Page 31 of Zero Hour

Two weeks since her life had been ripped apart.

This was her new reality—hiding in plain sight. A visit to the library, a stop at a coffee shop where she could write in her notebook, a grocery run, then waiting for Amir to return. Or, as it was now, waiting for permission to go home.

“Jasmine? Jasmine, is that you?”

She froze at the sound of the familiar voice.

A middle-aged woman was crossing the street, hands full of grocery bags.

Instinct kicked in. Jasmine pulled her scarf up, lowered her gaze, and looped her arm through Amir’s. The woman hesitated, brow furrowing. Then she muttered, “Sorry,” and hurried away.

“Who was that?” Amir asked, his voice tight.

“A woman from my practice,” she said lightly.

He grunted, and she let go of his arm.

No one could know she was here.

Her colleagues thought she was on leave, grieving her husband. Her son thought she was away on a work trip. If anyone found out the truth—that she was trapped in the home of an internationally wanted terrorist—her life would be over.

The authorities would interrogate her.

Her practice would be destroyed.

Her clients would leave.

Ryan would be in even more danger.

No, it was in everyone’s best interest that she remained invisible. Hence the scarf. It was more than just a disguise. It changed how people perceived her, changed their assumptions. It kept her safe.

“Behave yourself,” Amir warned as they reached the station entrance. His tone was light, but there was an edge to it. Riad’s sharp gaze pinned her in place.

“I will. See you later,” she replied evenly.

Only once they’d disappeared did she release a shuddering sigh. That was too close. If Margaret had recognized her . . .

The fresh air steadied her as she strolled toward the library. There was no need to rush—Amir’s “business” usually took at least an hour.

Was he meeting contacts? Coordinating an attack?

She shivered with foreboding. His meetings were becoming more frequent, almost daily now. Whatever they were planning, the deadline was approaching.

If she knew where or when the attack was happening, would she risk everything to stop it? Would she put Ryan’s life on the line?

She swallowed hard.

No.

As much as she wanted to do the right thing, she knew she couldn’t. Her son came first.

Besides, she didn’t know what they were planning. Not really.

The library was blissfully quiet, a cool escape from the noise outside. The Columbia Heights area had changed a lot in the last decade, with new businesses and high-rise apartments cropping up, but it was still grittier than the quiet, middle-class neighborhood where she’d lived with Adam.

She returned a book she’d read the night before and checked out another. Cognitive behavioral therapy for PTSD. A subject she believed in, now more than ever.

After sending a quick email to Ryan, she left for the nearby coffee shop.

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