Page 200 of Secrets Beneath the Waves

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. ForGodto 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.