Page 85 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

Fifteen minutes later, with Hawke’s blessing, Graham and I are following the two black sedans out of the city toward a location that, according to Rourke, has been converted into a holding space for high-value targets.

The decision was made to go in with minimal backup—thus avoiding the risk of alerting local authorities.

I stare out the window as the Haussmann facades slowly give way to concrete apartment blocks, suburban housing, and the occasional green space.

Last night, Hawke shared briefly with us about his relationship with Rourke.

How they’d first met twenty years ago when Hawke was deep undercover in Istanbul and double-crossed by someone he trusted.

Outgunned and cornered, Hawke would have died if Rourke hadn’t shown up and intervened.

Rourke had taken out two of the shooters, and managed to get Hawke to safety out of the city.

But that wasn’t all Hawke had told them.

Rourke had made it look like a rescue, but Hawke knew it wasn’t that black and white.

Rourke never did anything without having an agenda.

Whether it was for leverage or intel, he always played the long game—and was only in it for himself.

So even though I’m convinced we’re doing the right thing, knowing that the man who just jumped in to rescue us could also end up being the reason we fail does little to alleviate my anxiety.

I shiver in the passenger seat and pull my jacket closer around me as the road narrows to two lanes.

Suddenly we’re driving through farmland and sleepy French villages, a sharp contrast to the heavily traveled multi-lane roads of Paris.

Despite signs of spring, there is still a chill in the air, along with a light morning mist hovering above the surrounding fields.

Maybe it’s the memories of getting shot I’m unable to shut down, or because a part of me is still dealing with the pain of losing William, but I’m unable to shake my melancholy mood.

Or maybe it’s because twenty-four hours ago I was held at knifepoint.

The truth is that our training might harden and sharpen us, but beneath the discipline and protocols we follow, what we experience still leaves marks.

And the anxiety surrounding today is no different.

I glance at Graham, who seems lost in his own thoughts.

His jaw is clenched, his fingers are tight around the steering wheel, and his lips are pressed into a thin line.

I’ve learned a lot about him over the past thirty-six hours.

How he compartmentalizes stress, stays calm under pressure, and is able to keep his focus in the chaos.

“Do you ever get tired of how dark the world can be?” I ask, breaking the comfortable silence that has settled between us.

Graham nods. “Honestly? Every day.”

“All I ever really wanted was to make the world a better place,” I say, searching for the right words.

“But after everything we’ve seen, it’s hard not to focus on the wreckage people leave behind, instead of the good that I know is still in the world.

I believe nothing takes God by surprise, that ultimately He’s in control, but on days like this, I feel unsteady.

Like the ground keeps shifting beneath me and I realize it won’t take much for everything to collapse. ”

“I used to have a stronger faith,” he says. “But I stopped asking God for help a long time ago. Too many prayers came back unanswered.”

I press my lips together, surprised by the vulnerability in my voice—and the quiet grief I note in his. I’m not the only one who’s been face-to-face with the worst of humanity.

“I get that. I’ve been there. But sometimes I think we have to accept that faith in God isn’t just about getting answers. Not always. Sometimes it’s the choice to believe He’s still working, even in the silence. Even when everything feels broken.”

He looks at me for a moment. “You really believe that?”

“Yeah. I have to.”

“I didn’t stop believing. I just. . . I stopped expecting faith to help. For God to step in and change things.”

“Maybe He’s closer than you think,” I say finally. “Maybe He’s closer than both of us think.”

“Maybe.”

The silence that falls between us feels different now—less heavy, more honest. But I quickly realize there’s no time to continue the conversation.

“We’re pulling off,” Graham says, following the two vehicles as they leave the main road. Gravel crackles beneath our tires when he turns into the narrow lane. “Rourke was right when he said it was isolated.”

The mist has thickened into a fog, covering up the morning sun and leaving an eerie haze over the surrounding farmland. A couple minutes later, Rourke and his men pull off into the grass and park. My nerves tense as I glance behind us. If this is a trap, there’s no way out.

“This is it,” I say, my voice tightening.

“You good?” Graham asks.

I nod, and he kills the engine. The cold bites as I climb out, my breath rising in thin clouds that vanish almost as fast as they form. I scan the area, searching for anything out of place—anything that doesn’t fit—as Rourke walks up to us.

“We go in quiet,” he says. Any hesitation he showed at the gala has vanished. “According to my intel, there are two entry points. The two of you will take the left side access with Rogers.”

One of his men, dressed in black and carrying a sidearm, walks up to us.

“The rest of us will take the main door,” Rourke continues. “No shots unless they fire first.”

There’s no time to second-guess the intel or the choices that brought us here.

My fingers brush against my jacket at the spot where the bullet recently grazed my side—a silent reminder that I’m weaponless, again.

CIA policy keeps us unarmed in the field—officially.

That’s what Rourke’s tactical team is for. I just pray they’re ready.

We move on foot toward the structure ahead of us, the tension in my gut tightening with every step.

Rourke’s men lead the way, all three armed and showing confidence that they’ve done this before.

My boots sink slightly into the damp earth as we cut across the edge of the field, while a stream of sunlight emerges from the clouds, partially illuminating the barnlike building ahead of us.

I’m not sure what the structure was once used for—storing farm equipment, or maybe grain, but today its rusty, weathered, and has clearly been abandoned. No animals. No tools. Just silence.

We’re less than ten yards away when I notice that one of the sliding doors is hanging slightly off track. It’s bent like it’s been forced open, and there are a dozen footprints pressed into the muddy ground.

I exchange a glance with Graham.

Somebody’s here.

Rourke signals for all of us to move to the front of the barn instead of splitting up. The men file rapidly through the doorway ahead of me, except Rogers, who brings up the rear. Inside, a single floodlight buzzes overhead, casting long shadows that move with every gust of wind from the open door.

The stench of gunpowder still hangs in the air as I take in the scene in a single, jarring sweep.

Four dead bodies—all dressed in fatigues—lie crumpled on the ground.

All shot with military precision in the forehead.

A fifth body—a woman—lies with her face turned just enough for me to recognize her.

The woman I’d interviewed in the safe house now lies lifeless, still holding on to whatever secrets she’d died with.

Chills run down my spine when I see Ibrahim—the man who held me at knifepoint—gripping Oumar like a shield and pressing a gun against his head.

The men on Rourke’s team immediately turn their weapons on Ibrahim.

“Let him go,” Rourke shouts. He signals for his men to fan out.

One of them quickly checks to see if any of the gunmen are alive—including the woman—then shakes his head.

I look at Oumar, whose gaze is fixed on the ground, his face bruised and swollen. He clearly wasn’t only kidnapped—he was tortured for the information he has.

“Stay back,” Ibrahim counters. “If you come too close or do anything that makes me uncomfortable, I’ll shoot him.”

I take a step forward, my mind racing to bring sense to the situation. “No, you won’t.”

“Do you really believe that?” Ibrahim yells. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Jordan—” Rourke starts.

“You didn’t kill these men for revenge, did you?” I ask, ignoring the man’s warning.

I know I’m taking a risk, but if Ibrahim wanted Oumar dead, he would have already killed him like everyone else in this room.

“You came here to protect Oumar because you need Oumar alive,” I continue.

Ibrahim’s jaw tenses. “You don’t know what you’re talking about?—”

“Just listen to me. Please,” I say, praying for the words that will convince the man standing in front of me to stand down.

“You need Oumar alive, and so do we, but this situation is about more than one person. I’m assuming you know the impending arms deal that’s on the table goes through in the next twenty-four hours. ”

I wait a moment, taking Ibrahim’s silence as a yes.

“I know who your boss is. General Ke?ta who runs the Koumana Syndicate. I know you’ve been searching for Oumar, because you need him to stop this exchange.

If the exchange does go through,” I continue, “your boss will potentially lose everything. That’s why you had to get Oumar back.

The information he holds makes him an extremely valuable asset, and with new players, new weapons, and new alliances, you need him alive. ”

I can tell from his expression that Ibrahim is surprised at how much of the scenario I’ve worked out. I’m also convinced I’m on the right track.

“She’s right,” Graham says, moving forward. “Stopping this arms deal is in the best interests of everyone in this room, and the only way it will happen is if you let him go.”

“Why would I do that?” Ibrahim asks.

“On top of what I just said. . .Look around you,” I say. “You have four men pointing weapons at you.”

Ibrahim opens his mouth to say something and then hesitates, so I keep talking.

“You need Oumar, but trust me, you need me as well if you want to stop this. So I’m going to offer you a one-time deal. Give us Oumar, and as soon as I’m done debriefing him, I’ll let you walk away. I give you my word.”

I’ve thrown him off now. I can see it in his eyes. This is the deal he wasn’t expecting, but he knows what I’m saying is true. Knows that he needs me.

“You have to look at the bigger picture,” I continue, needing to convince him. “You can tell your boss this isn’t about loyalty anymore, it’s about survival. And not just about your survival, but the entire Koumana Syndicate you work with.”

I drop my hands to my side but keep my gaze on him.

Now it’s up to him to make the right decision.

I start counting seconds in my head, not sure what direction to go if this doesn’t work.

No one moves. No one says anything. At thirty seconds I’m starting to doubt my plan.

At forty seconds, Ibrahim drops his weapon to his side then takes a step back.

“You made the right choice,” I say.

“Did I?”

I catch his gaze, making certain he doesn’t see anything but confidence in my expression as I speak. “I know these men you took down—the ones who kidnapped Oumar—are with the Russians, but the woman claiming to be Mariam?”

“She was sent to help me find Oumar. They killed her in the crossfire.”

“So she didn’t find Mariam,” I say.

Ibrahim shakes his head.

“Have your men guard him for now,” I say, praying that Rourke doesn’t do something stupid. “And then when I’m done here, you’ll let him go.”

Ibrahim lets out a sharp breath as he walks toward me, then stops close enough that I smell his sour breath. “I’m holding you to your word. Because if this arms deal goes through, my world isn’t the only one that burns.”