Targeted (FBI Heat) Read Free Page A

throat.
    While the truck carried her farther and farther away from her near execution, Marissa stole sideways glances at her rescuer. His expression grim, he focused on the road, but twice she caught him studying her. His muscular arms were taut, and his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. But he didn’t speak. A muscle in his jaw twitched as if chewing on his rage.
    “Who are you, Ameen? And I want more than just your name,” she finally said.
    Ebony eyes shifted slowly to hers. “I was waiting for you to ask. I’m sure my answer will be much easier—and truer—than yours. I am Ameen Ali. I live in San Diego and work for my uncle, Abdullah, who is the imam at a San Diego mosque.” He frowned. “Is it a waste of my breath to ask who you are and why you were with those men?”
    “Yes.” She pressed her lips together to hide a faint smile.
    He shook his head in frustration. “Will you at least tell me your name?”
    Her defensive instincts tingled. She repositioned the niqab on her head and covered her face before she answered. “I am called Baheera.”
    “Baheera,” he echoed. “Just Baheera?”
    She didn’t respond.
    His piercing gaze seemed to penetrate her veil. Without hesitation, he switched to English. “In Arabic, Baheera means dazzling, brilliant. The name fits, although I doubt it is what your parents named you.”
    “Perhaps not,” Marissa replied in English. She would have to be careful with this man.
    Thirty minutes passed before Ameen parked the truck in front of a house in a much nicer neighborhood of Tijuana. He sat for a moment, staring at his hands resting on the steering wheel. When he turned, his dark eyes were filled with concern.
    “I promise, Baheera, no one is going to hurt you. Will you trust me and wait here?”
    She rolled down the window and scrutinized the house. Small, but neat. The moonlight revealed a well-maintained yard and flowers in pots on the front stoop. “Who lives here?”
    “My good friends, Khaleel and his wife, Safiya. I hope they will let us spend the night.”
    She hesitated and then agreed. “Fine.”
    Ameen nodded once before climbing from the truck. Several minutes after he knocked, the porch light came on. Marissa heard a quiet exchange between him and someone inside the house. Finally, the door inched open, and a man peeked out. Then, a woman, dressed in traditional Muslim clothing, appeared at his side. Unlike the man, she smiled and welcomed Ameen warmly.
    He leaned closer and continued to speak in little more than a whisper. The couple glanced toward the truck. Safiya cocked her head and stared, but when Khaleel stomped his foot, she turned back to him.
    Unmoving, Marissa hid behind her veil. She could hear the voices speaking Arabic, but couldn’t distinguish their words or imagine what story Ameen was telling his friends. An unmarried Muslim woman alone with an unrelated male would raise many unwelcome questions. When the three friends stepped inside the house, she carefully slid the knife under her clothes and tied it to her leg with Ameen’s scarf. She stuffed the sat phone and wallets in her pockets. Last, she checked the niqab to be sure it completely covered her face and hair.
    Ameen reappeared beside the truck and swung open her door. “Safiya and Khaleel have agreed to let us stay. Will you?”
    Marissa read the relief in his expression. Once she nodded, he grinned.
    As she climbed out, he scanned the inside of the truck. His smile faded. With his steady gaze fixed on her veiled face, his eyes told her that he knew she was carrying the missing items, specifically the knife. She waited for his questions or reprimand.
    Instead, he only muttered, “If you must.”
    The couple was arguing on the couch when Ameen ushered Marissa through the living room. Khaleel stood up abruptly, blocking their path, and glared at her with hateful, suspicious eyes. She stared back from behind the black veil, analyzing what and how much danger the tall man