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Confirmation bias. She saw what she expected to see and discarded anything that didn’t fit with that narrative. Hell, she’d even discarded Chris for expressing doubts.
The sobs shook her entire body. Fear and loathing were a powerful emetic when set loose. Not that she was vomiting, but the tears came in torrents and felt like a purge.
Chris scooped her up and pulled her onto his lap, and she didn’t understand why he hadn’t shoved her away in revulsion. She buried her face in his neck and cried harder, while he stroked her back and whispered words of comfort her brain didn’t know how to accept.
Eventually, her sobbing lost steam. She took hiccupping breaths and tried not to use his shirt as a tissue, but it was a lost cause.
She closed her eyes in embarrassment and breathed in his scent. He was musky and warm and comforting. His large palm cupped her cheek, wiping away an ocean of tears.
“Diana, sweetheart, it’s okay. Even if you were wrong about Rafiq, it’s okay. You were victimized by a group of terrorists. Rafiq or not, they’ve built a strong base in Jordan, and you—and only you—located them. Isn’t that what you were doing in Jordan in the first place? It doesn’t matter if it was Rafiq. These men are murdering, raping, and pillaging. Using terror to seize power. And they’re funding it with artifacts. And you were the only person who could bring them to our attention. It doesn’t have to be Rafiq to make them worth stopping.”
She caught her breath as he uttered the only words that could cut through her misery.
She’d been so focused on Rafiq, this angle hadn’t crossed her mind.
But he was right. Rafiq or not, Jordan’s archaeological sites were being used to fund destabilization in the region. Paying for the death and conscription of children.
“It doesn’t matter if he was the Four of Diamonds.” It was both a statement and a question as she verbalized her interpretation of his words.
“No. It doesn’t. Whoever it was—and it could still be Rafiq—is dangerous. And he’s well funded. Intelligence agencies should be looking into who and where he is instead of focusing on you. But they aren’t. They’re playing catch-up and appeasement. We need to get ahead of the narrative and nail his ass.”
She twisted in his lap, straddling him. She held his cheeks and stared into his eyes. He was so beautiful. A warrior. A straight arrow. A SEAL who’d twice risked his life to save her.
In contrast, she was an absolute mess. No one would call her pretty when she cried. She wasn’t noble or strong. She was a traitor to her profession just by agreeing to be a spy.
Salim’s last words before he lost control of the car. His condemnation.
And then she’d doubled down, to prove to herself—or to his memory—that her decision was important. Bigger than her.
Had she seen Rafiq in a stranger’s eyes to prove to her dead fiancé that she’d made the right choice?
Maybe.
Did it matter in the long run if it was one terrorist or another?
Probably not.
She let Chris and all his beauty see her ugly-cry face. Stripped of the calm façade she’d presented in the slot canyon. Stripped of all confidence that she knew right from wrong. Stripped of her belief in her own infallibility. She let her rescuer and protector see the miserable, stark, unvarnished version of herself. “You still want to help me, knowing I might have been wrong?”
“Of course. It doesn’t matter if it was Rafiq or not. What matters is following the artifacts. Following the money. Because we both know it’s being funneled to support one branch of the Islamic State or another. It’s being used to destroy lives and communities.”
“Helping me could ruin you. You could lose your spot on the SEALs. Dishonorable discharge. Imprisonment.”
“That won’t happen. Not if we get in front of the narrative. Show the real truth.”
“How can we do that?”
Chris flashed a resolute smile and said, “Trust me.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Morgan wasn’t the least bit surprised to see a representative from the State Department at her door even though it was late on a Saturday evening. But then, it was Sunday in Jordan already, which was the first day of their work week, as most businesses in the country operated on a Sunday to Thursday week.
“Mr. Colt, what brings you here?”
Before he could answer, Morgan’s two-year-old daughter, Valentine, came running to the door. “Is it Gramma?”
Morgan scooped up her half-dressed child, who must’ve been in the middle of a costume change because she wore a diaper and a cone-shaped princess hat and nothing else. The girl tucked her head into Morgan’s neck and popped her two middle fingers into her mouth when she took in the stranger at the door.
