Surely it wasn’t the man who’d actually inflicted her injuries. Tanner wouldn’t have left him to face certain death. Though the idea wasn’t completely without appeal, she didn’t want to be responsible for his death. Michal, without question, had murder in his eyes.
Her mind whirling with confusion and fear, Michal ushered her into the room. Carlos and the others parted, revealing the man tied to the chair.
For one long moment Ami was unable to speak. He was tall and thin, Libyan maybe. She peered into his dark eyes and saw the fear there.
“This man,” Michal explained, “is the leader of a subversive group who has made more than one attempt on my life. According to witnesses, his people moved into this place shortly before we arrived. Carlos has reason to suspect they have had someone watching for our arrival.” Michal turned to her then. “Now, tell me if this is the man who hurt you and I will make him pay.”
Dead silence fell over the room as all present awaited her response. She thought of Raoul and how he had died to provide an excuse for her stupid attempt at escaping. How could she have ever believed even for a second that she could escape this nightmare? Now this man was to die, too.
She couldn’t do it.
Not even to save her own life.
She shook her head adamantly, ignoring the resulting pain. “No, it wasn’t him.”
The pent-up breath the man exhaled echoed in the otherwise silence.
Carlos looked ready to throttle her…or worse. Michal appeared taken aback and Ami felt certain she had just signed her own death warrant.
“Look again…more carefully,” Michal urged. “Are you certain?”
With no other option, Ami did as he instructed. She looked at the man and surmised from the swelling of his face and the blood leaking from his busted lip that he’d already paid a hefty price for something he hadn’t even done.
“No,” she said firmly, determined not to be responsible for another man’s death. No matter what kind of extremist or terrorist he was, she would not be his judge and executioner. “It’s not him.”
Michal peered deeply into her eyes for what felt like an eternity before he turned to Carlos. “Let him go.”
“What?” Carlos bellowed. “We cannot-”
“Release him,” Michal ordered. His attention shifted to the prisoner. “Tell your people that I am far from finished. I will not forget this transgression. Nor will I overlook another.”
Glowering at both her and Michal, Carlos did as he was ordered, cutting the man free then jerking him to his feet. “Go!” He pushed the man toward the door.
Ami recoiled as he staggered past her, at once relieved and fearful. He collapsed against the door frame and didn’t appear able to go farther. She’d been right. Carlos had already worked him over considerably.
“Get him out of here,” Michal ordered, his patience at an end.
Carlos grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to attention. “What are you waiting for, imbecile? Get out!”
When Carlos would have shoved the prisoner through the door the man twisted, his right hand snagging Carlos’s weapon from his waistband.
Ami’s breath left her in a whoosh and the scene lapsed into slow motion. Displaying surprising strength, the prisoner shouldered Carlos aside and leveled the barrel of the weapon on Ami. “American whore!” he screamed.
Michal dove in front of her.
A blast exploded in the room as Ami hit the floor hard on her backside, sending pain piercing through her.
Another blast splintered the air.
The prisoner dropped the gun and crumpled to the floor. He lay facing her, his sightless eyes unblinking.
She blinked, stunned.
People scrambled around her. Muffled voices. She couldn’t understand…couldn’t make out their words. Could hardly hear at all. She turned to see…
Michal.
He dropped to his knees.
Carlos and Thomas instantly appeared on either side of him.
Ami struggled to her feet, scarcely noticing the detonation of agony that accompanied her every move.
She pushed her way between the men hovered around Michal.
Bright crimson spread across the fabric of the white shirt he wore, the spot widening, plunging toward the center of his chest.
Blood.
He’d been shot.
Nausea roiled in her stomach. The room spun. And then the lights went out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JACK WAITED IMPATIENTLY at a table for two on the terrace outside Café Marly. He didn’t care that the chic French restaurant sat beneath the arcades of the Louvre overlooking the majestic pyramids of steel and glass, or that tourists strolled through the courtyards with properly awed expressions. He only cared that his appointment was late.
The waitress stopped at his table once more to see if he needed anything else, but Jack waved her off. The last thing he needed was more caffeine. Or a flirtatious waitress looking for a roll in the hay with an American businessman. Ordinarily, Jack would have considered that a good thing, but there was nothing ordinary about the situation.
The events of the past twenty-four hours had convinced him beyond a doubt that Ami Donovan was in over her head.
Arad had taken her for medical attention, indicating that he had accepted her story. According to Fran Woodard, who’d stayed behind to monitor the situation, Arad’s men had discovered the planted evidence.
Jack massaged his temples, but produced no relief for the insistent throbbing there.
Preston Fowler was already in Paris and had agreed to meet with Jack for a status briefing. Jack was pretty damned sure he wasn’t going to want to hear what he had to say.
“We’ll have to make this quick,” Fowler said, appearing out of nowhere and snapping Jack back to the here and now. “The American ambassador moved our meeting up so I don’t have much time.” He hefted his portly frame into the delicate chair on the opposite side of the tiny table and scanned the terrace for the waitress.
“Hello to you, too,” Jack rumbled.
Fowler gestured to the waitress and indicated that he would have the same as Jack, a high-octane espresso. Then he settled his irritated gaze on his subordinate.
“Be thankful I was able to fit you in at all,” Fowler said crossly. “My schedule is tight. I have to be back in the States by morning.” He leaned back in his chair, ignoring its creak of protest. “What is it that couldn’t wait until the regularly scheduled briefing?”
Jack pinned him with a gaze he hoped relayed the urgency of the situation. “We have to pull her out.”
Fowler laughed outright, oblivious to the indignant stares cast his way at the outburst. When his amusement died, a mixture of anger and impatience replaced it. “Tell me you didn’t drag me over here for this worn-out tap dance.”
“She was almost made,” Jack said, his own temper flaring. “Arad is far too suspicious of her already.” He shook his head. “This latest setback is only going to increase the risk to her. She won’t be any use to us dead.”
The waitress stopped at their table before Jack could say more. She served Fowler and sashayed away. Jack was forced to wait out Fowler’s preoccupation with the woman’s swaying hips before he could continue.
“You have to let me pull her. I think-”
“You’re thinking,” Fowler cut him off, his attention swinging back to the discussion, “with your dick instead of your brain.”
“She won’t last-”
“And as far as this latest close call goes, the way I hear it, she brought that heat down on herself.”
Jack’s spine stiffened. “Who told you that?” There were only three people besides him who knew what had really gone down.
“Patterson and I go way back,” Fowler said bluntly. “He told me about her little escape attempt.” His glare turned as hard as flint. “Didn’t you make it clear to her what she had to lose?”
Something snapped deep inside Jack. Some boundary that had heretofore kept his emotions in check when it came to his profession. But this time was different. This time it was personal. He hadn’t saved her life two years ago just to watch her die now.