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“A consular official and the embassy doctor will visit the family tomorrow to examine Klara, bring her up to date on her vaccinations and address any health problems she may have. They also hope to collect a DNA sample from her—and to take photographs.”
Photographs?
“Would . . . Would I be able to see the photos?”
Erik chuckled. “My dear, that’s the reason we’re taking them.”
“Thank you!” Laura hadn’t even dared to hope for this.
“You should know that Safiya claims to be Yasmina’s—that is to say Klara’s—biological mother. She says your baby was stillborn and was taken from you to be buried. Al-Nassar’s younger brother, who is now Safiya’s guardian, backs up her story, though we know he was nowhere near the compound when Klara was born.”
Erik was still talking—something about DNA being essential for her case—but Laura barely heard him, his words drowned out by the thrumming of her pulse.
Was it possible Safiya was telling the truth? Could Laura still be so confused about what happened that night that she didn’t realize her baby had died? Could the baby she’d been forced to bring into the world lie buried in the dirt in Afghanistan?
No.
No!
“Safiya is lying. Klara is
my
child. She was born alive. I saw the blanket moving in Safiya’s arms. I heard her cry.”
It was that tiny cry that had cut through Laura’s shock and trauma and had made her realize, at least for a moment, what had just happened.
“That’s why we want DNA. We want to be able to prove in court that she’s your biological daughter. The Pakistani representative who met with the family said she did not resemble Safiya at all, but had lighter hair than Safiya’s other children and blue eyes. But that alone won’t be proof.”
Lighter hair. Blue eyes.
It was the first description Laura had gotten of her daughter.
Somehow, those few words made Klara more real to her, heightening her anxiety, sharpening her regret.
I am so sorry, Klara!
Laura’s stomach knotted. She looked up to find Javier watching her, a worried frown on his face. “I know you’ll do your best. Please give the consular officials and doctor in Pakistan my thanks.”
“I will.” Erik paused. “We’re doing all we can, Laura. I wish I could tell you that we’ll get her back, but I ca
“We will get her back. We must.”
Laura refused to consider any other possibility.
CHAPTER
23
LAURA WAS QUIET and subdued at breakfast, and Javier knew she was worried about her daughter. He couldn’t blame her. She’d shared her news with him—some of it good, some of it bad—and he’d realized that the chances of her getting her little girl back through official cha
“Why don’t you bring in the U.S. State Department?” he’d asked as they’d gone back to bed. “They’ve got a lot more international muscle.”
“They’ve got more enemies, too. Besides, if I do that, it won’t be long before someone in the media picks it up, and the coverage will make it harder to free her. She’ll be a prized pawn. It’s better to keep it quiet, work behind the scenes. Also, I’m not ready for the whole world to know what I did.”
He’d taken her hand. “Laura, you didn’t
do
anything.”
“Exactly,” she’d said, turning out the lights.
If he hadn’t just sworn to the commander that he’d kept OPSEC intact, he might have told her right then how he, as the man in command of the squad who’d rescued her, saw what had happened that night. Instead, he’d kept his mouth shut.
When she went into her office for the Monday morning I-Team meeting, he went for his morning run, leaving her with Childers again. Outside, the wind was biting cold, snow in the forecast. He ran hard, his leg giving him less grief. On the way back, he stopped at a grocery store to grab some food and other supplies.
He was standing in the vegetable aisle when he got the feeling he was being watched. He glanced to his left and saw a white guy—brown hair, brown eyes, close to six feet, maybe two-fifteen—staring straight at him. The man looked quickly away, smiling, one hand in his pocket.
Was he carrying?
Javier couldn’t be sure. He walked down a few random aisles just to make sure he was truly being followed. The man stuck with him.
What the hell?
He carried his basket to the express checkout lane and picked up a tabloid, pretending to give a shit about celebrity baby bumps. He glanced over the top of the magazine to find the
hijo e puta
standing in the next lane, still watching him. There was something off about him, something odd. Javier set the magazine back, drew out his wallet and his cell, and sent McBride a quick text.
Being followed. @ Grocery on 20th & Chestnut.
He had no idea what this guy wanted or whether he was co
He got an immediate reply.
Walk S. on Chestnut to 19th. Turn left. Units en route.
Wanting the bastard to believe that Javier wasn’t on to him, he made conversation with the cashier, a friendly woman with sandy brown hair and brown eyes. He paid, picked up his bags, and headed out the door, using the mountains in the west to orient himself. He turned left, heading south. He didn’t have to look behind him to know the guy had followed.
What the hell did the bastard want with Javier?
Spare change? A date?
Sorry,
cabrón
. Can’t help you either way.
Javier reached 19th Street and turned left, no sign of the cops. They’d be ru
And Javier had had enough.
He turned—and found himself staring at the working end of what looked like a toy replica of an M1911, its tip fluorescent orange to distinguish it from the real thing. “What the—”
A smile on his face, the man fired.
BAM! BAM!
Javier felt searing pain as a very real round creased his rib cage. “What the fuck?”
The weapon was real.
He dropped to the concrete and rolled, drawing his concealed SIG. “Drop it!”
The man laughed, smiling as he aimed at Javier again.
Javier took him out with a double tap—two rounds, center mass.
He stared at Javier, fear in his eyes, a look of shock on his face, then fell to the ground. Javier didn’t have to check his pulse to know he was dead.
Then Javier heard the sound of ru
¡Puñeta!
Four cops approached, weapons drawn.
“On your knees! Hands above your head!” one of them shouted.
And Javier realized they were talking to him. He’d been in this situation—walking up on a shoot-out, unable to tell who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. It was better to comply and explain later than get shot again.
He had just dropped to his knees when an unmarked vehicle tore around the corner and drew to a stop at the curb.