Page 54 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

W E MAKE OUR WAY TO the warehouse district with Sabera sitting, plainly visible, in the passenger’s seat.

I have concerns about the young mother’s volatile state of mind, but leaving her behind doesn’t feel like an option, especially as it would leave her alone and vulnerable.

We have enough of a mess without her disappearing a second time around.

So for now, we roll Sabera into our plan, assigning her the role of, well, Sabera. Meanwhile, Roberta is hunkered down in the back, our secret weapon, should we need her. Which leaves me as the driver.

It’s been so long since I’ve operated a motor vehicle, I’m nearly more strung out over navigating late-night traffic than I am over actively seeking out known killers. During brief respites stopped at red lights, however, I continue a discreet inspection of Sabera Ahmadi.

Sitting in the front, the streetlights wash over her features in a continuous stream of illumination. She is definitely battered, the circle of bruises around her throat even more plainly visible.

But now there are other details I notice.

For starters, she smells just fine. As someone who’s literally been passed out drunk in dark alleyways, I’m very familiar with the scent of vagrancy. Basically, a potent combination of sweat, sewage, and desperation.

For another thing, her hair, while jagged from being violently hacked short, doesn’t appear oily or unkempt.

And her hands, now folded on her lap with the steak knife tucked between her fingers, are suspiciously clean. They’ve also gone from agitated trembling to perfectly poised.

From the back seat, Roberta whispers for me to make a right. I fumble with the blinker, turn down a street noticeably lacking in the lighting department. The avenue remains wide but is now even more rutted and potholed than the main Tucson drags.

We head deeper into the darkness, the buildings becoming larger and broader, but also more derelict. Definitely feels like we’re in the right neighborhood.

X factor, I muse. What I’d mentioned to Detective Marc earlier.

Where has Sabera been hiding since bolting from her resort rabbit hole, especially as it seems to have included personal hygiene opportunities as well as access to transportation? And as long as I’m questioning her version of events:

Rafiq and his cousin weren’t just killed during Sabera’s escape. According to Roberta, their skulls were nearly pulverized. Sounds very personal to me. Which maybe reflects Isaad’s emotional state after they kidnapped his wife?

Except how did he end up tortured and killed next? Sabera said she’d assumed Isaad and—stutter stop—were behind her when she fled. Who is stutter stop, and why not simply tell us?

MI6 handler Lilla had mentioned seeing Sabera meeting with a curly-haired, handsome Yank.

If I were the betting type, I’d say curly-haired Yank equals X factor in my world, and stutter stop in Sabera’s.

But again, why the secrecy? Who is Sabera trying to protect, because from what I can tell, there aren’t too many important people in her world left.

I don’t like not knowing things I should know, especially as we roll by another hollow-eyed industrial space, a lone spotlight illuminating shattered windows and graffiti-covered walls.

Roberta delivers more directions. We cruise past where Sabera was originally held, then toward Isaad’s site, a grand tour of crime scenes, complete with yards of yellow tape.

Periodically we come across small clusters of individuals engaged in furtive exchanges.

Not to mention huddled forms tucking into various doorways for a night’s sleep.

Traffic is light. Periodically headlights appear behind me, but none have lingered.

It occurs to me the bare-bones lighting doesn’t just help protect evildoers, it’s also keeping them from seeing the bait.

I rustle around my pants pockets till I find my cell phone, then activate the screen and hand it over to Sabera.

“Pretend to be reading something on it,” I direct. “While holding it close to your face.”

She appears puzzled, then in the next instant, a single nod as she too realizes the issue.

I revisit our route, working a grid, from outer blocks to inner streets, then back out again.

Pass after pass. Headlights appearing in the rearview mirror, only to disappear again. All three of us growing increasingly anxious.

And then.

A pair of lights, nearly pinpricks in the distance, but drawing quickly closer. Large vehicle. Maybe silver or white in color.

This is it. I can feel it. I glance over at Sabera to see if she thinks the same.

Her once glassy gaze is now perfectly clear, her shaky hands rock steady.

“X factor,” I murmur.

“What’s that?”

I clear my throat, declare more loudly, “Showtime.”

We’re off and running.

I HEAD IMMEDIATELY for the relative safety of the main avenue, having to step on the gas as our follower bears down. We can’t afford to be run off the road, meaning I’m pretty quickly at speeds not safe for any driver, let alone one who barely remembers how to hold a steering wheel.

When we finally careen onto the wide, well-lit boulevard, making a hard left with wheels squealing, I’m the one who’s a shaky mess, and I’m definitely not faking it.

This time of night, there are not a ton of cars on the road, but there are enough to provide a buffer. Also, we now have the relative protection of Tucson’s traffic cams, not to mention possible police presence, to help keep violent impulses in check.

Our pursuer drops back, allowing a small sedan to get between us. Trying to convince us they’ve given up, are simply going to let their prey go free?

We’re not that stupid.

Roberta continues providing instructions as we literally head for the hills, making the winding climb up to the compound. Habib and company remain one car behind. But with only a single vehicle between us, I’m confident they’ll see me turn into the compound.

As planned, Daryl has left the massive wrought-iron gates wide open. We roll in, coming to a halt just opposite the main entrance’s heavy, Spanish oak double doors. I have never appreciated their solid thickness and heavy-duty locks more.

Headlights whip past. Some stranger headed home to tuck in for the night, versus what we have planned.

A glow, growing larger. Passing by, but at a much slower speed than normal.

“Go.”

Sabera and I pop out of Aliah’s car. The property is aglow with all of Bart’s fancy landscape lighting, illuminating palm trees, the circular fountain, and the main house in a wash of warmth and splendor.

I have my arm around Sabera’s shoulders, careful not to grip too tight given all her injuries as we hustle across the broad cobblestone drive to the front portico. I make a show of fumbling with the door’s overly ornate, overly complicated bronze lock, as we wait for it…

We don’t see the vehicle, just catch the low purr of an engine as our tail finally eases through the front gate, headlights off. I force myself not to turn around as I push open the massive door and usher Sabera inside.

The SUV halts outside the pool of light. The sound of a door popping open before being carefully shut.

A presence not seen but now felt, watching from the dark.

I step inside, securing the dead bolt with an audible thunk behind me.

Fish hooked.

Now the real adventure begins.

I GUIDE SABERA carefully through the shadowy interior.

Don’t step there. Wait, circle around that, now head straight forward.

We make our way to the kitchen, where the overhead lights are still on, though dimmed.

Just enough visibility to call attention to the space, without making it look like we’re obviously advertising.

Sabera is growing increasingly confused.

“I don’t understand. What are we to do?”

“Sit. Wait. See if our helpers get the job done first.”

“Helpers?”

“It might be best if you didn’t know. Basically, the biggest flaw with our ‘bring the enemy to us’ plan is that we lack some pretty important information about the enemy.

How many? How heavily armed? How well trained?

To hedge our bets, we, umm, decided to use the property and its residents to our greatest advantage. ”

If anything, Sabera appears more bewildered. She’s still gripping her rusty steak knife. More power to her.

“Look, you said there were three other kidnappers, yes?”

She nods.

“Last time, they left two men to watch over their prisoner—you. With any luck, they’ll follow the same approach.

Meaning one man followed us to see where we were going, the two others stayed behind with Aliah.

Though it’s possible,” I allow, “that two followed, one stayed. See, these are the things we can’t predict. ”

Another nod.

“So Daryl—”

“Daryl?”

“Big guy, heart of a lion, soul of a lamb. You’ll like him. He’s already Zahra’s favorite.”

At the mention of Zahra’s name, a spasm crosses Sabera’s face. Longing, anxiety, despair. She’s been separated from her daughter for how long now? And she still has only our word that Zahra’s safe. I don’t blame her for feeling distressed.

I return to the business at hand. “Daryl’s thought was that if we couldn’t predict the number of intruders, then the next best option is to control where they go.

Given the size of this property, that’s a tricky proposition.

So many access points—you have no idea. Meaning they could come from multiple directions, dilute our own limited resources trying to stand guard on multiple fronts.

So we set up strategic booby traps at various ingress points.

And engaged some interesting assistants.

If you hear screaming, don’t worry, that’s a good thing. ”

Now Sabera’s eyes widen. “I don’t understand. Even if someone comes, how does that help? Habib is not going to simply give up. And he does nothing but lie.”