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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

T he anguish on Callan’s face broke something inside Alyssa. She didn’t think about what she was doing as she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his waist. “You’re going to figure it out.”

He pulled her close and hung on as if her presence were his only hope. “I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t imagine having survived this day without you.”

His words were a balm, calming her anxiety. She’d felt like a third wheel ever since she’d shown up at the hospital. She’d felt like she should have kept her distance.

But he hadn’t seen it that way.

He hadn’t told her about Peri, but as he’d talked, she’d realized that was more about him than about her. He was ashamed, not of his little girl, but of how she’d come to be, and how he was handling fatherhood.

She wondered how long he’d have waited to tell her if she hadn’t gone to the hospital. She wanted to confront him, but he had enough on his plate. And really, he didn’t owe Alyssa anything. They were barely friends.

At least that was what she told herself as they hugged in the silent kitchen. Though it should have started to feel awkward, it didn’t.

Until the hug went from comforting to friendly to something else, something she was afraid to define.

He loosened his hold, and she backed away and looked up.

He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, the slight touch sending prickles of awareness over her skin. His hand settled on her cheek, and he leaned closer, holding her eye contact as if waiting.

Her thoughts were too muddled to think straight, too muddled to catch up.

He pressed the lightest kiss to her lips.

It wasn’t their first kiss, the shocking one at the restaurant with Charles as their audience.

It wasn’t all the kisses between then and now, designed to fool their observers.

It wasn’t that quick peck he’d given her in the garden.

This wasn’t Caleb, computer hardware salesman.

This was Callan, the man she’d secretly dreamed about for a decade.

She didn’t think, just slid her hands behind his head and pulled him closer, wanting more of him.

The world narrowed to that house, that kitchen, that spot, until nothing else mattered but his lips touching hers, his fingers lacing into her hair. His hand on her back, holding her close.

His warmth. His breath. His scent. His everything.

This man who’d done so much to protect her. Who’d put himself in danger to keep her safe. Who’d confessed he’d had a crush on her before and, if his touch were to be believed, whose crush had morphed to something bigger and more powerful than she’d ever imagined.

Her attraction to him expanded, exploded. She cared about Callan. More importantly, she trusted him. She’d never thought she could, but she did.

He ended the kiss, crushing her to his chest.

His racing heart thumped against her ear. A groan started low in his belly, escaping on an exhale.

She wasn’t sure what to say. Of all the boyfriends in her past, none of them had ever made her feel anything close to this. Callan wasn’t unsuitable. He wasn’t controlling. He wasn’t slow or inept. He was everything she’d ever wanted.

It was glorious.

It was…terrifying.

Because during the kiss, maybe over the previous few days, Callan had slowly pulled her heart nearer. Now it was his. He’d captured it. The question was, what was he going to do with it?

“Alyssa.” His voice was low and rumbly, sending shivers over her.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

The shivers turned cold. She stepped back. “Okay.”

“Don’t. I don’t… It’s not that I didn’t want to or didn’t enjoy it.” His arms dropped to his sides. “It’s just…I have Peri. She has to be my priority. I can’t get sidetracked until I figure things out with her.”

“Right. No. I get it,” she lied.

She didn’t get it at all. Couldn’t a man have a daughter and a girlfriend? Didn’t people do that?

They did, and he could. He just didn’t want to make the effort. Not with her.

She was a fool for thinking…anything.

This was why she chose unsuitable men. When they let her down—and they always let her down—it didn’t hurt.

This hurt. This was excruciating.

She returned to the table and pulled her laptop close. “I have some updates.”

“We should talk about?—”

“Ghazi. We need to focus on him.”

Anything besides the fact that she’d relinquished her heart. Callan had held it for approximately five seconds before crushing it to pieces.

That was her reward for letting it go.

She lifted her lips in what she hoped passed for a smile. “Don’t you want to know what I’ve learned? We’re running out of time.”

“Alyssa.”

She ignored the emotion in his voice. “Ghazi wants the zero-day exploit on a thumb drive by Sunday at noon, and he expects?—”

“Please, let’s… Wait. You talked to him?”

“He called to check on my progress. He moved up the timeline. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just told him I’d do my best.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Your father had a heart attack. You were a little busy. The point is, he wants it Sunday, and he expects me to deliver it in person so he can make sure that it works. He told me he’d drive up here but didn’t say exactly where he wanted to meet. I’ve worked out a plan, in case it comes to that. I’m going to build something that looks like it works but doesn’t, just in case we need it.”

Callan slid into the chair beside her. “It’s not going to come to that. We can’t let it. What did you learn about the woman in the photograph?”

“Michael figured out her name, which was good because I’d hit a dead-end. It’s one thing to search for a person, but without a picture or a name, I was afraid we’d be relegated to searching through old yearbook photos. That didn’t sound fun to me.” Alyssa was babbling. She needed to pull herself together. “Michael has a contact with Ghazi’s family, a half sister. He learned that Ghazi had a girlfriend when he was at university in Kirkuk. Her name was Fatemeh. There were only a couple of people with that name who were at university when he was. I found one who sort of resembled the woman you’d described.”

“You sent me her photo.”

Right. She’d forgotten that. “Anyway, her name was Fatemeh Ebrahimi. She was a medical student at the University of Kirkuk. According to Michael’s source, they dated for a couple of years and were talking about getting married.”

Callan nodded for her to continue.

“Ebrahimi was killed in the bombing of a military outpost near her apartment.”

“Collateral damage.” Callan laced his fingers together on the table. “Anything else?”

“After her death, Ghazi quit school and disappeared. Nobody knows for sure where he went or what he did during that time. What we know is that when he was in school, he was a devout Muslim, or at least he did the things a devout Muslim would do. He was faithful to attend mosque and take part in the prayers, that sort of thing.”

“And after her death?”

“It gets fuzzy. We have nothing on him for years. Then his face started popping up in photographs of other people being surveilled by the Agency. Once he was on the Agency’s radar, they kept their eyes on him. He did go to the mosque and take part in the prayers. But Michael believes—and he’s had interactions with him—that Ghazi lost his faith after college, though he’d never known why until now.”

“We don’t know for sure that the girlfriend’s death changed anything. Maybe he was always exactly the man he is now and just used her death as an excuse to become a killer.”

“Maybe.” Born a psychopath? Wasn’t that a pleasant thought. “The point is, whatever the catalyst, he lost his faith—if he ever had any—and became a chameleon. There are photos of him attending synagogue, kippah and all. In Germany last fall, he insinuated himself at a Christian mission.”

“That tracks with the Agency’s dossier.”

“Until today, Michael said he’d thought Ghazi’s only goal was money, a mercenary willing to betray anyone or anything to increase his own net worth. Michael never believed Ghazi cared about anybody. Not his family. Not friends. Not faith. That his only motivation has been amassing wealth.”

Callan leaned toward her, eyebrows hiking. “Until today?”

“The photograph you saw paints a different picture, don’t you think? Ghazi carries it with him, maybe looks at it every day. Because he loved her so much?”

“Or to remind himself of his motivation. Vengeance.” Callan stood and disappeared into the other room, returning a moment later with his laptop.

He opened it and started typing. “If it’s vengeance, then against whom? Who was responsible for that bombing?”

“I assumed us. The US.”

“In the Iraq War, we were just one of the nations in the coalition of forces.”

“The biggest, though. Far and away.”

“True. Still, it could’ve been…” His voice trailed.

She slid her own laptop closer and searched. There weren’t many details about bombing operations available on public websites. “Let me make a call.”

He glanced over her head, and she twisted, catching sight of a clock mounted above the door behind her. It was after ten.

He said, “It’s morning in Indonesia. They’re probably?—”

“I wasn’t going to call Michael. My dad could get the information for us. I don’t really want to tell him what’s going on, but… What?”

Callan’s brows had lowered. “I’m not sure that’s a great idea.”

“Why?”

“This is all classified. We shouldn’t bring your father into it.”

“My father could’ve run the Agency if he’d wanted to.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you saying you don’t trust him?”

“I’m not saying… I’m saying we have to keep the circle small. I can get the answer. I have other connections I can trust.”

Meaning he didn’t trust her father.

Good to know.

She supposed she was lucky he’d deigned to trust her.

She was being unfair, but whatever. He’d started it when he’d confessed to old feelings, then kissed her, then rejected her.

She didn’t owe him squat.

“Fine.” She pushed back in her chair and stood. “I’m going to bed.”

“Wait!” He lurched to his feet. “I think we should talk.”

“Nothing to talk about. I’ll see you in the morning.” She swiveled and headed for the door.

“Paris, please can we just?—?”

“No.” She turned to face him. “My name is not Paris. Good night.”