CHAPTER 3
S loane dropped the towel and dived under the pillow for her gun.
It was missing.
Shit!
“Looking for this?” On the chair by the window, sat a man who looked like he could wrestle a grizzly bear—and win. He held her gun, twirling it between his fingers like it was a toy.
Her heart pounded as she realized two things at once: she was completely naked, and he was very much armed.
"Who are you?" She grabbed the towel and clutched it to her chest. Her hands trembled so badly she could barely hold on to the fabric. None of her training had prepared her for this—standing butt naked in a room with a mountain of a man, staring down the barrel of her own gun.
She could hit targets hundreds of meters away, track moving threats with precision. She could read a situation in seconds—friend or foe.
Foe. Foe. Foe. Her instincts screamed loud and clear.
But her weapon was across the room, and he had it.
The man just sat there, calm as anything, the gun now pointing right at her, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath a layer of scruff on his tanned face.
“You’re American?” She fumbled for clarity. Anything that would dampen the threat, steady her frantic heart.
He ignored her question. Instead, he asked one of his own. “Who are you and why are you following Abdul Omari?”
The hand holding the gun didn’t waver. The eyes held steady, piercing in their directness. She could barely make out his features, thanks to the bushy beard that covered the lower half of his face. At first, until he’d spoken, she’d thought he was a local.
“I’m Sloane Carmichael,” she said, falling back onto her legend. “I’m a charity worker with the Women’s Empowerment League.”
He scowled at her, his eyes narrowing. “Bullshit.”
“W–What?”
“I recognize a cover story when I hear one. Who are you really? CIA? NSA?”
Something in her expression must have given her away, because his lips curled into a gratified grin. “Ah, the Agency. I should have known.”
“I–I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.
He smirked. “Please, spare me the pretense. I’ve been watching you follow Omari for days. Now, I want to know why.”
“You’re mistaken,” she insisted, clutching onto the towel like it was a lifeline. “I work at the Peshawar Community Centre. I teach English language classes.”
He got up. Holy crap, he was tall. He towered over her, his head nearly touching the ceiling. She took in the dark, wavy hair, wild and unkempt, the massive, boulder-like shoulders, and the menacing expression that sent chills down her spine.
As he approached, she stiffened. This man was raw power. It emanated from every purpose-filled movement. His jaw was tense beneath the beard, his face a mask of barely controlled anger. Veins bulged in his neck.
Oh, hell.
Don’t let him unleash that fury on me.
"Don't lie to me." His voice was a rough whisper. "Aid workers don’t carry Glock 19s, change their appearance on a whim, and speak fluent Urdu."
Sloane grimaced internally.
Crap, she was made.
“That’s for protection,” she blurted out, knowing instantly how lame it sounded. “I’m a woman, traveling alone. This isn’t exactly the safest part of the world.”
He snorted. “How’d you get it past airport security?”
“I didn’t. A friend in Islamabad lent it to me.” That part was actually true. Except Jeremy wasn’t exactly a friend. She’d met her handler for the first time three weeks ago when she’d arrived in the Middle East.
The grizzly stared at her for what felt like an eternity. She shivered under his gaze, and it wasn’t because of the cold. His eyes were a striking blue, but icy—like the Arctic. Set against his deeply tanned face, they were both mesmerizing and unsettling.
She wondered what he’d look like if he cleaned up a bit, got rid of the scruff and that wild mop of hair. Then, she mentally slapped herself. Why the hell was she thinking about that? She should be worrying about whether or not he was going to crush her with his giant hands.
“What were you doing following Omari?”
“I told you, I wasn’t?—”
He tucked the gun into his waistband and took a step toward her. Her heart slammed into her ribs. Oh God… this was it. Was he going to strangle her in this dingy motel room?
But instead of lunging for her, he leaned over and casually picked her cell phone up off the bed.
She exhaled sharply, her knees almost giving out.
Thank God.
He glanced at the screen.
Ha! Good luck with that, buddy. It had a thumbprint lock.
Without a word, he reached for her hand and pressed her thumb against the button. To her overriding shame—or maybe it was fear—she let him, like a puppet on a string. His hand was warm, firm, and calloused. So different from Matthew’s. A working man’s hands.
The phone unlocked, and he dropped her hand like a hot potato.
She swallowed hard. The spot where he’d touched her still tingled.
Oh God, Matthew was going to kill her.
Who was this guy anyway? What right did he have to look through her phone?
She considered grabbing it, telling him to back off and get out of her apartment. But something told her he’d just ignore her. For starters, he was double her size. No way she’d win that battle. Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat, but she swallowed it down.
Not. Funny.
She was naked, unarmed, and completely defenseless. He was none of those things.
The phone lit up as he scrolled through her photos, stopping at the shots of the three men who’d met Omari at the coffee shop.
He held it up so she could see the screen. "Recognize these guys?"
Her stomach dropped.
Not waiting for an answer, he flipped through more of her pictures. Omari walking down the street, going into shops and teahouses, and standing outside what looked like his house—a two-story building with a secure garage and a gated entrance.
"Nice vacation photos," he said dryly.
Her legs finally gave out, and she collapsed onto the bed, still clutching the towel in front of her. "Mind if I put some clothes on?" she croaked.
He looked her over, his icy gaze lingering on the towel like he could see right through it. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had x-ray vision. He seemed... otherworldly, like some kind of wild beast.
"Tell me what I want to know, and then you can get dressed." He pulled the gun from his waistband again but didn’t point it at her. Instead, he held it casually like it was an extension of his arm.
She hesitated.
"Your name?" His voice was a low growl.
"Sloane Carmichael. I wasn’t lying about that."
"Special Agent Carmichael, is it?"
Shit. Talk about breaking every rule in the CIA handbook. A lump formed in her throat, and she nodded.
Way to go, Sloane.
In under ten minutes, she’d let this guy ambush her, unlock her phone, get her real name, and find out she worked for the Agency.
Fantastic.
To be fair, he wasn’t the type of man you said no to. Just looking at him, she knew he was dangerous. No—lethal. Probably a killer.
Those eyes... Cold, hard, unreadable.
"Why’s the CIA so interested in Abdul Omari?" he asked.
She glanced at the door, and then up at him, a hulking shadow in the rapidly darkening room. By sitting down on the bed, she’d effectively cut off any possible escape route. He’d be on top of her the moment she moved. Stupid, rookie mistake.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned.
Her shoulders sagged. Was she that obvious?
“I don’t know why,” she said weakly. “My assignment is to watch and report back. That’s it.”
“They must have told you something,” he pushed.
“Just that he’s on a CIA watch list. I assumed it was terror related. He’s got ties to the Taliban.”
The intruder didn’t react, he merely watched her, his dark expression giving nothing away. Self-conscious, she pulled the towel tighter around her.
“You can get dressed now,” he said finally.