Page 52 of Zero Hour

“What about your car?” Jasmine asked suddenly, pulling him back from the storm in his head. “Won’t they be able to trace it back to you?”

He shook his head, instinct kicking in. Stick to the facts. Stay sharp. “It’s a company car, registered to a shell company. Can’t be linked back to me.”

She pursed her lips, studying him. “That’s smart. Do you do that with all your vehicles?”

“Most of them,” he admitted. “If any of my operatives get compromised or end up in an accident, we don’t want the bad guys tracing them back to us.”

“What kind of organization do you run?” she asked. “You never got around to telling me.”

“Didn’t I?” He forced a smile, keeping it light.

“I know you’re not CIA or FBI, so you must be private. Security contractor, maybe?”

“Close enough. We provide security solutions to corporations and individuals. High-risk extractions, counterterrorism ops, covert surveillance.” He took a sip of his beer. “We also do some work for the U.S. government.”

“On the quiet?” She raised an eyebrow.

He gave a brief nod. She didn’t miss much.

“Of course. Although, I think I made quite a loud noise when I drove my car through Al-Jabiri’s wall. They’re not going to like that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Damn Amir for being so pigheaded.”

He tightened his jaw. “That’s one way of putting it.”

She sighed. “I know he’s a bad guy, but when you hear his story, you can’t help but feel sorry for him.”

Pat went still. The beer bottle in his hand suddenly felt heavier. The slow burn of frustration and self-recrimination bubbled over. He couldn’t stay quiet anymore and listen to her defend that evil bastard.

She needed to hear this. She needed to understand what Al-Jabiri really was.

“Let me tell you what Al-Jabiri is capable of.”

Her expression tightened at his harsh tone, but he pushed on.

“Eight years ago…” He stopped. No, he had to go further back. “Sixteen years ago, I was on an op in the Middle East. We had intelligence on a terrorist training camp, a high-value target running it. Al-Jabiri. Back then, they called him the Falcon.”

Jasmine’s eyes widened, deep green pools filled with quiet dread.

“Our mission was to capture him and take out the camp. Standard direct-action raid—go in hard, neutralize the threat, extract intel, and level the site.”

His voice flattened, going clinical, because that was the only way he could get through it. Stick to the mission brief.

“We breached at dawn, hit them before they even knew we were there. Took out resistance at the perimeter, cleared the main compound. We got to Al-Jabiri, secured him, and prepped the charges. We were in and out in under thirty minutes.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Right before detonation, a woman ran inside one of the buildings. Al-Jabiri’s wife.”

Jasmine gasped, a small, sharp sound.

“She died instantly in the explosion,” he continued, voice like steel. No emotion. No hesitation. That was how he’d reported it in the debrief. Just another part of the op.

Except it wasn’t.

The image was burned into his brain—the way she’d darted into the building, how they’d shouted, tried to wave her back. The split second where everything slowed, where he’d thought, Maybe we can stop this.

But it had been too late.

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