Strike Zone: Hawk Elite Security, #3

Other books by Beth Rhodes

Love Beyond Reason Series

Letters From Home

Outside the Lines

Hawk Elite Security Series

Strike Back

Strike Fear

Strike Zone

Strike Force

Novellas

For Love or Duty

The Perfect Confidence

Acknowledgements

THIS IS THE LAST BOOK in this series that I can claim was written ‘a long time ago’ and the proof is in the pudding! Edits, rewrites, critiques...it took a village to make this book happen. So I send a thank you out, first, to my writing group at Passionate Critters. You all make this journey worth taking! Your support and encouragement mean the world to me. My writing partners in crime, Cindy Skaggs and Jennie Marts, who help me toe the line and get stuff done.

To all the editors: especially Jessa Slade at Red Circle Ink. You’ve become an invaluable asset to my writing process. You don’t just comment carelessly, but you a teach me how to see the story differently and make it better. Arran McNicol at Editing 720 has an amazing eye for detail and polish this manuscript—almost to perfection. *All mistakes are my own!

As with all my books, thanks go out to Elaina Lee at For the Muse Design for the cover. Your work is amazing!

Last, but not least, I must acknowledge my husband, family, and God. Matt loves me and all my great ideas! He knows when I need to get out and get work done. He understands what it means to put this book together better than any other normal person. He’s adjusted his life to my needs and helps wrangle the kids when the deadline approaches. He’s a morale booster, my moral support, and my biggest fan—even though he hasn’t read a single book I wrote.

Thank God for Matt. And thank God for all the good ideas.

Dedication

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED to all you crazy, celibate people. I know you’re out there. I know the struggle to remain so in the face of love, passion, and all that good stuff is real.

Brussels

WHEN THE SECURITY CONFERENCE in Belgium ended, Emily Rogers couldn’t wait to get out of her heeled boots. She was a sharpshooter, damn it, not some stupid-ass public relations puppet. But her boss had insisted that her being there would be good for the agency.

Fine. She would bat her eyelashes and make nice with the other agencies convening.

And then she would return to her real world, one that included guns and assignments. The sight of her only friend coming toward her reminded her she wasn’t being completely honest, and she smiled. College hadn’t been great for Emily except for one thing.

Sandra French. She’d clung to the friendship, insisting Emily had what it took to be her best friend—forever. So, after avoiding the dark-haired crazy for three months, Emily had been caught in the science lab with Sandra during a tornado. After-hours terror.

The flighty BFF type had shown she was made of sterner stuff. She’d taken charge and saved their lives when Emily had been paralyzed by the terror of those loud winds, the train wreck screaming toward them.

There you are! Sandra rushed forward, her hands loaded down with shopping bags. You missed the best time this afternoon. Tim and I went to that little antique shop across town, and guess what I found?

A teapot?

Sandra hugged her and looped her arm through Emily’s as they continued toward the hotel. Yes, she sang, and lifted her bag. And two cups and a saucer. Shopkeeper said one of the saucers broke. I snatched up the set anyway.

Well, I’m glad you had fun, but I am ready for dinner and bed.

Oh, no. You can’t. Tim and I want to take you out. You’ve been working so hard. Sandra pouted a little. Please. Our last night in Belgium and then we have to go back to the consulate in Paris. And who knows when we will see you again.

Emily rolled her eyes. Fine, but I have to get to bed early. My flight is at five a.m.

There wouldn’t have been a better chance to meet, not with Emily’s schedule like it was, busy and treacherous. Lately it seemed like there was always a conflict, always someone to rescue or someone to stop.

She never questioned her orders...

She knew if that ever happened it would be time to retire.

Questioning orders put lives at stake, including her own.

Hey. Sandra gently shook her arm, smiling up into her face. I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes, okay?

Emily nodded. Sounds good.

Don’t lie down, her friend insisted with a laugh.

I won’t. Promise. Emily walked backward and, with a small wave, turned to her hallway on the north side of the building while Sandra headed south to meet Tim. Emily stifled a yawn as she pulled her key card from her pocket and pressed the button to the second floor.

Two doors down, in a room that overlooked the pool, Emily finally kicked off her shoes, muttering to herself about ridiculous impressions. She’d made impressions, all right. On every male body at the conference who’d had to looked her up and down, as if she were part of the hors d'oeuvres.

Prick minister of security from Bangla-Douche, she said as she dropped her purse to the table inside the door. After stripping down to her panties, she put on her jeans and the black blouse. She’d never been the girly type, like Sandra. She had her favorites and her staples, and everything was usually black or neutral. In the mirror, she scowled. You could try a little for your best friend, Emily.

She opened her compact jewelry box and pulled out a long strand of black pearls as well as the studs for her ears. Turning her hair up into a French twist to show off the earrings and her neck, she checked the mirror again. She knew how to look good, which was usually enough for her, but perhaps tonight, she could actually apply that knowledge to her face. There. That’s better.

Her cell rang on the table by the door, and she went to pick it up, grabbing her flats first.

A tremor in the floor slowed her, and she frowned. What the hell?

An explosion rocked the building, shook the walls, and dropped her to her knees. A second later, the lights shut down and silence filled her room...except for the ring of her phone before her voicemail picked up and the phone went silent.

Even the incessant hum of the heaters was quiet.

She slipped her shoes on, got up, and opened her door to a glowing dark, the only light coming through the window at the end of the hallway. Curiosity had people coming into the halls and making their way to the lobby. Down two flights of stairs, her heart pounded as the bad feeling in her gut tightened and stuck. The sound of screaming echoed through the stairwell, floating up from the open door at the bottom of the stairs.

She tripped as she hit the landing and then pushed her way out and toward the south wing.

Security had the corridor blocked off. Someone grabbed her arm, stopping her, and anger burst through her. She tugged free, slamming a fist into someone’s face. Damn it, lady—

She hurried away.

But the lobby was quickly filling with smoke and dust...

And injured people. She struggled around them, working to get by, to get to Sandra.

Help me, please. Someone grabbed her shirt as she walked by. Looking down, Emily saw a young Asian woman with blood running down her face. She hesitated, hated herself for it, then stopped. First responders came through the front entrance, masked and carrying big black bags.

She guided the woman who had stumbled into her. Emily was forced to put an arm around the woman’s shoulders. Help, she called out as the woman collapsed against her.

The smoke was so thick now, it burned the back of her throat and made her eyes water.

Over here, she said, urging the woman to keep going until finally a man in a large fireman’s trench took over, calling out orders and directing people to the doors.

As soon as she was free of the woman, she turned to go back, her thoughts still on Sandra and Tim.

She waved the smoke from her face and lifted her shirt to her mouth and nose.

This time, she kept going.

To the depths of ground zero, where the walls crumbled. The floors above and the ceiling were gone, and the late afternoon sun cut through the dark, billowing smoke. Here, the sounds of traffic and helicopters covered the moans of the injured and dying.

Sandra! she called out when she’d gone about the distance she thought it would be to her friend’s room on the first floor. Tim.

Firemen and military swarmed the area, pushing people out of the destroyed part of the hotel.

"Fräulein. Komm her." Someone called out.

She couldn’t stop, not until she found Sandra. A hand on her shoulder jerked her back, and a split second later, a wall fell in front of her. Dust billowed, cutting off her air, and she breathed into the crook of her elbow. Sandra!

But her way was blocked. Sandra. Tim!

Strong, thick arms encircled her, lifting her from the floor, and she kicked back. Stop. Please, let me go. I have to—

"Nein," the man growled.

When her feet met the ground next, she was outside. She inhaled fresh air—fresher air—and coughed debris from her lungs. Her eyes watered, tears coming down her face, as reality settled in. So many people dead.

How could there be survivors? The south wing of the hotel was a devastated heap of rubble, a hole at least ten feet deep. She blinked...and another explosion rocked the ground beneath her. The man who’d pulled her from the hotel grabbed her and lunged behind a taxi ten feet away.

The wind was knocked from her lungs, and shrapnel fell to the ground around them, beating against her nameless rescuer, whose lifeless body pressed her to the cement.

Panic set in and she hoisted him up and rolled him off her. She ripped the helmet off his face. Sir! Blood pooled beneath him. A piece of glass—a shard, a fucking twelve-inch blade of glass—jutted from his back. Help, she called out as another ambulance stopped mere feet from her. She lifted the guy by his jacket and dragged him.

He’d saved her life.

A stranger.

Emily. At the sound of her boss, she almost lost it.

Richard, help me.

Richard came at her through the dust and smoke. Thank God you’re all right.

Help me, she begged as she pulled on the deadweight.

Richard took one arm, hooked his hand under an armpit, and helped bring the man the rest of the way to the ambulance. Injured people poured from the building, coming off the street.

They’ve set up a first-aid tent. This way. Another voice. Another stranger. People blindly following, trusting. Emily stopped to look around. Foreign country. Different standards. Could she trust? Did she have a choice?

The medic in front of her waved a hand in her face. Are you okay? He spoke in German, as one of his people took her rescuer and loaded him onto a gurney. She couldn’t take her eyes from the man who had saved her.

She turned to her boss. He saved my life, Richard.

He put an arm around her shoulder. Can you come with me? Are you hurt?

She shook her head. I can’t leave.

Her boss frowned. Why not?

I have to find Sandra.

Your doctor friend?

Emily nodded, watching each face that came by. She came here to see me. She’s a pediatrician. She’s going to be married in two months. I can’t make the wedding, so she came to see me. We’re going to dinner now. I need to find her.

Richard sent his concerned gaze to the first responder.

Emily knew that look. She’d seen that look before in her work.

You should get checked out, miss.

I can’t leave until I know.

Come with me, Emily, Richard said. You’ll be safe. We’ll find out together.

She looked at him. He was right. Even staying here, she wouldn’t be able to watch everything every person coming and going.

Come on, honey, he said in that fatherly tone. It’s going to be hours before they get through this mess. The list of survivors... He stopped. Let’s go wait for news.

Maybe Sandra made it out. She’d been ready to go. Hardly needed to stop in her room at all. She could have been there and back out front waiting for Emily within minutes.

With a nod, she followed Richard away from the crowds and stepped into the back of a black sedan. Richard talked on his phone the entire time. Press releases. Intelligence gathering. But the main question still to be answered: who would claim this act of terrorism?

Who was the most pissed off this time?

Who had a score to settle—with Belgium? With the security conference going on?

Emily touched the thin pouch around her neck that carried her passport and identification.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she pressed her fingers into her sockets.

Don’t think.

Richard placed a hand on her shoulder. I’m sorry, Emily.

She might be alive, she replied halfheartedly.

But her practical mind was having a hard time holding on to hope.

THREE DAYS SEEMED LIKE an eternity.

On the morning after, she’d snuck out of the embassy and made her way down to the hospital. She’d gone back a half-dozen times, looking and helping wherever she could. She needed to be close.

Still no sign of Sandra or Tim...

And her hero had died, and it was like all the color from her life had gone with him.

He’d given his life for her, a complete stranger.

Emily wiped the tear that trailed down her cheek. Damn it, she whispered.

She knew she should be grateful to be alive. Her life had been spared.

Why? The more she thought about it, the less she understood. She should be dead. That was part of her job.

Nodding to the attending doctor as she made her way into the trauma unit, she began her usual stroll between the beds. But there was no one new.

When her phone rang in her pocket, she pulled it out. Richard, looking for her again. She had a flight out in the morning. She had an assignment waiting for her at home. Hello, she answered.

You watching the news?

She shook her head then said, No. What’s going on?

A small radical group out of Syria posted a message, claiming responsibility.

Emily perked up at that. Is there a name? She moved out of the ward and down the hall. I need a name, Richard. His silence tripped her up, and she slowed. What?

So you can what?

Have a name, damn it. I need a name, something to label the devastation that is Brussels and the mess that used to be my hotel. She needed to make sense of the loss. Damn it, Richard.

Ahmed Hassan—

She sucked in a breath. The man had been on their lists for a couple years. Chatter between the CIA and the foreign agencies indicated growth within the Muslim faction. His recruiting efforts last year were noted by Homeland Security, the information disseminated throughout all agencies. He’d risen in status...not only on the United States’ government most-wanted lists, either.

I’m coming in. Emily ended the call and stuffed her phone into her back pocket. She made the seventeen-minute walk to the embassy an eight-minute run. She showed her ID and ran up the stairs to the conference room where Richard had been stewing along with the other officials.

And she stopped when she saw that face on the screen.

The face that had killed her best friend.

The face that would probably haunt her days and nights for weeks to come.

The detachment she’d applied to her job for so many years was gone.

She wanted him...dead.

She would kill him if it was the last thing she did.

Qatar

ONE YEAR LATER

Emily Rogers had transferred from agency to agency at her own requests, and with a little help from Richard, in order to get this assignment. She didn’t care what acronym of government forces was giving the orders. She was taking the order to kill Ahmed Hassan.

Finally.

After the longest year of her life. Sleepless nights. Intense training. Months of research and searching for answers—from the government, from God.

Hassan had personally touched her life.

She was about to personally touch his.

And selling her soul to the devil, to the rage buried deep inside her, was a small price to pay for this justice. One bullet. One life.

This time, she would look into the face of her target, and there would be no inner turmoil. Those days were over.

Her blinders were gone, the truth revealed.

Some people were better off dead. Hassan was their king.

Emily didn’t let herself get comfortable as she waited.

She had the best seat in the house.

They called it a peace talk.

She was going to bring peace, all right. For herself.

And then she was going home.

Her rooftop vantage point gave her visual access to the office building where the talks were taking place. She had the window pegged and her strike zone marked, set in her mind, thanks to the CIA insider who’d been feeding them intelligence for the last two hours.

The men had assigned seats around the room, each one labeled—as they would have been in western culture, in a parliament or senate gathering. Irony?

Maybe.

She didn’t need the names, anyway.

The face of her target was branded in her mind. She’d studied the face, set him into computer programs to adjust the look—gained weight, lost weight. Didn’t matter. She would know. She had studied.

Her heart pounded and she blew out a breath.

The men are entering, her spotter said quietly next to her.

You don’t have to whisper, you know.

"Shit, I don’t care. It’s too creepy in this place to talk out loud. Don’t you watch Supernatural? There are ghosts of thousands of dead civilians, probably killed in some suicide bomber’s radical plot to rid the world of...God knows what. I’ll whisper, thank you very much."

Emily shrugged, giving her attention back to the building across the way.

The men were settling in, adjusting robes. One smoked and another was sipping from a small tin cup. And then Hassan was there, in her line of sight. He looked exactly the same as she remembered from those photos she’d seen the day of the bombing in Brussels. She couldn’t take her gaze off him, noted the graying at his temples and the slight limp on his right side.

She guessed she was lucky.

Lucky that these radical leaders weren’t afraid to meet.

She thought back. It had been ten years before they’d found and killed Osama bin Laden.