Page 3 of Missile Strike

“You should be.”

In the background, Danny overheard a feminine voice exclaim, “Hey, I heard that!” and chuckled.

Emily Dane Long was the daughter of Admiral Porter Dane, a retired Navy SEAL, and, like her father, a force to be reckoned with. Nathan had his hands full.

And loved every minute of it.

Funny how his former SEAL team leader went all mushy around his wife. But they made a great team.

That twinge returned to Danny’s chest. He shook it off.

Better Nathan than him.

Five minutes later, he caught sight of Emily’s shoulder-length, ash-blonde hair as she made her way down the street toward the cafe in hot pink shorts and a white T-shirt, a tan crossbody bag slung over her shoulder.

He gave her a cheeky grin. “Hey, sugar buns, wanna grab a bite to eat?” he asked in a suitably loud American voice.

Nathan snarled in his ear.

Emily rolled her eyes but pasted on a simpering smile and smooched his cheek. “Careful, Surfer Dude,” she whispered the nickname she’d given him because he was a SoCal boy and looked the part. She then pulled back and said loudly, “Sure, sweetie-pie,” before linking arms with him as they entered the cafe.

Their targets sat in the corner and, as luck would have it, the table closest to the two men was open.

Danny asked the server to be seated there and directed Emily into the chair closest to the men, ignoring their sharp-eyed gazes as he ordered two iced coffees and a plate of local cheeses, olive oil, and bread.

Emily left her bag on the seat next to her, the recording device activated.

The men were speaking in hushed tones in Arabic.

Danny’s knowledge of the language was limited—just enough to get his point across during his deployments in Iraq and dealing with the foreign insurgents that had flooded into Afghanistan for an opportunity to fight the “infidels.” He made a show of playing with Emily’s fingers and gazing into her eyes while they sipped their coffees—cover for their suspicious lack of conversation so they could get as clear a recording of the men’s conversation as possible.

Emily also had some language training in Arabic as part of her job with the Trafficking in Persons Office at the US State Department.

Her shoulders stiffened, face tightening.

For good reason.

Danny’s jaw tensed. Like Emily, he’d caught the words “wife,” “daughter,” and “daughter-in-law.” Their language was careful, never mentioning specific names. But Senator Strickland was vacationing with his wife, his son and daughter-in-law, and their infant son.

And Isabella Strickland, the senator’s daughter.

Bella.

His sister Jaynie’s best friend. Tiny, blonde, and bookish, but with a quiet strength he’d always admired. He hadn’t seen her since she was seventeen. Since the night of his sister’s funeral.

After he’d—

Pressure on his fingers brought his gaze back to Emily.

Whoops. Apparently, some of his inner thoughts had plastered themselves onto his outer face. He summoned a cheesy smile that did nothing to erase the concern in Emily’s eyes.

“We cannot wait any longer.” Tabril’s voice had risen.

Danny kept his eyes on Emily, even as his peripheral vision noted Tabril glancing around, giving Danny a hard stare. Whatever Tabril said to Hariri next was too hushed to pick up before he stood and exited the cafe.

Bringing Emily’s fingers to his lips, Danny shielded his mouth. “Tango one is on the move.”

“Got him,” Caleb answered.