Читать книгу The Equalisers: A Soldier's Oath - Debra Webb - Страница 13

Spencer knew his first moment of sheer panic.

It was a wholly unfamiliar sensation.

He kicked it aside.

“Go back into the ladies’ room.” He looked directly into her eyes, noted the terror there, refused to let it affect him. “I’ll make excuses for you. Stay there until I come back for you.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

“Do you understand?”

The stridently muttered demand appeared to snap her into action.

“Okay.”

She headed for the ladies’ room without a backward glance or a second’s hesitation.

Spencer shifted his attention to the man who had just picked up his briefcase and turned to head in his direction.

In an instant Spencer had cleared his mind of all else and stepped into character. He started forward, outstretched his hand at just the right moment to meet the other man’s. “Spencer Anders.”

“Yuri Avnery.”

Spencer gave Avnery’s hand a firm shake. “I’m looking forward to seeing the space. The location is excellent. Exactly what my client is looking for.”

Avnery nodded. “Very good.” He gestured toward the bank of elevators. “Shall we?”

Spencer relaxed marginally. “How long has the space been on the market?”

Avnery provided a few details regarding the previous business tenant. Spencer put on an attentive face, but his mind was on Willow and whether or not leaving her alone in the ladies’ room was a good move.

Not that he’d had a choice.

When they’d boarded the elevator, Avnery asked, “Your wife decided not to accompany you after all?”

Spencer’s alert status moved back into the red zone. Avnery knew the answer to that question. He’d assuredly seen Willow standing near Spencer, not to mention her name had been on the register.

“I’m afraid my wife got bored and decided to visit the gallery across the street.”

He recognized that the man had in all likelihood noted her hasty retreat to the ladies’ room. That shouldn’t actually set off any warning bells.

Spencer hoped like hell he’d only gotten a look at her back. Even a glimpse of her profile might eventually trigger some kind of recollection if, in fact, Willow did know him.

Damn.

There were hundreds of real-estate agents in this city. How the hell had he managed to select one she’d run into before? If he believed in karma, he’d be worried. But there was no reason to believe there was a problem just yet.

“That’s too bad,” Avnery said. “I was looking forward to meeting her.”

The interest in his eyes was undeniable. Maybe a little too interested.

“It’s not often,” he added, “that my clients bring along their wives for input.”

Definitely too much interest. Spencer’s instincts went on point. “I’m sure my wife would love to think that she had some say in the matter, but I’m afraid she’s here for the shopping and sightseeing.”

Avnery nodded, a smirk hovering just beneath his perfectly composed professional veneer. “I find that the female perspective is not often conducive to constructive business.”

Spencer would just bet he did. Men like Avnery considered women good for nothing more than sexual and domestic slavery. He was reasonably sure this guy was Israeli. Maybe he’d been raised in Kuwait or Saudi Arabia. Whatever the case, his perspective on how women should be treated was definitely skewed.

That was the thing about men like Avnery, they needed a female in submission to feel more like a man. He didn’t have to know this guy personally to understand that his feelings had nothing to do with religion or tradition.

He could only assume that if Willow knew this man he was somehow associated with al-Shimmari, which explained everything about his attitude. He would also assume for the moment that his interest in Spencer’s companion was more related to his warped view of women than the possibility that he’d somehow recognized Willow.

Avnery gave Spencer the grand tour of the suite of offices that made up the third floor of the building. He pretended to be impressed. But mostly he was worried about the woman hiding in the restroom downstairs.

He was supposed to protect Willow Harris.

They’d barely arrived in-country and already he’d made a strategic error.

Maybe all the booze had stolen his edge.

The idea that Willow might have to pay the price for his two-year layover in hell twisted like concertina wire in his gut.

WILLOW WORKED hard to slow her breathing.

She’d almost lost control there for a minute.

How did she know that man?

She’d definitely met him before. The way he moved. That harsh profile, long, wide nose… jutting chin.

Think!

Okay, calm down.

Pushing off the bathroom door, she started to pace in front of the line of stalls.

Black hair. Maybe five-eight or nine. Medium build.

She rubbed at her forehead as if that would help. It didn’t. The familiarity was there. She knew him. But how?

If she knew his name… maybe that would help her remember.

Willow stopped in mid-step. Surely his name would trigger the right synapse.

Before reason had kicked in she’d made it to the door.

Anders had told her to stay in here until he came back for her.

But what if he was in danger?

What if this was a setup?

Khaled might have found out she was here with Anders and sent that man in place of the real estate man they were supposed to meet. No, that couldn’t be right. Anders had contacted this guy. Hadn’t he?

This was ridiculous!

She couldn’t hide in this restroom like this.

Going out there and getting this guy’s name was the right thing to do. Then she would know for sure. She refused to be a coward.

Willow pulled the door open before she could change her mind. The lobby remained empty. The typical workweek ran from Sunday through Wednesday, there wouldn’t be that much business going on today.

That was to her benefit.

Taking care to restrain her stride, she made the nerve-wracking journey to the reception desk. The man behind the counter looked up, but he didn’t ask if he could help her.

“My husband is viewing the suite of offices on the third floor. I thought I might visit the gallery across the street.”

The man stared, didn’t even blink.

Keep going. “Would you mind taking a message for my husband so he knows where I am when he comes down?”

“One moment.”

While he rounded up a pen and paper, she covertly read the final two names on the register. Spencer Anders. Yuri Avnery.

The name didn’t ring a bell.

“At the gallery across the street?” the clerk confirmed.

She nodded. “I’ll be waiting there.”

“I will see that he receives your message.”

Willow thanked him and turned to face the front entrance. It wasn’t like she could not go now. She’d told the clerk she was going. It had been the only way she could think of to get a look at the register. Maybe if she’d had time to plan an excuse she would have come up with something better.

It didn’t matter now. She had to go.

Anders would probably yell at her.

But keeping their cover intact was too important to screw it up with a misstep this trivial.

She could do this.

It wasn’t a big deal.

All she had to do was walk out the door and across the street. There was little traffic on the street and even fewer pedestrians. The chances of running into anyone she knew from before were about the same as winning the lottery.

Maybe a little less than that, but the basic concept was the same.

Concentrating on making her decision happen, she put one foot in front of the other. No looking back. No hesitating. Just do it.

She exited the building and didn’t stop until she’d reached the street. When the unexpected surge in traffic passed, she crossed the street.

It wasn’t until she’d gotten inside the door of the gallery that she could breathe again.

Thank God.

The shop owner glanced up at the tinkle of the bell and announced, “Aa-salaam-aleikum!” Peace be with you.

“Aleikum salaam,” popped out of her mouth before she’d considered the repercussions of responding at all. Would the typical American tourist know to say this traditional Muslim greeting? Possibly. It was on the Internet. Everything was on the Internet these days.

Besides, she’d said it. There was no taking it back now.

Stop being paranoid, she railed silently. She hadn’t been here in nearly a year. She had never been in this gallery. Kuwait was a bustling city. It wasn’t like she had to worry about running into someone from her past life around every corner. She hadn’t even known that many people.

She might not even know the man with Anders right now. Anxiety and panic could be playing tricks with her mind.

So she did what all Americans were famous for doing when traveling, she browsed and made all kinds of comments to herself as well as the shop owner and she even gasped from time to time at the lovely artwork. Willow felt certain the man was rolling his eyes behind her back.

Paintings, sculpture, pottery. She studied each piece in painstaking detail, anything to keep her mind focused on something other than the man across the street.

Eventually his name intruded.

Yuri Avnery.

She called his image to mind. What precisely was so familiar about him?

The way he moved for sure.

His whole profile? She couldn’t be sure.

Try harder.

Still nothing specific bobbed to the surface of that murky lake of memories. Maybe she’d suppressed so much of that past that she’d lost some details.

But she did know him, she decided after further consideration.

She was almost positive.

The bell over the door jingled and her head came up. Tension roared through her with the force of a freight train barreling down its track. She peeked around the piece she currently studied.

Three women, garbed in traditional Islamic dress, full hijab, whispered among each other as they hurried over to the wall where the oil paintings were displayed.

Willow let a whoosh of tension rush past her lips. She really did need to get a grip here. If she walked around acting like this someone would notice. Calling attention to herself was not the thing to do.

Okay. If she couldn’t remember the guy she should start a process of elimination. First, she resurrected the long-buried images of the household staff along with the names of each man in her husband’s domestic employ.

Nope. He hadn’t been someone she’d run into in the house on a regular basis. Not that she’d actually thought he was. She would surely have remembered someone she saw every day.

She thought of the people she saw from time to time at the various shops she’d frequented. Not the grocery clerk. Not the postman. Not the drycleaner. Not at the pediatrician’s office.

Then she moved on to her husband’s business associates. Not that she saw any of them that often, but she did on rare occasions. Those would be far harder to recall.

The trio of women moved to the metal sculptures next. The gaze of the one who appeared to be the leader of the group abruptly bumped into Willow’s. Willow smiled before she could suppress the impulse. The other woman quickly looked away.

God, she had to remember the rules of etiquette. No staring. No prolonged direct eye contact. No smiling.

No…

Yuri Avnery’s profile suddenly loomed in her head. Only it wasn’t the image she’d captured in the lobby across the street. He wore white robes… not the business suit he’d been wearing as he’d signed in fifteen or twenty minutes ago. Long white robes and the headdress, the ghutra. A shimmery gold over-cloak had embellished the pure white.

There were a lot of people at the event she recalled, all dressed in the very finest traditional garb. Tables. Waiters. Her husband…

Her breath evaporated in her lungs.

Oh, God.

She remembered him. Only his name hadn’t been Yuri Avnery… Abdulatif something. She couldn’t remember the last name.

He was her ex-husband’s hatchet man. She’d only met him that once, but she remembered Khaled referring to him in just that way. She had assumed he’d meant that he was the man who got rid of the excess in his businesses. You know, the kind of man who came in and cut the fat… job layoffs, pink slips. Stuff like that.

But her husband hadn’t meant that at all. Khaled had laughed at her later when she’d suggested as much.

The moment replayed over and over in her mind. The way her husband had looked at the man… the way he’d laughed when he made the statement about what the man did for him.

He was a hatchet man all right, but he didn’t cut excess employees… he got rid of problems.

Like Spencer Anders.

Willow was at the front window of the gallery before she’d realized she’d moved.

She stared up at the third floor of the office building across the street.

If she was right… God, she prayed she wasn’t… the man up there with Anders was an assassin.

“DOES THIS suite of offices satisfy your needs then?”

Spencer followed Avnery along the corridor that led back to the third-floor lobby that served the suite of offices.

“I have another location to preview this afternoon, but this is very much in line with my client’s interests.”

Avnery paused at the wall of windows that overlooked the street. “Quite a pleasant view,” he suggested with a wave of his arm.

Spencer took his time strolling over to join him. So far the meeting had gone off without a glitch. Still, Willow had been certain she knew this man. It wasn’t impossible that she knew him in his capacity as a real-estate agent. Her ex-husband might have sought his expertise at one time or another. Or perhaps they’d met at a social function. No matter, Spencer’s instincts were nagging at him.

Something about this man was not right.

“I may want to come back and take some digital shots of the place,” Spencer commented. “Unless you have photos or maybe a virtual tour on your Web site.” He watched the man carefully now that he wasn’t following him around from room to room. At one time he’d been particularly good at spotting a liar. “Your secretary mentioned a Web site.” He hadn’t actually spoken to this man when he’d made the call this morning.

Avnery nodded. “Of course. I believe you’ll find everything there that your client requires.”

His response was slightly stilted… the least bit hesitant. Spencer’s tension escalated to the next level. “Can you spell out any unusual legalities involved with an American tenant?”

Avnery glanced down at the street. “Ah-ha. Your lovely wife appears to have grown bored with the gallery as well.”

Spencer’s attention rocketed to the gallery across the street. Willow stood in the floor-to-ceiling plate glass window staring up at this building… it felt almost as if she were looking directly at him.

“I am confident she won’t be bored for long.”

A long white limousine lurched to a stop in front of the gallery.

Spencer went for his weapon.

“Don’t move, Mr. Anders. I would most assuredly dislike having to kill you here. I’m certain the carpet would be ruined and my friend Avnery would be upset with me.”

Spencer turned slowly to face the imposter. The silenced end of a.9mm Ruger was aimed directly at his chest. His fingers itched to go for his own weapon.

“I am quite the excellent shot. You might want to consider that before you make a move for your weapon.”

Spencer raised his hands in the air. “I’ll take your word for that, Avnery.”

The other man smirked. “I’m certain you know my name is not Avnery, but that is most irrelevant. Let’s move to the elevator, Mr. Anders. Your next appointment will be your last, I’m afraid, but it is a command performance.”

“Then let’s not keep the man waiting.” Spencer executed an about-face, giving his back to the man with the gun. That was, clearly, his only choice. And maybe if he kept him off guard he wouldn’t remember to check to see if Spencer was armed.

“One moment, Mr. Anders.”

No such luck. Spencer stopped.

Oh, well, that left him with only one option.

Avnery or whoever the hell he was patted his left side first since it was his left hand that was free. It was in the pivotal instant when he switched his weapon from his right hand to his left that Spencer made his move.

He twisted one-eighty, slammed against the man’s right shoulder with his full body weight.

The silencer hissed. A pop followed.

Spencer shoved the man’s left arm upward as they went down together.

They hit the floor.

Another hiss and pop.

Spencer had a good thirty pounds and six inches of height on the guy, but the other man was strong. Enough with this.

Spencer drew back and jammed the heel of his right hand beneath the guy’s chin. His head snapped upward. A final hiss and pop erupted from the weapon clenched in his hand. A violent twist of his head and the fight was over.

Spencer scrambled to his feet and ran for the stairwell.

He buttoned his jacket on the way down. Ran a hand through his hair to ensure he didn’t look as if he’d just been in a fight. No need to tip off the clerk any sooner than necessary.

At the door to the lobby, he paused long enough to catch his breath. He opened the door a crack and scanned the area.

Two men hustled through the front entrance and spoke in Arabic to the man behind the desk. Spencer didn’t catch everything that was said, but he got that they were looking for him.

If those men were from the limo, he had to assume that the vehicle was still out there and that meant Willow would still be close by as well.

When the two men headed for the elevator, Spencer opened the door a little wider to watch them board.

The elevator doors glided closed. He counted to three and exited the stairwell.

Barely suppressing the need to break into a run, he strode across the lobby.

“Mr. Anders!”

Spencer ignored the clerk.

He didn’t have to look back to know the man would attempt to contact the men headed to the third floor.

They’d have to catch him if they wanted him.

He burst out onto the sidewalk.

Two things were immediately clear: the limo was still parked in front of the gallery and Willow was no longer standing at the shop window.

He ignored the blaring horns as he dashed across the street.

The limo windows were too dark to see inside, but the driver’s seat beyond the windshield was empty.

That meant that any other occupants besides the ones who’d gone after him were likely inside the gallery.

Withdrawing the Beretta, he burst through the shop door. It wasn’t like they couldn’t see him coming. But he couldn’t not go in… Willow was in there.

Other than the whoosh of the door closing behind him the shop appeared dead silent.

No signs of a struggle.

No milling customers.

Nothing.

He moved deeper into the gallery, around sculptures, beyond complicated displays of smaller pieces of artwork comprised of various mediums.

As he moved past the counter, a muzzle rammed into the back of his head.

“Mr. Anders.”

Spencer froze. He analyzed the voice. Male. Western… almost.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Three more men stepped out of the shadows of the farthest recesses of the gallery, weapons trained on one target… Spencer.

The man who’d spoken moved in closer behind Spencer. “Before you die,” he said, his words uttered softly now as if he were speaking for Spencer’s ears only, “I have only one question.”

He jammed the barrel of his weapon harder into Spencer’s skull. “Where is my wife?”