Page 79 of Zero Hour

She smiled. “Likewise.”

Through the glass windows of Pat’s office, she could see the open-plan office. A stream of serious-looking men in suits marched past. She blinked in shock.

Was that the Secretary of Homeland Security?

Wow. Patrick’s team had serious clout.

She watched as he shook hands and nodded. He seemed calm, collected, and powerful. Last night, she’d been wrapped around that body, crying out his name as he brought her to climax over and over again.

How much had changed in such a short space of time.

Now she was drowning in fear. The person she loved most in the world was in the hands of a monster, and she had to trust Patrick and the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division to bring him back alive.

She exhaled sharply and pressed her lips together, swallowing the panic.

Ryan will need you in one piece when we get him home.

Patrick’s words echoed in her mind.

He was right. She had to stay strong. For Ryan.

Desperate for distraction, Jasmine stood and wandered around Patrick’s office. She stopped at his desk, where two framed photographs sat.

The first was of an exotic dark-haired woman with unusual blue eyes and a wide, infectious smile. She looked vaguely like Izzy.

It must be her mother, the one that Amir had driven off the road.

The second was of a slender brunette with soft dark eyes and a wedding ring.

Pat’s late wife.

Two women he’d loved. Two women he’d lost.

Her heart tightened. What a tragedy. Like Izzy had said, he’d been through a lot.

Then her gaze fell on a third photo.

It was smaller, older, in a worn frame. Unlike the others, this one looked well-handled—picked up, touched often.

A young man in military fatigues stared back at her, wearing a maroon beret, his dark eyes solemn and proud. Jasmine turned the frame over.

Joe Burke. Killed in action.

Her breath hitched.

Patrick had lost his son, too. Strange how he’d never mentioned that. Then again, military men often weren’t big talkers. They tended to keep things bottled up inside, which is why they didn’t always get help when they needed it. She saw it time and time again with her patients. Brave men, willing to die for their country, but not willing to ask for help.

Loss after loss, yet Patrick was still standing. Still fighting.

Was that what fueled him? What kept him going?

She was so deep in her psychoanalysis of the man she was sleeping with, she almost didn’t hear thepingof her phone.

It was an unknown number.

Heart racing, she read the message.

Go to the police, and we’ll kill your son.

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