Page 12

REN

Cairo, Egypt

R en sat alone at a table for two in the St. Regis Hotel café, his back to the arched window overlooking the placid Nile.

The view didn’t interest him. Neither did the overly attentive staff.

After texting his boss, Nathan Bishop, that the conference had concluded and he was preparing to deliver the client to his private jet, Ren ordered Ahwah and Molokhia, a traditional Egyptian stew.

While he waited, Ren made his usual to-do list of items to wrap up for the completed job.

When the waiter delivered the porcelain cup of coffee, Ren risked scalding his tongue in his need to caffeinate.

He couldn’t seem to wake up these days. He tried everything—two hours a day in the gym, vitamins, a new diet.

He couldn’t shake his unanswered questions about Sofria and the lingering sense that something was amiss.

He was about to lose his internal (and foolish) battle to investigate when this assignment had come up.

It was short notice, but Ren was grateful for the distraction.

The lingering doubts about Sofria Kirk were sticking to him like tar.

It was Sunday, so Ren was surprised when his phone chimed with a reply to his text.

Nathan: Copy

Ren: Got something for me?

Nathan: Come home and reboot.

Ren: No need. This job was a breeze.

Ren imagined Nathan chuckling. This client was what Twitch, their cybersecurity expert, would call a fuddy-duddy. Nights consisted of political discussions—the reason the prince always requested Ren—a snifter of brandy and bed.

Three dots flashed while Nathan, no doubt, contemplated his reply. Thankfully, his boss skipped the “you’re due for a vacation” message.

Nathan: You need to be back for the party. Then, we can discuss assignments.

Damn, he’d forgotten about the party. Ren was just confirming with Nathan when something caught his eye.

Across the room, at a table near the entrance, a long, tanned leg ending with a black stiletto.

The skirt of her suit was just long enough to be professional.

Her back was to him, black hair secured with a gold cuff in a low ponytail.

She sat with a Middle Eastern man in a crisply tailored suit.

Ren could see from his body language that the man was interested in more than just business.

Ren wasn’t sure why, but this woman had him leaning sideways in his seat to glimpse her profile. The waiter set his meal down, and Ren thanked him with a nod before returning to his perusal.

The woman laughed at something her companion said. Tipped with blood-red nails, her delicate hand reached back and pulled her ponytail over her shoulder. Holding the tip, she brushed the ends of the hair along her jawline.

Was the movement flirtatious? Contemplative? Nervous? Ren wasn’t sure, but he did know one thing: he had seen that motion before. Sofria would do it when she was sitting at her computer thinking.

When he looked up again, the suited man was escorting the woman out of the restaurant. Ren hurried to follow. With a too-forceful grip on the woman’s arm, Ren turned her around and faced a shocked stranger.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else,” Ren apologized.

The older woman stared where he held her arm. In accented English, she said, “Could you let go of me?”

Ren snatched his hand back, holding both up in a surrender gesture. “Again, my apologies.”

The woman took a moment to admire his physique. “Whoever you thought I was, she’s a lucky girl.”

The waiter appeared beside him. “Is everything all right, sir?”

“Yes, I mistook the lady for an old friend.”

Once, on leave in Berlin, Ren swore he saw a Navy buddy who had been killed in action. He had barrelled through the crowded bar and spun the man around, only to be met with the confused stare of a stranger.

Holding onto rational thought like a buoy, Ren reminded himself that people leave. He should be used to it by now. That’s just how it was.

Shaking off the image of the woman, Ren retrieved his bag from under the table, paid for his half-eaten breakfast, and requested a cab to the airport. He really hoped that, along with depression and exhaustion, he wasn’t adding obsession and delusion to his list of ailments.

Fortunately, the Prince and his entourage arrived in the lobby. Out on the sidewalk, Ren helped his client’s permanent security team load the luggage in the tail car; then he strode up to the Bentley.

“A pleasure as always, Leo.” The Prince extended his hand.

Ren took it with a firm shake. “I was happy to see your name when this job came up.”

The Prince waved as if dismissing his cares. “I hadn’t planned on the extra security, but when the American Vice President calls personally to suggest it, I have to listen—more for diplomatic reasons than safety.”

Ren frowned. “Bringing on Bishop Security wasn’t your idea?”

“I know the Americans think they know best, but I assure you our intelligence is quite comprehensive. We saw no cause for concern, but the fellow was insistent. He even mentioned you by name.”

“That’s strange.”

“No, my friend, ‘strange’ would be if your government wanted to reduce my security. This was simply a good excuse to travel with a worthy conversation partner.” The Prince climbed in the car, and Ren closed the door.

When the last diplomatic plate rounded the corner, Ren stared sightlessly at the Nile. He withdrew his phone, opened the notes app, and started a new list:

Things that aren’t adding up:

1. This job

2. The umbrella in the trash

3. Milton’s texts

4. Milton’s death

5. Who is “Casper?”

6. Who is The Ostrich

7. Milton’s house

8. The washed mug

9. Milton’s phone facing out

And, of course, the woman who seemed to be on every list Ren made lately:

10. Sofria Kirk