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“My wife would kick my ass,” said a private who didn’t look old enough to go to the prom, much less have a spouse. “We’re trying to work through a group that will bring him back to the States.”
The flyboy tugged his dog. “We’d better get him tucked away.”
“Roger that.” Jose took hold of Stella’s elbow and steered her toward the hangar. “Things may have died down for the moment, but I’m not feeling the need to stand around here chitchatting.”
Keeping his 9 mm in hand, he hoofed it faster, staying close to the buildings until finally he tucked Stella into the safety of the hangar that housed their mobile command center.
He made a beeline straight toward Mr. Smith. “What the hell was that all about outside?”
Mr. Smith normally played life close to the vest, but the guy’s regular stony face was downright thunderous right now. The agent reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a roll of antacids and thumbed one into his mouth. “We’re still not a hundred percent sure, but actually, those sorts of attacks are commonplace right now.” He crunched the tablet, the second already thumbed free and ready. “Rebel forces, separatists, warlords—hell, even al-Qaeda takes potshots at this base. This place needs thicker walls and better intel.”
Stella picked away gravel on the knees of her jeans. “What about the cloth? Any luck deciphering it? And what about Sutton’s backpack?”
“The backpack had some other relics in it, which we’re going over, but no other cloths. We’re still working on the kanga with a local translator.” Mr. Smith tucked away the antacids. “Once he’s through we’ll let you know.”
“Or I could work with what they already completed,” she pressed.
“We’ll let you know.” Mr. Smith tugged his jacket over his shoulder harness as he left.
Stella’s jaw jutted. “Too bad there aren’t any trees around here for him to actually mark his territory.”
Jose agreed a hundred percent, but firing Stella up further wasn’t going to accomplish anything. “You know how intelligence agencies are about working together. He may have saved your ass when you were kidnapped, but that doesn’t mean he wants to work with you.”
“You’re absolutely right,” she said with a gleam in her eyes just before she pivoted away.
Aw fuck. She was fired up anyhow.
Jose kept pace alongside her, his boots thudding on the concrete floor. “Where are you going?”
“To talk to the interpreter.” She stopped short outside the door, her hand on his chest. “Do you think you can keep Mr. Smith busy?”
If it meant closing this case faster and getting Stella back home safe and sound, he was all in. “How long do you need?”
***
Samir Al-Shennawi had been in love with Annie Johnson since the first time he saw her a year ago, the day he left Egypt and began his assignment teaching at the East African orphanage school.
Sitting across from her now in the teacher’s break room as she graded papers and sipped aromatic coffee, he still couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Everything about her mesmerized him like a work of art. Her oval face was creamy and timeless as an oil painting by one of the masters. She wore loose, silky pants suits that shifted and glided against her curves the way his hands ached to do. He wasn’t a poetic man, a scientist by trade and nature, yet she made him feel… different.
Even the loose lock of hair slipping free from the thick chestnut mass piled on top of her head tormented him. The barest glint of silver in that strand reminded him they were mature adults, in their fifties. At their age, they should know their wants, their needs. They weren’t innocents.
How could she not know he burned to make her his? He shuffled papers to grade, upper level chemistry, watching her out of the corner of his eye, every bit as entranced by her now as he’d been twelve months ago.
Seeing Annie then had caught him by surprise as he had never been one to believe in the whole “at first sight” notion. He was too much of a practical man for that. He’d never had time or the aptitude for romance.
He’d been a bachelor for so long his brother Omari had once pulled him aside and asked about his sexual orientation. Samir had reminded Omari that people didn’t question George Clooney or Simon Cowell.
His brother loved American television.
Just because Samir was not a ladies man or Hollywood attractive—or even Bollywood—that did not mean he preferred males to females. He dated quietly. He had sex with women but did not feel the need to brag of conquests. He just had not found the lady he wanted to spend his life with.
Until he saw Annie. So maybe he was a romantic after all.
He wished he could explain what it was about her that drew him, then perhaps he could figure out a way to get over her. Because after a year of attempting to romance her, she had clearly relegated him to the role of friendship.
Something had to change. Because after this long waiting for the right one to walk into his life, he refused to lose her.
After twelve months of failing to win her over, he’d read up on American dating traditions—perhaps they suffered a cultural miscommunication. He thought he had been quite obvious with his offers to walk her to her quarters and hold her chair for her when they sat together at school dining functions. They had even met for coffee and discussed more than just their students.
