Red Line: CIA Color Code: An Iniquus Action Adventure Romance

by Fiona Quinn

Genres: Women's Fiction; Action & Adventure Romance; Military Romance; Suspense; crime thriller; special forces; romantic action adventure; international romance; travel adventure; CIA; multicultural; The World of Iniquus; Iniquus Security; Morrocco

Synopsis

Will the risk of crossing that red line outweigh the rewards? They’re about to find out…

CIA Color Code Johnna Red’s mission is clear. She must hunt down a terrorist who is carrying out deadly attacks all over the world before the diabolical woman can strike again. Getting distracted by her handsome Delta Force Echo partner is not an option. Maybe in a different life, they could’ve been something. But in this life? Impossible…

Leeland “Nomad” Kesling is used to running DIA missions. Delta Force does it often. What he’s beginning to feel for Red, however, is entirely foreign to him. He accepted his romantic fate long ago. He knows the military life he’s chosen doesn’t leave room for love and family. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting it…and her…

Red and Nomad soon discover the threat they’re chasing is bigger than anyone realized. Determining where the red line is? That’ll be easy. Deciding whether to cross it…well, that will be infinitely more complicated…

Red Line is an Iniquus action and adventure romance that can be read as a standalone. Happily ever after guaranteed. Download today, and remember: better Red than dead.

 

Release date: September 19, 2024

Publisher: Fiona Quinn

Print pages: 350

Sample

Prologue

Hans Klein

 

With the slam of a car door, Hans turned his attention toward the towering window bank. The late afternoon sun did its best to shoot light into the dim reception area, but decades of accumulated city grime veiled the glass, creating a privacy curtain.

Another car door banged shut. The reverberations echoed off the stone facades of the Munich city buildings, most of them empty with “for rent” signs displayed on the stoops.

Two car doors, that was typical.

Hans’s clients usually showed up with some form of security at their heels, especially in this neighborhood.

This had been a suitable locale in Hans’s younger days, vibrant and bustling. But this part of town was now out of fashion. His wife begged him to move somewhere closer to their house or at least to a less run-down area. Somewhere safer. But at seventy years old, the life force necessary to organize such a change had drained away. With forty-five years of collected reference books, equipment, and memories, it was simply easier to stay.

Hans turned to the clock. Six minutes until four.

By the time the client climbed the three flights of stairs, the knock at his office door would be perfectly timed. Respectful, Hans thought as he shifted his weight, placing his hands on the arms of his chair, preparing for the process of standing.

Cracked with dry rot, the red leather of his armchair had peeled away in patches, exposing the tan suede underneath. It was an ugly chair. An uncomfortable chair. The cushions sank under the weight of his arthritic hips, sending bright streaks of pain up Hans’s spine, where it swirled and pressed against his lower back.

Hans refused to get rid of this chair. Even through the pain, there was a sense of familiarity that he liked. It was polished with a patina of sentimentality, a gift from his wife so many decades ago when he’d set up his business conducting artifact appraisals related to gemology. He was not a local jeweler. He held a Ph.D. in conserving and restoring objects containing precious gemstones. His opinions, when it came to authentication, were authoritative and much sought after.

Through this work, Hans had proudly provided a quiet, comfortable life for himself, his wife, and her cats.

A third, then a fourth, door banged outside.

Four doors? That was unusual, Hans thought as he pressed into the rounded arms to push himself up.

With a glance back at the chair, Hans mused that his wife was now equally lumpy and cracked. Equally, she was a pain in his backside.

At the window, Hans peered out. Through squinted eyes, he could make out the silhouettes of five men advancing toward his entrance.

Five? This had never happened before. What could they be bringing for him to look at?

He rubbed his hands with greedy anticipation and waited for their knock.

Hans didn’t know who was mounting the stairs. A stranger with a Slavic accent had called earlier in the morning, saying he needed information about a ring. Hans had rebuffed him, explaining that his role was to work with rare pieces. Pieces, for example, that a museum was interested in having appraised and described. He worked with the private collections of the hyper-wealthy. He’d worked for royals, both European and Asian. Many from the Middle East. Rare artifacts, priceless objects. He didn’t look at family jewelry for insurance purposes. His fee was too pricey for the unexceptional.

Hans didn’t intend to be elitist or dismissive; he’d explained cordially and then offered the names of three honest appraisers who did good work.

When the man on the phone responded, his voice glimmered with amusement. He simply said, “This is a piece that you’ll want to see, Dr. Klein. I’ll be there at four this evening.” They’d set the appointment even though the man had avoided offering a name.

Curiosity had tickled over Hans’s nervous system. A mystery was afoot. Very intriguing. He’d called his wife to tell her not to expect him until late. He’d hung up on her as she complained about his safety. It was always the same from her. Her doomsday fears were without foundation. What did he have that anyone could possibly want? The only thing of value here was the knowledge Hans held between his ears.

The group moved up the steps, their footfalls reverberating in the stairwell. There was no chatter along the way.

With a stir of excitement, Hans pulled the door wide.

Three men, wearing tailored suits with thick-soled black boots, swarmed into the office space.

Hans stuck his head into the hallway, where a fourth man stood at attention just to the side of the door. The fifth man was not to be seen. Hans thought he was probably standing guard at the door downstairs. Towering over Hans’s stooped frame, the hallway man reached for the knob and tugged the door shut, forcing Hans to quickly pull his head back out of the way.

Now, one man stood in the center of the reception area, depositing a sleek, black leather briefcase on the small wooden desk where Hans liked to draft his reports. Hans noticed the handcuff that secured the case to the man’s wrist. Yet another thing that had never happened in Hans’s experience.

His excitement shifted to something wary.

The other two men made themselves welcome, moving throughout the office—into the bathroom, opening the closets, into the laboratory with its specialized equipment—returning to stand like soldiers on the side wall. The shorter one, the one with mean eyes, pronounced, “All clear.”

Only then did the man with the briefcase turn to face Hans. “Dr. Klein?”

“That is correct,” Hans stammered.

The apparent leader nodded without offering his own name. Retrieving a tiny key from his suit pocket, he slid it into the tiny hole in the handcuffs, and with a twist, he released himself from the handle. As he pressed a code into the case’s lock, he said, “I need you to verify the authenticity of a ring. You will create a document, and then we will leave.”

The briefcase opened. There was a thick bundle of banded euros and a ring box made of polished ebony. The leader extracted the box and held it in front of Hans’s nose.

Slowly, the nameless man lifted the hinged lid, exposing a red stone in a golden setting.

Heart pounding, Hans fingered the cord that dangled his glasses on his chest, opened the earpieces, and slid his readers into place on his nose. Hans didn’t need the glasses to know what he was looking at; he was simply buying himself a moment to think.

This was the Fire of the Desert.

Hans reached for the ring, sliding it onto the tip of his pinky finger and bringing it closer for inspection.

There was a forty-million-euro bounty on this ring.

Forty million euros, and here he stood with it wedged onto his pinky finger just above his jagged hangnail.

Hans trembled from head to foot.

“I see you know what this is.”

“I do,” Hans conceded.

The ring wasn’t worth even a tenth of that reward price. In today’s market, at auction, it would garner just over three—yes, maybe, possibly as much as four—million euros simply because it had a romantic mythology and, of course, because of the rarity of the pure scarlet-colored two-carat diamond. The forty-million-euro reward was merely a way to catch the attention of the right kinds of people.

Zayd Ali Kamal, the man who put up the reward, didn’t care about money. Ten million here or fifty million there was unremarkable to him. But to a world filled with treasure hunters? Yes, it was a bounty that would motivate action. Sometimes, by not such nice people.

How had this team of men come upon this ring that had been missing since World War II?

The leader was staring at him; Hans should say something.

“It is the Fire of the Desert, or so it appears.” Yes, Hans told himself, since it had been missing for eighty years, it was much more likely that this was a clever counterfeit than the actual artifact.

Hans had a reputation for precision, for being one of the most knowledgeable in the field, and for integrity. His ethics were everything to him. He would be out of business—done—if he said something untrue. Less of a man. His life’s work would lie in ruins.

Hans felt the beads of sweat gather on his brow and above his lip.

For the first time in his life, Hans was afraid. Deep down in his core terrified.

These men concealed guns in their clothing, he was sure. They came here like this, with their legs spread wide and their arms crossed over their muscled chests, meaning to leave with what they wanted.

What would it mean if Hans did not give them the papers that they required?

Would they shoot him?

Would they … would they beat him? Torture him?

Why had he answered that phone call?

Hans’s glasses steamed in the heat of his distress, obscuring the ring. He tried to thrust it back at the man with the briefcase.

The man didn’t lift his hand to receive it. Instead, with a low, steady voice, he demanded, “Tell me what you know of this ring.”

Hans stumbled backward until the red leather chair, his old friend, caught him at the back of the knee, and he dropped into the seat.

Hans tugged his glasses down his nose with his free hand, letting them fall with a thump against his chest. A test? Probably not. Well, maybe.

Should he lie and make up a story about a ruby? Hans was honest, as a rule. Since he’d been a boy, a lie would heat his face until he turned red and sweaty, and his words would tumble over themselves as he stammered.

No. Lying to these men would be a mistake.

“The diamond was mined in South Africa in the 1920s,” Hans began, his voice just above a whisper. “The coloration is classified as pure scarlet, the rarest of the rare, so red that many thought it was a ruby, but no. At that time, the stone was sold to a prince who was born of the bloodline of not one but three Middle Eastern royal families. He bought it for his betrothed, a very romantic gesture.” The story grounded Hans; he felt better for telling it as if repeating a well-worn children’s tale. His voice no longer quivered and took on a conversational tone. “It was unusual that a royal marriage was based on passion rather than politics. But that was the case here. The prince sought the perfect representation of his love. As the story goes, the prince, declaring his betrothed to be his life’s blood, purchased the pure scarlet diamond, reputed to look like a drop of blood in the light. He had it mounted in a gold filigree setting, offering it to his wife, Haamida, on their wedding night, affirming that each beat of his heart was for her alone.” Hans stopped and licked his lips with a dry tongue.

“Continue.” The leader’s voice was even, but it was a command.

Hans glanced down at the ring still wedged on his pinky and held aloft like it was a lit match that, with any false moves, could burn everything down. “Decades later, during the Second World War, Haamida’s sister was in Morocco. When she became dangerously ill, Haamida went to her. At that point, under the order of the French Vichy government, the Nazis in Casablanca captured Haamida and her sister. The prince went to Morrocco, rescued his wife and sister-in-law through bribery, and the couple returned to their homeland to love each other until a very old age. However, when she was taken prisoner, the Nazis stole Haamida’s ring, and it was not recovered. The last known documentation says that the Fire of the Desert was stored in a salt mine in Berchtesgaden near Adolf Hitler’s retreat.”

“As a whole, the ring has a romantic history.” The leader nodded.

“Yes,” Hans exhaled. Yes, this ring was an object of legend. It was a treasure sought for almost a century with no sign. How had these men found it? Or was this a clever ruse? Hans pulled off his glasses, lifted the ring to eye level, and peered at it.

“A man will go to great lengths to prove his passion to his beloved,” Leader-man said. “In this case, Zayd Ali Kamal wished to find the ring and give it to Haamida’s great-granddaughter, Sireen, on their wedding night. Hence, the high reward was posted for the recovery of the ring. If,” he paused until Hans looked up and held his gaze, “it could be located before the wedding. And the wedding is in three weeks.”

Hans gulped.

“You seem very nervous,” the leader-man said. “And I can understand why. Let me clarify. Our team thinks we’ve found The Fire of the Desert. We came to you to verify that we did. It would be death to each of us if we were to try to hand Zayd Ali Kamal a ring and accept the prize money if we were mistaken. That is where you come into the picture. Our lives are literally in your hands. If you lie about the authenticity because you’re afraid to tell us an answer we don’t want to hear, our lives will be very short.”

Hans noted that this man spoke well but with an odd pattern to his words. Though they were both speaking English as a second language, he understood the essential meaning.

“You need to trust that we are here for the truth. And we must trust that you will perform your work with integrity. Yes?” The leader lifted his brows with the question.

“Always.” Hans had to sit there for a moment to let the man’s words sink in. This was not what he had imagined. When he saw the ring, Hans believed that he was going to die that day, and it would be a brutal exit. But no, this would be fine. They both wanted to act with honor, each for their own reasons. “Okay. Then I get to work.” He slid his hips to the edge of the chair. Holding the ring high with his right hand, he pressed with his left, wobbling a bit as he came to stand.

“And I will go with you,” the leader said. “The ring does not leave my sight.”

“Certainly. I understand.” Hans held out a hand to invite him to enter the lab. “To this day, science does not know what makes a red diamond red,” Hans said as he flipped on lights and moved his stool to the counter. “The chemical composition is the same as a colorless diamond.” After placing the stone on a velvet cloth, he moved to the sink to wash his hands. “Gemologists speculate that the color has something to do with the plastic deformation in the crystals’ lattice structure.” He used a hand dryer instead of a cloth to ensure he had no lint on his fingers. “That, and perhaps, the type of atoms gliding along the structure as it underwent the pressure needed to form. Since there is no scientific understanding of the red diamond phenomenon,” he turned to catch the leader’s gaze, “there is little I can do to verify the red diamond except to ascertain that this was not lab-created and that it conforms to the documentation. I will ensure that it is a singular color with the proper clarity, cut, and carat weight as is listed in my books.”

The leader pressed his lips together with a look of dissatisfaction.

“I can show you this, however.” Hans went to the cupboard to pull out a light source. “Most red diamonds will demonstrate fluorescence in the presence of a long-wave UV light such as this.” He plugged in the lamp. “If you would please turn off the overhead lights.” Standing in the sudden darkness of the windowless lab, Hans flipped the switch, holding the light next to the diamond. “You see? This fluorescence is the first of the tests I need to assure myself that this stone was formed naturally and not lab-grown. I’ll switch to short wave just to check. You see? Lab-grown diamond’s fluorescence is stronger under short waves, which is not the case here. Yes, this is a good first result. Sometimes, the labs try to fool people by irradiating their diamonds, but this does not glow in the dark.” The light snapped back on. Both men stood gazing at the red diamond. “Perfect,” Hans said, “Of course, we will know for sure it’s an actual diamond when I put it in this machine here. It is called a Diamond Tester.” He sent the leader a wry smile. “Not a very creative name, I suppose. But it tells you what job it accomplishes.”

The man pressed his back to the wall and stood motionless and silent as Hans moved methodically through his review, taking notes on his notepad.

Finally, Hans looked up. “Yes, you see,” he tapped on one of his reference books, “my calculations replicate the documentation. On all metrics I can employ, this artifact complies with the description, and I can certify its authenticity with a very high level of certainty.”

“Not a hundred percent certainty?” The leader scowled.

“There is never a hundred percent. A ‘very high level’ is all anyone could offer,” Hans said as he polished the ring and placed it gingerly back in its box, handing it off before he made his way back to take his place behind the desk to compose a report from his notes.

His head bent, Hans felt the leader silently communicate the good results to the team members in his office. The room was suddenly bright with excitement.

No one spoke; no one moved until Hans stood to hand his certification to the leader. After reading it over, the man placed his stack of euros on the desk. Then, after checking a final time that the ring was properly in its box, he tucked the paperwork and his treasure away, shutting the briefcase lid and clicking first the lock and then the handcuff back into place around his wrist.

Wordlessly, the men turned on their heels and filed out of the room, the last one closing the door behind him.

Hans dropped his head into his hands as he reviewed the last hour of his life. So many emotions along a broad spectrum. He would take tomorrow off and rest from this experience, he concluded.

But for now, Hans wanted to share this extraordinary event with someone who would understand. With a grin, Hans lifted the receiver on his phone and swirled his finger into the rotary dial, reaching out to Wajeeb, a man who had been a steadfast friend and counterpart throughout Hans’s professional life. Wajeeb had done the secretive work to stop Syrian conflict relics from reaching the black market, and the two had conferred on such things since the Syrian civil war began. Wajeeb would value a good mystery such as this one.

Answering on the third ring, Wajeeb barely said hello before Hans’s story spilled from his lips. “I was astonished that this ring fit the description perfectly. Wajeeb, I held in my own two hands The Fire—” Mid-sentence, Hans stopped abruptly, “Did you hear that?” He stretched the cord long so he could stand at the window and look for the source of the banging reverberation, unlike the expected car doors slamming shut.

There was another and another in quick succession.

Gripping the phone in a tight fist, Hans cupped his other hand around his eyes as he peered through the dim pane, focusing down on the sidewalk just in time to see the last of the five men fall to the ground.

Hans ducked his head to the side so he would not become a target.

Six bangs. Six shots. Now, silence.

Hans dropped the receiver as he yelled, “Gunshots! There have been gunshots!”

Unthinking, Hans ran toward the door, his body moving in a way he couldn’t have imagined was still possible. Unquestionably, someone had come to rob the team of The Fire of the Desert. His clients were in mortal danger.

Had the gunmen waited for this moment and the papers of authenticity?

Had Hans’s own actions somehow led to this catastrophe?

Clinging to the handrail with both hands, Hans raced to the ground floor, hoping to somehow help the men. He threw open the street door, then froze mid-stride on the stoop as he stared down at the bodies.

The men’s heads were missing chunks of skull.

The handcuff still encircled the leader’s wrist, but the briefcase was gone.

As Hans grabbed at the handrail to steady himself, he looked down the street. There, he saw a woman in a black dress and heels lifting the briefcase and placing it into her car before sliding behind the wheel and driving nonchalantly down the road.

Hans lifted his gaze to the building across the road where three men with rifles in their hands stared down at him. One lifted his gun and was taking aim, the barrel lining up to bring Hans down, too.

The pressure of this scene sat like a boulder on Hans’s chest. It was too heavy, too much. Hans couldn’t find space in his lungs for a breath. Radiant pain shot fire down his left arm, and a greasy sweat stung his eyes.

The colors around him dimmed to gray, then black, as his knees buckled beneath him.

His wife was right, after all, Hans thought as his body collapsed into a heap at the bottom of the stairs. The isolation of his office meant no one would come to help him.