Page 2 of Zero Hour

They finished their meal and paid in cash. Of course.

“Falcon is on the move,” Pat muttered into his earpiece.

“Copy that.”

The couple headed for the exit. Pat dipped his head, feigning interest in the paper. “One moment,” he heard Al-Jabiri say to his date.

He froze.

Footsteps approached and a shadow fell over his table. Not literally, but Pat could feel the goddamn darkness surrounding the man.

Fuck.

He’d been made. After all these years he wasn’t sure the terrorist would even recognize him.

“Pat Burke,” the Falcon said, his deep voice dripping with disdain. “I see you’re working for the FBI now. Or is it the CIA? I’m never quite sure who’s watching me.”

Pat didn’t bother to correct him. The less he knew about that, the better. “Amir Al-Jabiri. I thought you were still rotting in a cell.”

The terrorist’s eyes slanted. “Not anymore. I’m a free man now.”

Pat didn’t miss the bitter edge to his voice. “That’s a damn shame. Prison’s the best place for a murderer like you.”

The eyes of the woman who had followed him over widened. Pat faced her and said somewhat viciously, “Did you know your lunch date was convicted of four terrorist attacks? Fourteenpeople died in the last one.” He turned back to Al-Jabiri. “Berlin, wasn’t it?”

She didn’t answer. Nor did she react.

She knew.

Up close, he noticed her eyes were flecked with green, like they were shot through with threads from her scarf. She held his gaze, but it wasn’t defiance he saw there.

Fear? Was she scared? Did Al-Jabiri frighten her? Pat dragged his gaze away.

“I was paroled.” Al-Jabiri smirked. “You’re wasting your time following me.”

Pat smirked right back. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Al-Jabiri sighed. “I thought we’d settled our differences. An eye for an eye and all that. Why are you bothering me now?”

Pat frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?” The last time he’d seen the murdering scumbag had been at his trial.

Al-Jabiri leaned over, placing his hands on the table. The darkness was almost unbearable. “Your lover. The Brazilian model. I thought you knew. I left a note.”

Confusion roiled in his gut.

Astrid? Could he be talking about Astrid?

Born in Brazil, but with a Swedish mother, she’d had exotic good looks and vivid blue eyes, a mesmerizing combination that had catapulted her to supermodel status in her youth. He’d been crazy about her.

A darker vision clouded his memory. A car wreck on an icy road. Head hanging forward, blue eyes shuttered, dark hair wet with blood.

He scowled. “What note?”

Al-Jabiri saw the confusion on Pat’s face and smirked—a dark, evil grin. “I’m disappointed. All this time, I thought I had gotten my revenge, but you didn’t even know.”

Pat stood up, forcing the man to take a step back. His voice was an iceberg. “Know what?”

Al-Jabiri spread his arms, trying to appear unfazed by Pat’s extra four-inches of height. “You took my love, so I took yours.”

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