Page 64 of Red Line

Had the operation prioritized institutional needs over basic human care by insisting they avoid Lebanese doctors and hospitals?

Had she survived those choices?

Yeah, ever since he’d watched the ambulance pull away from him, the only word that seemed close to describing his emotions was bereft.

Wasn’t that funny?

Not only that but now Nomad found himself looking for her. It was as if she was near, and he should have been able to reach out and touch her and take her back into his arms.

He was seeing Red in the women in his sphere.

Long black hair caught his attention, full lips. Anyone around five foot seven.

Even that woman who had descended the stairs under the name Mrs. Bland brought Red to mind. Nomad was simply associating the code name with the beautiful red gown that drew his attention to Mrs. Bland like a spotlight.

Not-Mrs. Bland.

Frau Leitner said the woman wasn’t, in fact, the U.S. ambassador’s wife, and the man offering his arm wasn’t Ambassador Bland.

“Who do you think they are?” Nomad had asked. Perhaps other socialites had traded something of significance for the tickets.

Frau Leitner sent him a secretive smile.

Yes, she knew who they were. Maybe it was just the number of ears around them that made her keep those names to herself. He’d press her later when he was driving her home.

Frau Leitner was a date that required little of him. She’d been napping on the sofa almost from the beginning. Nomad had felt free to function, though he kept an eye on her.

Nomad had danced with Elena three different times. She danced effortlessly and wordlessly while her mind was clearly elsewhere. She seemed to be using him as a means to keep moving. And he thought she was either looking for someone or actively avoiding someone.

Though he’d made no headway as a honeypot, he’d try not to let that bruise his ego.

Throughout the evening, there was only one man that she might have connected with. They’d pulled out their phones and seemed to be following each other’s social media or maybe even getting each other’s phone numbers. But they only danced the one dance and ignored each other the rest of the evening. On the other hand, Nomad spotted plenty of eyes following Elena. There were not-Ambassador and Mrs. Bland, though that was really subtle, and again, Nomad might just be extra attracted tothe color red right now. There was a group of four men that he thought might be her security by the way they formed a box and kept their rabbit inside of it.

As for rings? She had one on every finger. None of them looked particularly remarkable to him. But rings weren’t really Nomad’s expertise.

The one thing he’d accomplished was the application of various electronics to Elena’s shoes, rings, dress, and tiara. Each dance, more electronics.

He worried he was underperforming because he was so distracted by that low-level hum of worry about Red. It irritated Nomad that he couldn’t clear his mind of her. It was his own fault for becoming emotionally invested. He had never held precious cargo against him before. Nomad used the phrase that was supposed to keep the survivors at arm’s length, but in this instance, it was too late in the game for that to help. During rescues and extractions, he’d tended to people with vigilance, but there was a difference between caring for them andcaringfor them in all the definitions of that word.

Red was messing with his circuitry.

She was making him see ghosts. He had no idea who that woman in the red gown was. But since she seemed to be circling Elena all evening, Nomad gave himself permission to approach her when it seemed natural to find out if she spoke English with an accent, to cleanse his pallet of the niggling desire to be physically close to her. He thought if he could just verify that this was no one of interest, he could refocus.

Nomad tapped the comms button that he’d placed under his lapel and connected with the encrypted channel patched into the command center. “Glad you’re checking in,” T-Rex said. “From the photos you’ve been sending in, we’ve made an interesting connection for you to be aware of.”

“Listening.” Standing in a shadow shielded by a column, Nomad’s gaze settled on Elena, fixing herself in the mirror and the absolute uniqueness of the woman dressed like a feathery egg.

“The photos of Elena’s dance partners are of no consequence except for one. His name is Joel Brighton. He’s the right-hand man of Zayd Ali Kamal.”

“Middle Eastern multi-billionaire.”

“That’s the one. Zayd Ali Kamal became engaged last year. At that time, he set up a reward for anyone who could find his fiancée’s great-grandmother’s ring. It’s a two-carat red diamond stolen from the family by the Gestapo in Morocco during WWII.”

“That’s the ring? Elena found it?”

“Possibly. Or perhaps she’s the middleman.”

“How big is that prize?” Nomad asked. “It’s got to be substantial.”

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