Page 33 of Smoke and Shadows

“Where are you—”

Taking several tentative steps and ignoring the pain shooting through her body, Marissa heaved a deep breath and shot off after Ali.

“You should have knockedher over the head, or better yet, tranq’d her,” Viktor yelled at Olsen. Handing Tim the phone, he ordered, “Talk to Olsen. Get their exact location and set up the grid. I want visuals on Ms. Cole ASAP.”

“But where—” Tim called out after him.

“I’m going in the field,” Viktor threw over his shoulder. “Send the feed to my phone and my car’s computer.”

He jogged up the dimly lit tunnels of AGS HQ, all thewhile seething between panic and anger. Damn Marissa for making him feel this way. Bottom line, he didn’t trust her enough to take care of herself. He hadn’t trained her the way he did Maia. If he had known the woman was going to twist him up in knots, he wouldn’t have started a relationship with her.

Relationship?

Shit. I’m fucked.

If there wassomething Marissa was good at, it was running, and fortunately, she had put on boots this morning. Although, stilettos wouldn’t have even stopped her. She’d simply take them off and sprint barefoot.

Ali turned the corner from T Street onto New Hampshire Avenue. His destination undoubtedly the center of Dupont Circle—traffic nightmare capital and a sure fire way to lose a pursuer. But not today.

She vaguely heard Agent Olsen call her name, but like all marathons, the finish line became the goal and all else faded into white noise. In this case, tackling Ali to the ground was the prime objective, much like a runaway bunny to her wolf.

Her senses went on full alert as she rounded the corner into Dupont Circle and saw her prey standing with both hands raised. Bystanders reading the paper, and pedestrians crossing the Circle slowly turned their attention on the unfolding drama.

So much for covert ops—realizing the impulsiveness of her actions and the cost to her cover.

Marissa’s hand went to the grip of her 9mm, not wanting to draw her firearm in such a public place. Besides, Ali was not visibly armed. She needed Olsen to take charge of the arrest, and she needed to fade into the background beforeanybody decided to make a video, turning her into a YouTube sensation. Wouldn’t that give Yeager heartburn?

“What’s going on here?” a Metropolitan police officer barked.

“This is official business, officer!” Marissa shouted, not taking her eyes off Ali. “Get on the ground, Ali!”

“Unless you present your badge, ma’am, you have no jurisdiction here and I suggest you remove your hand from your firearm.”

The CIA had no badge, dummy. That was the FBI or any of the other alphabet agencies, but never the CIA.

“Ms. Cole!” Olsen gasped from behind her.

Marissa should feel relief, but her instincts were screaming for her to hit the deck. This scene was wrong. Very wrong. Ali’s eyes shifted to a spot behind her.

Son of a bitch. It was a trap.

Marissa slammedinto Olsen just as the first bullet struck the pavement. Thankful for the illegally parked car in front of them, she dragged the Guardian behind the vehicle while yelling for the MPD cop to take cover. Screaming ensued when spectators realized that someone was shooting at them.

“Shots fired at the corner of Dupont Circle and New Hampshire Avenue. I need backup now!” the officer said through his shoulder radio. Crouch walking to Marissa and Olsen, he demanded, “Who in Jesus Christ are you guys?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Marissa replied, wincing briefly when a shell casing struck her face. The car they were hiding behind was being raked by sniper bullets, and all they could do was wait it out. Low ground was a disadvantage and it would be suicide to return fire without knowing the location of your target.

Speaking of target, Marissa glanced around. Yusuf Ali was long gone.

“You’re bleeding, Ms. Cole,” Olsen reminded her to take a physical inventory of her injuries. Not that getting shot at after almost getting blown up was an everyday occurrence, but it did happen, more often than she liked.

“Flesh wound.” She glanced dispassionately at the rapidly soaking fabric of her jeans.

“The guy’s ballsy,” Marissa informed the cop. “Isn’t there a police station right across from us?”

“Damn right there is.”

A car screeched to a halt beside them.

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