Page 199 of Secrets Beneath the Waves

I frown at Rourke’s unnecessary commentary. “And if we’re going to stop it, we need to find Oumar.”

Rourke nods.

“Do you have a location on him?”

“I’m not a magician,” Rourke says, frowning, “though I was given possible coordinates outside of Paris. Perfect for holding high-value targets. But we need to get moving. Now. They won’t keep him there long. And if we miss our window of opportunity. . .”

“We?” I ask, as another black sedan pulls into the parking garage.

Graham moves protectively in front of me, but Rourke holds up his hand. “Don’t think for one moment I trust you any more than you trust me, but for now, I’m on your side. I’m also bringing my own security.”

“What’s in all of this for you?” I ask.

“Let’s be clear—this isn’t charity. I’m helping because an arms deal this dirty doesn’t just shift power, it will shatter the entire region. It’s the kind of chaos that will have lasting devastation for decades. But if I stop it?” Rourke lets out a low laugh. “The already established networks won’t see me as the one who ruined their plans—they’ll see me as the one who saved them. And believe me—there’s profit in being the man they owe.”

“Give us a minute,” I say, taking Graham’s arm and walking away from Rourke and his men.

“The clock is ticking,” Rourke says.

I ignore his comment, focusing instead on our footsteps echoing inside the garage.

“I’ll just say it. I don’t trust him,” Graham says once we’re far enough away to keep our conversation private.

I shake my head. “Do we have a choice? It’s too risky involving local authorities, and even if we were to do that, Rourke is right. We don’t have time to cut through all the red tape.”

Graham glances back at Rourke, who’s pacing in front of his car now. “So you want to go in with Rourke as our backup. You heard what Hawke said about him.”

“I don’t completely trust him,” I say, “but if we don’t move now, we could end up losing both Oumar and everything he knows.”

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

[Ransom Countdown: 6 Hours, 36 Minutes remaining]

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 thelong 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 groundkeeps 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.”