Checkmate

Bingo. A function room crammed with people. She found Allori; she found Prime Minister Razidae and his deputy prime minister, Amar bin Kuwaji—all under the careful eye of a tan and olive green dressed guard. The Kemenis must want the entire government to step aside, or they’d just kill Razidae. Regardless, she doubted Razidae would survive. He was the most significant unifying leader this country had had for generations, and as long as he lived, the people would rally around him. Any Kemeni government would hold only temporary rule.

The others, they’d keep as leverage. As a way to induce Western and European countries to pressure Razidae’s people into stepping aside.

The others.

As if those lives could be summed up so simply. There they were—the two chaperones who’d accompanied the students. The woman Selena had seen in the lobby, but not the man. A handful of diplomats who’d been unlucky enough to choose this day to conduct their business. The glamorous but modest events coordinator. Three young women in green jackets.

And the students.

Terrified, pale…they huddled together against the walls and around the few small round tables available. One girl had her legs crossed so hard Selena was sure she’d wet her pants before she had a chance at a bathroom. Two other girls comforted a third who cried softly, and when they looked across their friend’s bowed shoulders, their expressions turned grim. And there, in the corner—the young man who’d given Selena such an openly appraising look and the girlfriend he’d annoyed, holding each other with a desperate affection.

The hostages had none of the small comforts this opulent room was meant to provide—no water, no finger sandwiches, no veggie plates with exotic dips arranged on expensive glass and silver serving ware. They weren’t being attended, feted, or even being fed the propaganda they’d come to hear. Their lives, in an instant, had turned into terror.

Dammit. It wasn’t right. These were young people; they hadn’t even started their lives. They had nothing to do with Berzhaan’s problems; they had done nothing to offend the Kemenis. They were here to broaden their horizons, to learn acceptance of this very culture. They had not, like Selena, willingly accepted a career that on occasion turned her into a target and at the least kept her in restless countries with high incidents of terrorism. They hadn’t made those choices at all.

Like Selena, pregnant though she might be. Or like Cole. God, she wished he were here. And she realized the sudden irony of it, that she would trust him with her life but not with her heart.

As these young men and women were now counting on Selena.

They just didn’t know it yet.

She wished she could give them some reassurance, some sign…you’re not alone. But it wasn’t time for that…far from it. By the time they knew she was here—working for them, fighting for them—things would probably be over one way or the other.

Selena closed her eyes against the sight of them, fighting a terrible wash of anger. She’d get nowhere with a paring knife and an ice pick if she didn’t use her anger wisely—drawing on it for strength when she needed it, leaving it behind when her thinking had to be crystal-clear. Her entire purpose as an FBI legate was to fight terrorism. It was why she was here.

She’d just never faced it on such a visceral level before.

Surprise. Get over it. Move on.

And that’s exactly what she did. She’d found the hostages; she’d seen that Allori looked as composed as ever and Razidae remained alive. For the moment there was nothing she could do for them. Now she had to find the terrorists.

She didn’t have far to go. The next little peephole showed her just what she was up against. Just who. And as startled as she was to find the American fugitive, Jonas White, in deep discussion with a small grouping of the men sprawled around the room—cleaning weapons, holding weapons, staring fiercely at nothing in particular, and even in a few instances bleeding—her gaze skipped over the aging international player and settled on none other than the man from the lobby. The one who’d stepped from the cover of GQ, handsome and finished and sleek. Dark hair, sharp aquiline lines to his face and a broad-shouldered body made obvious now that he’d discarded his jacket and wore only the silk T-shirt; it followed every plane and long line of muscle, highlighting the elegance of his carriage. And his eyes…they flashed at Jonas White’s words, a dark and simmering glower. Eyes to die for.

Except Selena didn’t intend to.

She did step back a moment, taking a deep breath. Jonas White was one thing. He was a player, a man who liked to wield power and who liked to win—but a man whose most important considerations were his own skin and his own interests. His presence here no doubt represented some last-ditch effort to rescue his faltering influence and rebuild the empire that his adopted daughter, Lynn, had destroyed when she learned the true nature of his activities. And though Jonas was not to be underestimated…

It was the Berzhaani man who worried her. The one who’d been in the lobby…the one who’d probably started this whole mess, killing the guards so his people could storm the building. Unlike Jonas, this Kemeni leader burned with purpose. He’d see this crisis through to the end, and Kemeni interests would come before his own. Selena wouldn’t be surprised if she’d been looking at the reclusive Tafiq Ashurbeyli himself. It would take a man such as this to drive the Kemenis to such risky action when they were in fact close to defeat in the wake of Frank Black’s death and Jonas White’s financial collapse.

What had White told Ashurbeyli? Not the truth—not that he’d been behind Frank Black all along. But somehow he’d tied their fates together.

Just call me fate. Selena smiled grimly in the dimness of the corridor. Because I’m the one you’re about to meet. Together.

Having absorbed the implications of the room’s occupants, she returned to the peephole. She found the door leading to the function room that held the hostages. Guarded, of course. She had no doubt the main exit from that room was guarded, as well, and she’d already seen the interior guard. The hostages had nowhere to go unless she could cause enough diversion to get them out through this corridor. The ceilings were high and original; the heating ducts primitive and usually merely grates between the rooms. The same factors meant there would be little opportunity to beard the terrorists in their chosen den. She had no intention of revealing she’d discovered this passage until she had no choice.

Well, then. Perhaps she’d have to nibble at them from the edges. They might know she was here, but they wouldn’t know about her Athena Academy background. They wouldn’t know she hadn’t run to the darkest, most distant corner of the building to tremble and wait out the crisis.