Page 79 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)

CHAPTER

NINE

Graham holds up his hand, motioning for me to be quiet.

I hear a faint metallic click again, coming from the front door of the apartment.

My first thought is that it could be Oumar, somehow back from wherever he’s been.

I take a slow step forward as the door creaks open, prepared for anything.

Because while we might be here in an attempt to help Oumar, something tells me that whoever’s about to walk into the apartment, isn’t on Oumar’s side.

The intruder steps into the apartment wearing a hoodie and gloves.

It takes him a moment to realize he’s not alone in the room—until he catches my gaze.

Our eyes hold for a split second and then he turns, yanks the mirror off the wall next to him and slams it onto the ground between us.

Glass shatters as he runs back out the door, but not before I recognize him.

It’s not Oumar. It’s the man from the church.

The shards of glass slow us down, but only for a moment.

Graham runs a few steps ahead of me as I jump over the glass and follow him out of the apartment.

I take the stairs behind them, maneuvering quickly down the narrow staircase to the ground floor.

A moment later, we’re on the street and running after him.

The rain has stopped, but there are still puddles of water on the slick cobblestone.

I manage to keep the man in my sights, but I don’t know this part of the city as well as I know my own quartier .

This area is full of narrow alleys, a maze of streets lined with apartment buildings and shops where it’s easy to slip into the shadows and disappear.

I wonder if that is one of the reasons Oumar chose to live here.

A place where it’s not only possible to blend in, but quickly disappear if needed.

Why didn’t you tell me what was going on, Oumar?

Why didn’t you tell me you were in trouble?

My foot slips on the wet pavement, but I manage to catch my balance and keep running. The man is still a good twenty yards ahead of me. Ten yards ahead of Graham. A woman walks out of an apartment building and I step aside, barely avoiding colliding into her, before continuing after them.

I sprint around the corner—and freeze.

Graham is standing on the sidewalk, chest rising, eyes scanning the empty street ahead. The road forks, one side curling left into the shadow, the other sloping right toward traffic.

We’ve lost him.

“You go that way,” Graham calls out, as he heads right.

I obey immediately, running away from the traffic and down a narrow alley that leads to a courtyard.

My footsteps echo against the pavement as I search the surrounding treelined path for movement.

After another dozen yards I pause, then take a right, through a narrow side street that runs along the river.

I turn the corner, around another building, and suddenly he’s there in front of me.

But before I can react, he grabs me, presses a knife against my throat, and shoves me against the brick wall.

A cat screeches nearby and a car backfires in the distance—but his breath in my ear quickly drowns out everything else.

And all I can feel is the cold blade of the knife against my neck.

I underestimated the man’s blend of street toughness and obvious military training.

A second later, Graham appears.

“Let her go. . .” he says, his hands in the air.

My assailant forces me across the street to where the river runs parallel. “Stay back.”

“Who are you?” Graham asks. “Why did you break into Oumar’s apartment?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“It’s pretty clear we’re looking for the same person,” I say, trying to keep my breathing even as I scramble for a way to deescalate the situation. “How do you know Oumar?”

“You have no idea what you’re getting involved in,” he says, ignoring my question while still pressing the knife against my throat. “This doesn’t involve you, and if you were smart, you’d stay out of it.”

“All we want are answers,” Graham says, taking a step forward. “Put the knife down, and we can talk.”

“I said, stay back?—”

“We saw you at the church,” Graham continues. “We know you put a tracker on me and that you’re looking for Oumar. Maybe we can help.”

“You have no idea what I need.” He shakes his head. “Or who you’re messing with.”

“Actually, we do,” I say, praying I’m on the right track. “We know Oumar’s a valuable asset. He connects things. Connects people. He knows how to get things done no one else can. But if he’s gone, everything comes to a standstill, which is why you need him. Am I right?”

He hesitates before answering, convincing me I’m on the right path. “All you need to know is that the people I work for will go to any lengths to find him. And anyone who tries to get in the way?—”

“What about Mariam?” I ask, still pressing for answers while trying to keep the fear out of my voice. “I know she’s looking for him too. Are you working together?”

“Tell Langley to stay out of this,” the man says, leaning against the railing behind us. “This might not be Kidal, but we will still win.”

The man shoves me forward against the pavement then jumps over the barrier into the water. My hands hit the pavement, but I manage to not completely fall. Graham is immediately beside me.

“Go after him!” I shout.

“It’s too late. We need to get out of here.”

I race to look over the railing and see the man bobbing in the river below us. I hear the sirens and realize for the first time that a small crowd has started forming. I know Graham’s right, but I’m also angry that I didn’t get any information out of him.

Graham grabs my hand, and we slip past the crowd, moments before the police arrive. I struggle to keep up as he leads me through the narrow streets back toward his car, and I realize that the encounter has shaken me more than I want to admit.

By the time we get to the car, my whole body is shaking.

My hand goes automatically to the scar on my side as I slide into the passenger seat.

A part of me is reacting as if what happened to William is happening all over again—the fight, the water, the sirens.

It’s all jammed together in my head, impossible to untangle.

Graham looks at me, concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Except I’m lying, and he knows it. I’m not fine, but I’m also unsure how to deal with the surge of emotion building in my chest.

Graham doesn’t even start the car. He just sits there, looking at me. “Forget about Oumar for a moment. You don’t have to pretend. I’ve worked with enough people to know when they’re in shock. Give yourself some grace.”

“I can’t. He got away. We should have stopped him.”

“I wish we had as well, but we didn’t.” He grabs a tissue from the box in the console, reaches over, and presses it against my neck. “I don’t think it’s enough to need stitches or anything, but he drew blood. You have every right to be shaken. Even in our profession.”

I pull down the visor mirror and stare at the smear of blood on my neck.

I take the tissue from him and wipe it away.

I know he’s right, but this is more than the aftereffects of a standoff.

I want to tell him about William—part of me does anyway.

But the lines between then and now have become blurred.

I try to tell myself that it’s adrenaline.

Just nerves. But something back there dragged up what I’ve been trying to bury for weeks.

I don’t know if it’s the grief, or the guilt, or something else, but I can’t ignore it.

“Sam. . .”

I start to tell him that the only person who ever calls me Sam is my grandfather—Sam Vincent Jordan.

But then stop. Because if I’m honest with myself, I’m glad he’s here with me, even if it means I have to show him a side of me I don’t let people see.

Because right now, I’m more afraid of being alone than being vulnerable.

“The last security officer on our team got attacked and ended up being pushed off a bridge into the water,” I say. “I know this is different, but there’s something about what just happened that brought back a flood of memories.”

“I read the report. I’m sorry.” Graham glances at me. “I understand you were shot that day.”

I shrug off the reminder, already regretting letting down my guard. “It was only a graze. No lasting complications.”

Not with the gunshot anyway. William is another story.

“It’s none of my business, and I’m probably overstepping my bounds, but if you want to talk about what happened, well. . .I’ve been called a good listener once or twice.”

An unexpected flash of anger sweeps through me.

He’s right. My relationship with William isn’t any of his business.

What I want is for this to never have happened.

To never have watched that mob walked toward him, and to not only lose him, but have no idea where he is.

I want to wear that ring on my finger and tell my friends and family that I found someone who I’m going to spend the rest my life with.

Now I’ve lost all of that.

But none of this was Graham’s fault, and no matter how frustrated I might feel, I wasn’t going to take it out on him.

“Every night I go to sleep wondering what I should have done different,” I say finally. “If I would've stayed. If I would've helped him. If I would have insisted he came with us, we might have all escaped.”

“From everything I’ve read about the situation, getting your asset to safety was the right thing to do.”

I shiver, knowing I will need to process what just happened later. Right now, we have bigger problems.

“Do you have any idea what he was talking about?” I ask, changing the subject.

“No, I don’t.”

Tell Langley to stay out of this.

This might not be Kidal, but we will still win.

I shake my head, repeating over and over what he said in my mind in an attempt to understand what he was trying to tell us. It sounded like a threat, but it was more than that.

It was personal. But how is that possible?

“He knows who we work for,” I say.

“Referencing Langley could simply be an assumption that we’re in intelligence, not specifically tied to the CIA,” Graham says.

“I don’t think it was random. He was sending a message. Maybe it wasn’t for us, but it was for someone he knows.”

“A message he hopes we’ll pass on?” Graham asks.

“Maybe. And what about the reference to Kidal? Do you know what that could mean?”

“Not a clue.”

Kidal is an isolated city in the desert region of northern Mali that for decades has held both strategic and symbolic significance in the region. A town that sits near the borders of Algeria and Niger—the perfect location for arms trafficking, militant movement, and smuggling routes.

I glance at Graham, a part of me wondering if he isn’t holding out on me. “You’ve worked in North Africa. What were you doing there?”

Graham frowns and starts the engine. “I pulled a French dual-national out of Mali, an asset extraction that had gone sideways.”

“What about Kidal?”

“Never made it that far north.”

I still don’t know how to make sense of it. If the message—or rather threat—wasn’t meant for us, then who was it for?

“We need to head to the office and talk to Hawke,” Graham says, pulling out of the parking space. “Maybe he’ll know something.”

If we can trust him.

I try to take back the thought, but it’s already taken hold. I trust Hawke, but something is wrong. Whoever that man was, he was sending us a warning.

“I might know who he’s working for,” I say, fighting the conflict in my gut. I’m not a hundred percent sure I believe Graham’s connection to North Africa, but I have to trust someone.

Graham speeds down the narrow street, then turns onto a busier boulevard. “Who?”

“I told you Oumar works for the Koumana Syndicate. His knowledge of the area and smuggling routes has given their network a stark advantage, and General Ke?ta would never let someone else have him. Oumar knows far too many secrets.”

“So your theory is that someone snatched Oumar for those secrets and now one of the guys from the Koumana Syndicate has been sent to find him.”

“It does make sense,” I say.

“But we still don’t know who has him or why they are holding him for ransom if what they want is information.” Graham says, letting out a breath. “Say you’re right and Oumar has been taken because of the information he has. Who are our options?”

My mind immediately switches to the intel I’d been going over before I fell asleep last night.

“Their biggest competition is a Russian arms dealer named Ivan Kozlov. His network is made up mainly of corrupt military officials and local warlords who control a large percentage of the smuggling routes in the Sahel and beyond.”

“If he’s disrupting their supply routes, they would have motivation,” Graham says.

“Exactly. We need to call Hawke and let him know what’s going on?—”

My phone rings and, oddly enough, it’s Hawke.

“We were just about to call you,” I say after answering.

“We have a problem,” Hawke says. “There’s been a breach at the safe house.”