Page 12 of Red Line

Then, she’d splash cold water on her face before she made for the front door.

No! Moussa came before the door, drop the bag in his lap,thenthe front door. Sayhôpital,then probably the good people from this area would take care of the rest.

“I’d rather be back in SERE training,” she muttered. “I could tap out. And there would be relief.” Gripping her stomach, Red rolled a shoulder against the women’s room door, slammed her way into the stall, reaching for her belt and then her zipper. She pushed her pants down and sat, closing her eyes and tipping her head back, not knowing how to handle her predicament.

Red once again went through the last few days. And once again she remembered being in that Beirut restaurant with the Russian businessmen.

Was it possible they’d figured out that she was a CIA officer?

Was she brushing too close to one of their operations?

They could have dropped something into her food. She could be poisoned.

Novichok? Polonium?

Yeah, not only did she not have those kinds of symptoms, but they wouldn’t risk using something like that on her.

If the Russians wanted to take her out of the game, they could stage a mugging gone wrong and call it a day.

Novichok, for Heaven’s sake.“Get yourself together.”

She’d been gone from the table way too long.

Anxiety-filled, Moussa would be panicking. He’d think she took the information and disappeared without paying him. He’d think he’d risked his safety and his family for nothing. She could imagine him twiddling his fork in his fingers, rubbing sweaty palms down his thighs, looking around furtively. He’d remember this distress and weigh it against his desire to feed her more intelligence.

For better or for worse, the pills were doing the job, and she sat there without relief. “Move forward,” she muttered underher breath. “Moussa, then the hospital. Up we go.” Red forced herself to stand. She tugged her panties back into place and was reaching for her pants when the ground beneath her shook her off her feet. She tumbled into the door and was flung back against the toilet bowl.

She would have thought this was her own balance issue if it weren’t for the roar of a blast.

Red had been near enough explosions that her body knew how best to survive, and she dropped down until her cheek was on the colorful floor tiles.

The outer door to the bathroom slammed open with a blast concussion that toppled the metal partition of her toilet stall into a triangle over her head, then crumpled downward as a portion of ceiling plaster collapsed on top.

With her hands packaging her head, Red wrapped herself around the toilet so the ceramic structure would take the brunt of any further building collapse, perhaps guarding her chest from being compressed under the weight. She’d survived by hugging a toilet before. There were far worse places to be. This was fine, she told herself. She was fine.

After a moment, the building materials seemed to settle, and there was stillness.

She heard nothing past the ringing in her ears and muffled chaos.

Red blinked, feeling the heaviness of the dust weighing on her lashes and caking her skin.

Stay calm. Act fast.The mantra wiggled her lips with the repetitions.

She had labeled the situation—explosion. Possible suicide vest? Possible gas from the kitchen?

She’d figure that out later.

What was her priority?

Safe distance.

No! It wasMoussa!

Red crawled forward then pushed herself upright, dragging her pants into place, buttoning the top button, leaving them unzipped and unbelted. Red tapped her shoulder to make sure her pack was still in place. Then she tapped her thigh to assure herself that her phone was still with her.

She forced herself to carefully place her feet amongst the sharp edges.

Agony forgotten, masked by adrenaline surging from a system that clearly read this situation as life-or-death, Red made her way painstakingly toward the tearoom, climbing over the ceiling tiles, dodging the electrical wires that sparked and snapped, Red’s brain was hard focused and astonishingly clear.

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