Page 18 of Deceptive Lies

Immediately, Cooper’s gaze moved to where he’d last seen the figure in black, and just like before, it was there again.

This time it was huddled right in on itself, looking more like a pile of black material than a human being. But it was a human. A person who he was positive was not sitting in the corner of the room, swathed in material, of their own free will.

“I was looking for photos,” Mahmoud continued.

“Photos?” he asked, tearing his gaze away from the figure in black. “What photos?”

“From my wedding,” the professor told him. “After you left, I felt bad that I hadn't had much to give you so I thought I’d go through photos and see if I could find some of your mother.”

“And didyou?”

“I did.” Nodding at the table, Mahmoud took a seat and pushed what looked like a photo album forward.

Intrigued, Cooper took a seat and opened the album. Flipping through the first few pages, which were all photos of the bride and groom and their families, he then found some of the guests. Scouring the groups of people sitting around tables eating and drinking, he finally spotted her.

His mother.

Just as he remembered her.

She was wearing a bright green dress, in line with what all the other women were wearing, and even though she was at the back of a table, barely noticeable, he could see how it brought out her eyes. No wonder she’d stood out that night, she looked gorgeous, those stunning eyes were enough to stick in anyone’s mind because they were such an unusual and almost unnatural shade for a human’s eyes.

But was it really the reason Professor Mahmoud had remembered her almost two decades later? And why had she attended his wedding in the first place? It wasn't like the two were friends, and this had to be the final mission she ever worked for the CIA before she was arrested and died.

Feeling like he had opened Pandora’s box and had no idea what the consequences would be, Cooper fixed a hard stare on the professor and asked the most pressing question. “Why were you having me followed?”

July 11th

7:08 P.M

“Uh …” Professor Mahmoud stammered, his gaze darting all around the room but not settling on anything.

Willow was listening to the conversation only because she was waiting for the perfect opportunity to make her move.

Determination was flowing through her system. It was givingher strength her body so badly needed and was dulling the pain throbbing inside her, almost stealing her ability to function.

There was no time to waste on resting.

As nice as it would be to just curl up in a little ball and close her eyes, drift away into sleep, and forget for a little while that she was in danger and had to constantly watch her back and be prepared for the next assault, that wasn't possible. If she wanted to live, she had to fight for her life.

Maybe she wouldn't win that fight, but she was going to give it everything she had.

So, she clung to that determination and forced her mind to focus.

She didn't really care what the two men were talking about. Not that she wished the American any ill will. She hoped he would find the answers he needed to be able to get closure on whatever had happened to his mom almost two decades ago, but she couldn’t let that be her focus right now. At the moment, she had to use every drop of strength she had left to get herself out of hell.

If he helped her, she’d certainly do anything she could to help him find the answers he sought. But right now, she had to just focus on surviving. So, whatever the two men were talking about was only relevant to her in that she had to time this perfectly if she wanted it to work.

One chance.

That’s all she had.

If she blew it, it would be gone along with her hopes of rescue.

Willow still wasn't even sure if this man would help her, like her, it seemed he only had one purpose, and he might be prepared to sacrifice her—a complete stranger whose story he didn't know—to achieve his goals.

Even if he did decide to help, what could he actually do? Besides the professor, there were a couple of the men who had been beating her earlier still there. Some had scattered when the American showed up, but others were in the house, waiting in case Professor Mahmoud needed help.

Though she was positive he was military, he could only do so much if he was outnumbered. And maybe he wasn't even armed. Theprofessor and his friends most certainly were, although they preferred using their fists on her, she had seen the guns lying around.

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