Prologue
I’m only aware of fear.
It’s so all-consuming that every element of my body is screaming for relief. The muscles want to relax, the heart to slow, my lungs to pull in unsullied air and the blood to return to those paths that keep me alive.
It’s my brain that won’t relinquish its call to battle and yet can’t identify the danger. What is this hell? It’s mine and mine alone. It’s what makes my days calm and rational by contrast and yet the exhaustion permanently intrudes.
It’s behind me. No! It’s at my side. No! I risk a backward glance at my pursuer, but he’s hidden in the fog. I know it’s male; it always has been. It’s imperative I escape, not just for myself, but for the others he hunts.
I can do it again, just as I’ve done it before. I take three long strides with what energy remains and then up! I leap up and take flight. I fight the air beneath my feet as a swimmer attempts to outswim the shark, who she knows is tracking her. Am I high enough? Am I out of reach? Will I be safe?
I need to hide, to blend in with something obscure so I’m not recognized. A bush? In the crevasse of a rock? My body is flexible and if I can just get far enough ahead, around a bend so it cannot track me. I’m desperate for safety.
There! A tree with centuries of age. Its branches bear large, flesh-colored fruits. I push against the air in one last lunge and aim for a thick limb. Success! I wind myself around the limb and brace so I can go forever without movement. My mind goes into hibernation and with that, I am invisible.
The swirl of blackness pauses beneath my tree, and I hear its breath; heaving and moist with the mucus of overly-strained lungs. I cannot pray or else I again become visible, so I watch… and wait.
I hear it draw in a breath of determination, and as I watch, it spins forward, fire and the smell of death in its wake. Soon, it has pursued the wrong path, and I am safe. For now. Until tomorrow… when I must come up with yet another strategy to escape him and survive.
My nausea wakes me, and I’m drenched with perspiration. This wasn’t new; in fact, it’s very, very familiar and I knew just how long it would be before I re-acclimated to my surroundings and felt safe again. I put my mind through its paces.
The specter that followed could only have been the branches sweeping my window in the rising wind. The black swirls were the fractures of light from the streetlamp at the curb below. The fear was because that’s how I’ve survived. The tree with heavy fruits was my strategy to live just one more day. The scent of death always follows me; it doesn’t frighten me. Indeed, it brings with it a sense of failure. Someone I could not get to in time; someone I loved but could not help and perhaps someone whose love I would never have but forever try to rationalize its absence.
I rose from the trampled sheets and heard the familiar floor creaks, guiding me to the bathroom, although I refused to open my eyes. Turning the brushed nickel faucet that I’d so lovingly picked out, I let the water run cold and then scooped handfuls of water over my face.
Sanity returned and with it the relief that the rest of the night was mine to recover. I would forget, I swore again. I would forget… and one day I would be free of him.
PART I
Chapter 1
The transport plane touched down on the tarmac in Ramstein, Germany with injured aboard. Although still weak and incapacitated by a broken leg, I hadn’t come for treatment, but to tend to Paul. My fiancé was barely hanging on, the target of sniper fire in Aleppo. The only question that remained, beyond that of whether he could survive, was who had ordered him attacked?
As astounding as it might seem, there could be only one answer; one person who would try to kill the man who was closest to my heart. My dead father, Faisal.
That summoned the second, and perhaps the most lethal question of all. Was my father truly dead? Had he managed to outwit American soldiers in a staged leap from a third-story roof, only to have somehow disappeared when they came to inspect his body?
For me, Sonia Amon, the first question held the spirit and security of my heart, but the second held more hatred than I’d thought myself capable of feeling. The Emir, the icon of terror and horror who had continually haunted my life, was still most likely at work. No matter who heard your prayers, it seemed, evil never dies.
Despite my own injuries from being cruelly and sadistically beaten by my father’s own men at his order, I struggled to walk off the plane and climb into the vehicle Jeff had waiting for our transport to the nearby Landstuhl Regional Medical Center or LRMC. As we approached the modern façade of the hospital with its curved central structure, fortified by an ultra-modern, unadorned wing, waves of recognition returned. I’d been there before, too many times. LRMC has a wholly unsavory reputation as being one of the largest sources of donor organs in the European region. Mutilated bodies with no hope rolled in one door, and recipients’ lives rolled out another. It was a factor of war, not of pride.
It seemed my life was so conflicted. I longed for calm serenity. For a moment my heart cried for Tessa, my beloved dog that I’d once again been forced to board. No matter what had happened, Tessa always provided me calm sensibility with a swift lick of her tongue.
A voice compelled me to pay attention. I was asked for my credentials and handed them over.
“You’re retired, Dr. Amon.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but only military personnel with clearance are permitted past this point.”
I looked at Jeff and then back at the young guard with the fresh face and unblemished air of self-importance. I bit back something sarcastic and instead decided to appeal to something more important. “He’s my fiancé. I’m also his personal physician, flown in from the States.”
The young guard seemed thrown by this; it was a combination of credentials he’d never been presented with before. Jeff sensed his indecision and motioned me with a nod of his head to step back. He pulled the guard aside and told him in a few, very potent and connected words how things were going to be. The guard nodded and motioned me past.
I was unwilling to be in a wheelchair. It was not a place for weakness; but to be brave no matter the cost. I leaned on Jeff’s arm but tried to keep it casual if others looked. He escorted me down two halls with railings affixed to the walls. I eyed them with desire but kept going. The further we went, the fewer smiles we saw. The nurses’ stations became collections of monitors, and no one was exchanging pictures their children had drawn. These were the halls where soldiers came to live or die; most of them unaware their life was at that point.
Jeff came to a halt before a room with glass walls—various stickers of warning affixed to the door frame. I knew the routine, but it still hits hard when the dangers represented involve someone you love.
Then I saw him. Paul. My Paul. The love of my life. He was surrounded by monitors that beeped, charting his heart rate and aiding his brain in what it currently could not do on its own. Paul couldn’t breathe. A huge monster of a machine did that for him. That grieved my heart. His head was swathed in white bandages; his eyes closed and motionless. I knew without talking to his doctors that he had a severe head injury; any head injury is serious. The question lay in what he could do and who he would be if he awakened.
I reached out and touched the back of his hand, careful not to disturb the IV inserted there. Tears pooled in my eyes. Those were my hands; they caressed my skin and held me tight when the nightmares came. I could feel the tendons and strength, but now the surface was dry and thin-looking with bruises colored red, purple and blue. It broke my heart. There was absolutely nothing I could do but be there. I couldn’t reach him now and that grieved my heart.
“Oh, Paul… I’m here. I hope you can hear me. I’m here for you. It’s Sonia, Paul. You’ll be fine. You just rest now; you’re in good hands.” My words choked in my throat. I stifled a cough. He was in good hands, as I had always been with him. Once again I yearned for Tessa and a swift lick of her tongue to ground me to reality.
“Jeff, I want to stay.” My eyes beseeched him.
Jeff shook his head. “Sonia, you need to rest. The flight, the stress, your leg. Why don’t you let me get us someplace to stay, and you rest for a few hours? He’ll be here.”
I looked up, my dark eyes hungry for encouragement. “You think so? I know you’re not a medical professional, but do you really think so?”
He hesitated the briefest second and then said, “I’ve seen men in far worse shape pull through.” A clever answer. Jeff was good at clever answers. After all, he was CIA.
I heard the warning in his voice. I couldn’t shake the subtle fear that Jeff had brought me all this way because no one believed Paul would survive. I was, in short, saying my goodbyes. I didn’t give speech to the fear. To do so was to change the fates of possibilities. I leaned over and kissed Paul’s forehead and then nodded to Jeff, and we ambled back down the hallway and out into the night air.
“Why would anyone do that to another human just because he could?” I voiced my anger and resentment, and both of us knew who we suspected. But there was no proof—at least not yet. I couldn’t talk about this with anyone but Jeff. Not my mother; she was the last person. It would be like whiplash to make her relive the torture they administered to her. She still had excruciating headaches from the stoning my father had inflicted on her petite body. At least I was younger, taller, and stronger. My bones had given, but my spirit would not.
I could have talked to Paul, but for now he was sleeping to hold on to the thread of life within him. I would have to deal with it myself. At least, I would try.
Chapter 2
I left with Jeff and by the time we made it to our rooms, the stress, the journey and the uncertain future for not only Paul but myself, sank in. One can only live on denial and adrenalin for so long.
Jeff left me in my room and went after food while I ran a hot shower and carefully protected my leg as I let the hot water run over my battered body. I looked at myself in the steamy mirror and wondered whether I looked my age or whether the constant fight had taken its toll. With a childhood that ranged from a protected, treasured child to the hunted target of a maniac, there were bound to be some psychological scars. So far, I felt I’d overcome the challenges that had been thrown my way. The instinct for survival was strong; not only for myself but for my patients as a doctor.
Even my career as a physician had been exceptionally stressful. I seldom saw my patients once they healed and regained their lives. I only saw them, lying there beneath my hands with their lives potentially destroyed. I did what I could, and if I was smart, lucky, and carefully observant, I put them back together and sent them off for rehab or long-term care. As soon as I repaired one patient, another potential corpse took his place on the operating table.
Much of my career, I didn’t work in a sleek new hospital with the latest equipment and teams of nurses to assist. Much of the time, it was just the patient and me with death always dangling before our eyes.
Then there was the ever-present threat. My father was hunting for me, and if there was any one thing I knew about him, it was that he believed his reputation and power depended on my being punished for perceived betrayal and that he never forgave.
I sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my good leg to improve the circulation from sitting for so long. I’d pulled a complimentary terrycloth robe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door and the texture was familiar and very comforting. I pushed both bed pillows against the fixed headboard and leaned back against them.
There was a knock at the door, and it opened. It was Jeff. “Are you decent?” He must have had a duplicate keycard made. Of course, he had. Men in his job left nothing to chance.
“Come in, Jeff,” I called across the room. "I’m just sitting here gathering my thoughts."
He closed the door firmly, but quietly, behind himself with his foot. His arms were filled with bags and I saw Styrofoam take-out containers peeking out from the top. “Brought us a little something to eat.”
I managed a smile. “Us and what other army? Do you know something I don’t?”
“Hey, I have to be good for something, don’t I?”
I gazed up at his cheery smile and gorgeous hazel eyes. “Sometimes I can almost stand to be around you,” I said, teasing.
“One can only hope,” was his saucy comeback as he set the bags down on the table by the window and began unpacking. “Why don’t I open the lids, show you what’s inside and you pick something.”
“Pick yours first,” I told him. “I’m so tired. I’m not sure I can eat.”
“No, that’s fine. I’m the least picky eater you’ll ever meet. What sounds tempting? I’ve got chicken, beef, Chinese stir-fry, naturally potato soup and brats; even some strudel for dessert.”
“You’re going to spoil me.” I smiled at him. Little did he know that I ate Lean Cuisine and Stouffer’s almost every night in Washington, DC.
“That’s the plan.” He winked at me.
One part of my brain heard his thoughtful, endearing language while the other part was screaming that it was all wrong. I shouldn’t be sitting here, enjoying a smorgasbord before preparing to climb beneath a pristine white duvet while Paul… well… wasn’t. Paul was a prisoner in a cold hospital bed a few miles away hooked up to more machines and tubes than most people could count.
“Just give me the stir-fry. There’s a little fridge over there. I can pick at it and finish it as I’m able.” I gestured towards the television set near the mini-fridge.
“As madam requests,” he quipped, laying a white napkin over his arm like a waiter. Flipping a fork end over end, he presented it to me with a napkin and the container with the stir fry. I had to admit it smelled delicious. I poked around and recognized chunks of tender chicken, snow peas, soy sauce. The scent of orange marmalade smothering mandarin slices and fried rice hit me. It made my mouth water.
“That smells wonderful.”
“I’m glad. Eat your fill and I’ll clean up the mess.”
“Jeff, why are you doing this?” I stared into his eyes.
“You know why.”
There were few secrets between us. Comparable in intellect and experience, we both knew what we avoided discussing. The specter of Paul and the possibility of my father still roaming the earth were concerning topics over which neither of us had control. Jeff was trying to get me healthy again, in preparation for the battles we suspected were coming.
Jeff had been my CIA handler while I was still active. We knew things we couldn’t even admit to one another; things we’d witnessed that didn’t bear repeating for fear they could happen again. If minds could hold hands, we’d already learned how to do that. Now that I had once again become active, we were again doing the CIA dance.
“Yes, I suppose I do,” I sighed and closed the lid. “I’m just too tired to eat.”
He immediately set his container down and rounded my bed, folding back the duvet and lifting the sheets so I could slide in my healing leg. “Just lie down for a little bit. I’m going to finish my dinner.”
I nodded, and for once, did what he suggested. The bed was luxuriously comfortable, and I only closed my eyes a moment.
There was an odd noise nearby, and I’d learned long before to feign sleep until I could adjust to my situation. It was rhythmic and a little like the monster I’d imagined slept beneath my bed when I was a very young child.
The noise never broke its rhythm, so I ventured to open one eye to a slit. There, next to my bed in a chair, sat Jeff, sound asleep, or so his snoring indicated. His dinner was balanced precariously on his thigh. I’d forgotten how good-looking he was. Appearances were never at the forefront of any of our professional relationships. Survival was.
I wanted to lean over and snatch his dinner container and put it on the floor, so at least it wouldn’t land on the carpet upside down. My healing leg was on temporary strike, it seemed, because as I tried to scoot my bottom over to reach him, it shot a deep aching pain from hip to toe.
“Jeff?” I called softly.
His years of standing guard had made him a lifelong light sleeper. He started and just like me, hesitated a few moments before opening his eyes. It struck me how much our lives were affected by what we’d done up to that point. They were things no one voiced and perhaps never even noticed. I wrote it off to my medical training—to be observant of even the slightest change in the norm. It had saved me and others more than once.
I didn’t have to say any more. He grabbed the container as it was tipping sideways. “Uh…” he cleared his throat loudly as one does when they’re embarrassed. “Wow. Didn’t even realize I dozed off,” he lied. I knew he’d planned to stay the entire night right at the side of my bed, keeping watch over me as he had so many times before.”
“It’s okay,” I said, smiling as I turned onto my side with my back to him. “Sleep wherever you like; makes no difference to me.” I mentally heard his mind working, I swear. Finally, he stood up. “I’m right next door. All you have to do is beat on the wall over your head and I’ll be here in five seconds.”
“You sure?”
He didn’t catch on that I was teasing; a sign of his exhaustion.
“Goodnight, Jeff,” I whispered, and he quietly let himself out.
After an hour of heated mental conversations, I finally fell back to sleep.
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