language. “They say the third time is a charm.”

“Yes. It is indeed. Now, go. I will call you again when I once more have the woman in my sights.”

Qasim could only hope it would be that easy. “God be with you, brother,” he said.

“And with you, habibi.”

Qasim punched the “end” button on the phone and turned to find his men had already packed up their meager supplies. They were standing at attention, awaiting his next order.

“Put the old Marine in the car,” he told them. “We are retreating to our secondary location.”

“And Haroun?” Jabbar asked, his black eye now swollen almost completely shut.

“Will meet us there with the woman.” At least Qasim hoped that would be true. A troubling sense of foreboding had invaded his spirit since disconnecting the call. But he thought perhaps it was just because he worried like a sitto…

* * *

“Be careful, Z,” Chelsea whispered, standing with Mac and Delilah on Sander’s back porch. She didn’t care that the CIA technician listening in on the line could hear the distress in her voice. Screw it. Let him hear. This is a distressing situation, after all. Made more so because it was Dagan out there in harm’s way. Dagan, the only field agent who’d ever looked at her as something more than a bespectacled computer lab rat. Dagan, the only man who’d ever made her feel like, maybe, just maybe, there was something…sexy…about short, plump, mixed-race smart girls. “From what we can tell, he’s sitting in a car. He could run you down if you approach him from the front. I suggest engaging from a side or back entrance, if that’s possible.”

“Chels?”

Chels… Her heart tripped at the familiar nickname. “Yeah, Z?” She licked her lips.

“Shut up, will you? I know what I’m doing, but having you yakking in my ear isn’t helping me concentrate.”

Okay. And any warm fuzzies she might have been feeling were instantly doused in gasoline and set ablaze. She fancied she could see them racing around inside her head, arms flailing, flames licking out behind them.

“I’m just trying to help, you ginormous ass,” she hissed, even as she continued to watch like a hawk the three green dots on her iPad screen that were Ozzie, Dagan, and the suspect. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Mac was standing by one porch post, swatting at Delilah’s hands as the woman lifted the hem of his T-shirt to reveal a bandage soaked with blood. She made note of the fact that the big former Fed had a fresh wound that was obviously bleeding anew since his Ty Cobb-worthy slide across the yard, but she gave it only a fleeting thought. With Dagan seconds away from kicking in a door with who knew what behind it—they couldn’t be sure whether or not Delilah’s assailant had been packing more than a hunting knife—the extent to which she didn’t give a shit about Mac and Delilah’s scuffling could not be measured. Because, not to be a broken record or anything, but it was…Dagan out there…

“What did I just say about your yakking?” he replied.

She opened her mouth to take issue with him but she got distracted when the technician cut in with, “Excuse me, Agent Duvall. We have the suspect’s identity.”

“Who is it?” she asked, holding her breath, hoping beyond hope that, despite the man’s appearance and thick accent, he was nobody, some convict who’d simply been hanging out in this dilapidated old neighborhood to escape the notice of the five-oh. Hoping beyond hope that Charles Sander and Theo Fairchild would turn up with a very good explanation as to their disappearance. Hoping beyond hope that this wasn’t the kind of clusterfuck Morales feared it might be.

“His name is Haroun al-Hallaj,” the technician relayed, and her heart sank even before he continued with, “He’s a noted member of an off-shoot al-Qaeda organization that operates mostly in the Arabian Peninsula.”

“Goddamnit, Chelsea!” Dagan hissed, having listened to the whole thing through his joint connection. “What the hell have you gotten us involved in?”

She didn’t have time to correct him by telling him that they, the Black Knights, had been involved long before she arrived on the scene, because she was too busy screaming, “Patch in Director Morales! Now!” to the technician.

While the secure connection was being made, she could hear Dagan breathing heavily. “Do we proceed, Agent Duvall?” he whispered.

Agent Duvall. So they were back to that, were they? Well, she shouldn’t be too surprised. After all, with these most recent revelations, it was clear that her sudden appearance on their doorstep wasn’t as innocent as she’d tried to make them believe. Which meant that Dagan now knew, without a doubt, that she’d been lying to him.

“Negative, Z,” she said, waiting for her supervisor to pick up the damned phone. “Hold your position until—”

“Agent Duvall,” Morales barked. “I’ve been following your situation and have two teams en route. ETA is approximately thirty seconds. Tell your boys to hang tight.”

“We’re not her boys,” Dagan growled through the joint connection. “Or yours, for that matter, Morales. So you can go f—”

Whatever he was about to say—and Chelsea figured she had a pretty good idea—was cut off by the low muttering of two stealth Comanche helicopters as they zoomed overhead. Flying in at a low insertion profile so they wouldn’t trigger the FAA’s radar—couldn’t have the civilians knowing there was a super-secret op going down right under their noses, could they?—and so both teams in the helos could fast-rope in at the drop of a hat, the smell of aviation fuel drifted down to burn Chelsea’s nose. She watched the choppers disappear down the block, then turned to find both Mac and Delilah gaping first in the direction of the helicopters and then at her. She winced and shrugged, hoping her expression accurately conveyed her remorse at having been forced to deceive them. I swear I didn’t want to. I swear I didn’t. But then Dagan’s voice shouted through her earpiece. “He’s fleeing! He’s fleeing! The suspect is fleeing!”

Chelsea heard the squealing of tires coming from down the block and saw the tops of the trees swaying before the two helicopters mushed up from their position atop the canopy and raced forward to keep up with the escaping vehicle.

Morales barked instructions in her ear. The technician kept up a running monologue of al-Hallaj’s movements as he watched the activity via satellite feed. And Dagan cursed her six ways from Sunday and beat feet back here, if the sound of his labored breathing was anything to go by. But it was Mac who grabbed her arm, ducking his chin until his tan face was an inch from hers.

It occurred to her then, as he bent to bring them nose-to-nose, that the ex–FBI agent was about a foot taller than any normal human male should be.

“I don’t cotton to being lied to,” he growled, his deep voice rumbling through her chest like fireworks on the Fourth of July. And like those fireworks, she knew Mac, if not handled properly, could blow up in her face quicker than she could say I’m so sorry it had to be this way.

“And I like it even less,” he continued, still manacling her bicep, “when those lies might’ve gotten a good dog killed,” God, I hope not, “and a good woman,” he hooked a thumb toward the redheaded bartender, “nearly killed. So, you’re gonna tell me what the hell is goin’ on here, Agent Duvall. And you’re gonna do it right now.”