Page 32 of Smoke and Shadows

Without another word, Viktor turned and stalked out the room.

Ten a.m. on a Sunday,and her Dupont Circle neighborhood was slowly coming to life. Corner coffee shops slowly filling up with parents with their kids in tow, people walking their dogs, runners dressed up against the cold logging mileage—these were the reasons she took the job to protect the homeland, to protect the freedom of its citizens. Political stability in other countries was important for the stability at home. Yes, she’d been indirectly involved in regime changes. Personally, she’d had enough of these freaking dictators who had no regard for human life and no qualms of using chemical weapons on their own people.

“Which one’s yours?” Olsen’s voice broke through her ruminations. Marissa pointed to her BMW, two cars up.

“Sorry, I was a bit distracted.” She smiled at the raven-haired woman beside her. Agent Rebecca Olsen hadn’t quite passed her probie status as a Guardian, but Marissa knew Viktor was recommending her for full agent stripes, having proven herself in Paris.

“Thanks for the lift.” Marissa exited the Ford Explorer, dug for her keys in her purse, and waved Olsen off.

So much for listening to her own advice of turning it off for the weekend, she thought as she got into her car. She had made a brief call to Allison explaining what had happened. Then she called Yeager who was meeting her at Langley. Marissa laid into him about Viktor and told her boss she wanted answers—mainly what Viktor knew that she didn’t.

Turning the key in the ignition, her car sputtered as if the battery was dead. A shroud of dread cloaked her entire body as she scrambled out of the car. She was halfway across the street when a sedan blared its horn. A thunderous roar and a searing wave of heat blew her right over the hood of the oncoming vehicle. Next thing she knew, her hands scraped across concrete, sending shards of pain up her arms. Her shoulders buckled and a riptide of darkness threatened to pull her under.

There was screaming and shouting.Marissa had not lost consciousness, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t freaking disoriented with the incessant ringing in her ears.

What just happened?

People were staring down at her asking her stupid questions.

Are you okay?

Should we take you to a hospital?

Why did your car blow up?

She wasn’t sure if she answered them aloud or in order: No, she wasn’t fine. Her car just exploded. And no hospital, damn it, because someone wanted her dead.

She gripped the tire of a parked car and struggled to get up. Hands rushed to assist her, but she batted them away.

“I’m fine,” Marissa said tersely.

She’s in shock.One person tried to explain her ungrateful behavior.

“Ms. Cole!” Olsen’s familiar voice broke through the crazy chatter around her. She saw the Guardian push through the gathering crowd. At this point, Marissa was on her feet, but she was hunched over because her entire back was in pain. Relief washed over Olsen’s face when she saw Marissa. The Guardian was on the phone. Marissa was pretty sure who was on the other end.

“She seems to be okay,” Olsen wheezed into the phone. “Uh . . . yes, Sir, hold on.” She held out the phone to Marissa. “Mr. Baran wants to talk to you.”

“Viktor.” Marissa tried to keep her voice steady.

“Are you okay?” His voice was calm, but the undercurrent of tension was enough to lodge a piece of shrapnel in her throat. She wanted to break down and cry, and have Viktor deal with this mess. So she kept quiet.

“Iz? Answer me, damn it.”

“I’m fine.” She seemed to be repeating herself a lot these days. Marissa limped around the car that probably took the brunt of the explosion, and stared at the fiery remains of her BMW. Sirens echoed in the distance.

“I’ll have Olsen bring you back here. I don’t want you out of my sight again.”

“I have a meeting with Yeager.” She scanned the crowd. Some perpetrators were too egotistical not to enjoy their handiwork.

“Fuck Yeager,” Viktor whispered fiercely. “You haul your ass back here, right now.”

“Son of a bitch—”

“Marissa! God fucking—”

“It’s Ali.” A surge of adrenalin fired up her limbs as her eyes landed on the face of Yusuf Ali among the sea of spectators ogling the burning wreckage. He was staring at her in disbelief, and he was backing away from the crowd. She’d be damned before she let him slink away. “I’m going after him.”

She tossed the phone back to Olsen, ignoring the cursing that erupted over the line. “Feed Baran the information.”

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