Tactical Deception: Silent Warrior, Book 2 by J.L. Saint Page A

screen being filmed in the middle of a rioting crowd. He searched quickly for the news affiliate. Fayetteville, North Carolina. It was completely impossible, but the woman was unmistakable. He looked at his son, wondering if Fahran saw her too. But Fahran had his nose in the Qur’an. Ahmed rushed over and jerked the book away, then pulled his son to the back of the room and whispered, “Fahran, look. What do you see?” Ahmed pointed at the shameless dark-haired woman on the television screen.
    Fahran frowned. “Maisa? But that is impossible.”
    Ahmed smacked Fahran’s arm. “Whisper. No one must know this.”
    Fahran turned dark red, but lowered his voice obediently. “It looks like Maisa, but she is here. I just spoke with her and mother twenty minutes ago.”
    “It’s not Maisa. It’s Maryam.”
    Fahran shook his head. “Impossible. She was left years ago to die in—”
    Ahmed gave his own chest a punishing blow. “Did she die though? Did I do my duty and see to our family’s honor? Or did I give in to the pleas of my accursed wife to let Allah take Maryam’s life without violence? I left her locked in a cell, but I did not see her die. That worthless servant Fila and her son Asa who stayed to protect the house must have freed Maryam after we left. Now Allah is punishing me. All that we have worked for is threatened because I did not kill Maryam. This is your last chance to prove to me you are worthy of being my son. You must find her and bring her to me, Fahran. Take Maisa. She will trust Maisa, but don’t tell Maisa of my intent. Tell her I want to forgive Maryam. Go quickly. You must return before Salaam does. Maryam must die or Allah will destroy us all. Do not fail me, Fahran. There is no room for failures in our future plans. You must prove yourself a soldier willing to do all for Islam, for Allah. A man my grandson can look up to.”

Chapter Eleven
     
    Atlanta, Georgia
    The downtown police station looked as if it had been ridden hard and then left out in the cold to flounder. Make-do furniture on its last leg, burnt coffee and faded dime-store décor surrounded a divided force. From what Rico could tell half of the cops wandered around in an ineffectual what’s-the-point stupor while the others charged like Dirty Harrys after Hannibal Lecters. Rico ended up with a Dirty Harry aiming for an Oscar.
    He preceded GBI Special Agent Brett McKay into a room, feeling the man’s Eastwood gaze bore holes into his back. He wasn’t sure if he liked the SOB yet or not. He did begrudgingly respect the man for his relentless drive, even though Rico had borne the brunt of it.
    Something had gone seriously wrong in the hours since the shootings at Piedmont Park. He didn’t know what, but it was big. The GBI was on board and Rico had overheard McKay give his partner the heads-up that a hard-ass from Quantico was on the way.
    Shortly after Rico had arrived at the police department, McKay had interrupted Officer Carver’s Q&A session and had taken the reigns of the investigation. McKay started out by confiscating Rico’s ID, supposedly until they had verified his military status and witnesses had corroborated his story about the shootings. Things had gone downhill from there.
    McKay had pumped Rico full of coffee and had repeatedly hammered for every minute detail of what had happened since he stepped off the plane that morning. He was surprised at how many things he had noticed even though he’d been wrapped up in Angie’s…everything.
    But after four hours of interrogation with his shoulder throbbing like a son of a bitch, he was past the point of steel control and stood a breath away from telling McKay and everyone else exactly where they could go, how they could get there, and what they could do to themselves on their way down. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help, but he was damn tired of being the caged animal in their going-nowhere investigative circus. Not to mention that the woman he came