Page 74 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)

CHAPTER

FOUR

“We need to leave,” I say, reaching for Mariam’s arm. “Stay close to me.”

I guide her toward the aisle, as if we’d just spent the last few minutes praying. As if there isn’t an armed man twenty feet away from us.

“What’s going on?” Mariam whispers.

I can hear the panic in her voice and see the doubt in her eyes as we head toward the entrance. Past the line of pews, glass windows, and golden statues glowing beneath overhead lights. It’s all I can do to not only keep my steps slow and even, but not look back.

“I think you were followed here, and I don’t want to take any chances.”

“The man in black? Is that who you’re talking about?”

I nod. “I need to get you somewhere safe.”

My arm is looped around hers as I guide her forward, but she’s still shaking. I know she’s questioning everything that’s going on. She has no reason to trust me beyond Oumar’s word, but if we want to get her safely out of here, she’s going to have to do what I say.

Once we’re outside, I start heading down the busy street in the direction Graham instructed me, keeping my eyes open for the man who’d been inside, or anyone else who looks out of place.

As far as I can tell, we’re not being followed, but I can’t be sure.

Tourists and locals pass us on the sidewalk.

Cars race by on the street. Darkness has settled in by now, making it easy for someone who doesn’t want to be seen to stay hidden in the shadows.

“Do you see him?” she asks.

“No, but that doesn’t mean he’s not nearby.”

A minute later, I see Graham’s car, and we quickly slip into the back seat.

“Who are you?” She’s crying now, and her voice is barely above a whisper. “You have to be more than just business acquaintances of Oumar.”

“I help him mainly with translations,” I say, as Graham pulls into traffic. “My partner, our driver, works with security details for companies.”

It was all at least partially true.

“Is that why he thought you could help me? Because you deal with security issues?” Mariam asks.

“Probably,” I say. “I have questions. Has he seemed stressed lately? Worried his life is in danger?”

Something had to have happened for Oumar to have given her my number.

“If he was, he didn’t tell me. He’s been busy lately. Distracted. But why kidnap him for ransom?” She stares out the window as we drive past cafés and stores, her foot tapping nervously against the floorboard. “Where are we going?”

“We need to take you somewhere safe, until we can figure out what’s going on.”

“I don’t even know you.”

The panic in her voice is back.

“You trust Oumar?” I ask her.

She nods.

“He trusts us. Let us help you. That’s what he wanted us to do. That’s why he gave you my number.”

“Okay,” she finally answers.

I can feel the darkness pressing in around us as Graham speeds down the wide, tree-lined avenue.

A motorcycle darts around us, and someone’s horn blasts, but my mind is focused on the situation.

I’m not sure what’s going on, and I hate being at a disadvantage.

I have no idea who that was at the church, who might have taken Oumar, or even why they would want to take him.

I have plenty of questions, and I’m hoping Mariam will be able to give me answers.

“We’re being followed,” Graham says, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“How is that possible?” I look behind us. “Are you sure?”

“A silver Peugeot. Two cars back. The left headlight is brighter.”

I spot the car weaving in traffic behind us as we head toward the Arc de Triomphe. I clutch the edge of the seat as Graham tries to shake the other car. Narrow streets and heavy traffic are reasons most people tend to prefer riding the metro to driving, and being followed only adds to the chaos.

“What do they want?” Marion asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

It’s the same question I’m asking myself.

It has to be related to Oumar’s disappearance and apparent kidnapping, but we simply don’t have enough information at this point.

There are too many unknowns in the equation, including the identity of the person following us.

But there’s something else that’s bothering me.

Graham is trained in how to evade someone following him.

Keeping up with our vehicle in the congested traffic should be almost impossible.

Unless Mariam is being tracked.

I turn to her. “I need you to turn off your phone.”

“You think they’re tracking me?”

“I think it’s a very real possibility.”

She fumbles for her purse, pulls her phone out, then turns it off.

“There’s a Faraday bag behind my seat,” Graham says.

I pull it out of the pocket and motion for her to drop her phone into the bag.

“What’s a Faraday bag?” she asks.

“Just an extra precaution. It blocks all incoming and outgoing signals, ensuring they can’t track you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, crying again. “I tried to be careful. Tried to make sure I wasn’t being followed.”

“This isn’t your fault,” I say, trying to reassure her.

“I think I’ve lost them for now,” Graham says, “but we might still have a problem.”

He drives a few more minutes before pulling off onto a narrow street and jumping out of the car.

I tell Mariam to stay where she is, then get out as well. “What’s going on?”

“It might not be Mariam they’re tracking.” Graham rips off his jacket. “I had an encounter with that armed man at the church.”

“What happened?”

“He came at me, tried to throw me against the wall, either to scare me or question me. I don’t think he was expecting me to fight back quite so hard, but I think it’s possible he planted a tracker on me in the struggle. He ended up running out of the church, and I lost him.”

I glance at the car. “You think this was some kind of setup?”

“I don’t know what’s going on, but we can’t take any chances. I need you to pat me down.”

I hesitate for a moment at the request. “Pat you down?”

“If he managed to put a tracker on me, we’re not safe.”

I nod, then move behind him and start with the collar of his T-shirt at the back of his neck, looking for a tracker while he searches his jacket.

“Nothing yet,” I say, slowly working my way down to his waist.

Once I’m done, he turns around and holds his hands up, waiting for me to keep searching.

I’m not sure why his nearness makes me feel so uncomfortable, but I can’t focus on the awkwardness.

I run my fingers down his sides, then across his collar.

I can see the tension in his jawline, but I’m sure for him, his unease is about not knowing who the enemy is.

And not knowing where the enemy is.

I feel something hard and stop along the seam of his shirt near his shoulder.

“Hold on. . .” I shine the light of my phone on him, then pull off a tiny metal disc with sticky backing, frowning before dropping it to the ground and stomping on it. We’ll need to keep it as evidence, but I also need to make sure it can no longer track us.

“We need to get out of here,” Graham says. “They’ll still be able to trace its last location.”

My questions only increase as I jump into the car and put on my seat belt while Graham backs up.

“What’s going on?” Mariam asks.

“The man at the church managed to plant a tracker on Graham,” I say.

She shakes her head. “How’s that possible?”

“I don’t know, but they shouldn’t be able to track us now,” Graham says. “I’m going to drive around a bit longer, just to make sure we’ve lost them, and then we’ll head to the safe house.”

“Why follow me?” Mariam asks. “They’ve already made their demands.”

I shrug. “I don’t know, but that’s what we’re going to figure out.”

Forty minutes later, we get to the safe house.

The small, one-bedroom apartment rented by the CIA is nondescript and furnished with only the basics.

A couch and a few chairs in the living room, a separate kitchen and dining area often used for interviews, a bathroom, and one bedroom.

There are no pictures on the wall. Nothing homey at all, but that isn’t the purpose of the space.

Security has been prioritized with upgraded locks, reinforced doors and windows, a security system, and cameras.

Lizzie is already there and immediately pulls out a small handheld device.

“You’re all clear,” she says after scanning the three of us to make sure we didn’t miss a tracker.

“We need to ask you some questions,” I say to Mariam.

“Can I use the restroom first?” She holds up her hands that are still shaking. “I just need a moment to pull myself together.”

“Of course, but first. . .” I grasp the Faraday bag with her phone in it. “Lizzie is our tech guru. I’d like her to look at the ransom video. See if she can find any clues that might link us to whoever has Oumar.”

Mariam nods. “Of course. Anything you need. The code to get into the phone is 3877.”

I hand Lizzie the bag as soon as Mariam shuts the bathroom door.

“Anything else you need from me?” Lizzie asks.

I nod, already having made a mental list. “There’s also the tracker I found on Graham in the bag. I need you to see if it’s possible to trace it back to the source, and I need you to authenticate the ransom video.”

“Do you have reason to think it’s a fake?” she asks.

“No, but I don’t want to assume anything at this point. Try to pull any clues from it that might tell us where he is.”

Lizzie nods. “I’ll get to work on it right away.”

Graham glances down the hallway as Lizzie heads to the living room, where she’s already set up. “Mariam seems scared, but cooperative at the same time.”

“I don’t think she feels like she has a choice not to trust us.”

“Do you think she’s who she says she is?” he asks.

I hesitate before answering. “I’m not sure yet. Oumar has been my asset for over a year, and nothing she’s said so far raises a red flag, but he never talked about her much, and I never met her.”

“What are you thinking?” Graham asks.

“Just that we need to move forward cautiously. I also need you to verify her identity and double-check all the information she gives us.”

“Agreed.” Lizzie nods. “Graham and I can set up in the living room and give you the dining room.”

I wish I had more answers, but this was our job. To sort through the noise and find out the truth.

“I did manage to get a photo of the man at the church,” Graham continues. “Hopefully it will allow us to identify him.”

“And the license plate of the car that was following you?” Lizzie asks.

Graham shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

I’m staring at a smudge of dirt on the wall while my mind races from one question to the next, highlighting holes in the information we have and organizing in mental boxes what I need to ask Mariam. It’s how my mind works. Organized clutter my mom used to call it.

“What are you thinking?” Graham asks, turning to me.

“As I’ve been playing all the scenarios in my mind, I can’t help but wonder if it’s possible that this has nothing to do with Oumar. Maybe instead it’s some kind of vendetta against Mariam’s father?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Graham says, “but if that was true, why take Oumar? Why not take Mariam?”

“That’s a valid point, and one I don’t have an answer to.”

I try to swallow my frustration, realizing I simply don’t have enough information to even make an educated guess. I glance down the hall where Mariam is and exhale slowly, already shifting into operational mode.

That’s all about to change.