Page 12 of A Moment Never Forgotten
“I like that idea.” Berit headed toward the closet at the front door. “Call me next time you’re in town.”
“I’ll do that,” Teagan replied from the top of the steps just before she disappeared around the corner.
Micah leaped from his chair. “Here, let me get your coat.” He had it off the hanger and was holding it out so she could easily slip into it. “Let me walk you to your car.” He wasn’t sure why he was offering, but it seemed like the polite thing to do.
“There’s no need for both of us to get cold,” she chided. “This is probably one of the safest neighborhoods in the DC area.” With her hand on the doorknob, Berit stopped. Turning toward him, she asked, “When you were in Africa, did you have the chance to eat Ethiopian food?”
“Yes. It’s one of my favorites. Or maybe it’s just that I like to eat with my hands.” His joke felt awkward.
“There’s a great Ethiopian restaurant where I have to eat at least once a month to satisfy my urge for spicy food. I haven’t been there in a while.” She glanced away. When her gaze returned to him, she admitted, “I haven’t done this in a while either, so I’m not very good at it.” She held his gaze, and her breath. “Would you like to join me for Ethiopian food?” She spoke quickly on a whoosh of air. “Sometime?”
She was cute when she was uncertain. Micah doubted that happened very often. “Sometime, like Tuesday?” He wasn’t sure why he did it, but he went on to explain, “My real estate agent has appointments lined up for me over the next few days. My time this trip is tight.” He grinned. “But I’ll be living here by the first of the year.”
“Tuesday is perfect. That gives me the weekend to spend with my son, if he ever decides to stay home for ten minutes.” She glanced down at the buttons on his coat. “Thank you again for giving him, and his squad, the weekend off.”
Raising her head, she looked him straight in the eye. “These few days…thank you.” Her voice cracked as she blinked back tears that threatened to spill.
Micah doubted anyone, except her son, got to see this softer side of her. Something deep inside him wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her, kissing her tears away. He wanted to reassure her that Mak would be okay, but he couldn’t lie to her. They both knew better. Petty Officer First Class Mark Schaefer, the SEAL they buried the previous day, was proof.
Berit took a deep breath, as though fortifying herself. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“Let me have your phone.” Micah held out his hand.
“Why?” She snapped.
“I’ll program in my number, so you can text me the name of the restaurant,” he explained.
She rolled her eyes and dug into her pocket. “I told you, I wasn’t good at this.”
When she handed him her phone, he handed it back to her. “Berit, you’re going to need to unlock it.” He didn’t bother holding back his grin. She truly looked befuddled.
He couldn’t remember ever doing that to a woman before. Confusing them? Absolutely. Many of the base bunnies were dumb as a box of rocks. It was a good thing you didn’t have to talk to them to fuck them. Berit, on the other hand, was extremely intelligent. He was sure she could carry on conversations on a wide variety of subjects. But she was certainly out of practice flirting.
After swiping at the screen, she handed it back to him with the phone app open. “Just use my phone to call yours. I’ll make it a contact. And I’ll text you the name and address of the restaurant.” She was so uncomfortable with the situation it was almost comical.
Micah’s phone silently vibrated in his pocket. Extracting it, he stared at the number, instantly memorizing it. Yes. He would put it in his contacts, but it was solidly in his brain, already. “Here you go.” When she took the phone from him, he dragged his finger over the back of her hand. “I look forward to seeing you on Tuesday.”
“Yes.” She quickly opened the door and disappeared across the porch.
Micah grinned. It had been a long time since he had this kind of fun with a woman. He was looking forward to Tuesday.
Chapter Five
The private satellite phone deep in the dark-haired man’s pocket rang with the familiar, albeit muffled, ring tone, interrupting the boring diatribe of one of his department heads. Same shit, different day. There wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about congressional funding, and even if he could find the additional assets, he certainly wouldn’t divert them to this man’s idiotic idea.
“I really need to take this.” He quickened his pace without apology and unlocked the door to his four-year-old Buick. He turned on the mechanisms blocking out all means of listening devices. His conversation would now be entirely secure.
“You are up late, Uncle. I hope all is well with you and yours,” he said in the Arabic dialect of his youth. Although his English was flawless, thanks to the devout Catholic family who raised him from age ten after being brought to the U.S.A. from a Syrian refugee camp, he cherished conversations in his native tongue.
“Abd al Rashid, my favorite nephew, I have just left a meeting with Abdul Sayyed. He assures me that we continue to have the complete support of the Supreme Leader of Iran. We are the tip of Allah’s sword for the Islamic Revolution.”
Worry snaked its way through the man as he backed out of his designated parking space in the CIA underground garage. He wondered why his uncle was so excited. The current president of Iran had generously provided the land for the New Islamic State. Had international pressures forced him to regret that decision?
His uncle chuckled. “Sayyed was anxious for more details of our plan. Does he think me a fool? What he really wanted to know was when he could take delivery of the gold that you will bring when you finally come home.”
Fuck! He still hadn’t found the gold that disappeared after the failed Syrian mission nearly twelve years ago. Gabriel Davis hadn’t been any help. He swore he’d seen it there just before the explosion that was meant to bury it until their Caliphate needed it. By the time a team had reached the site to retrieve the gold bars, they were gone.
Although he could easily hand over five million dollars, half the value of the gold, he needed to find the gold bars. Perhaps it was time to unlock Matthew Saint Clare’s mind. No one was sure if he knew where the gold went, only that he was the last one to see it. The man only hoped that the CIA psychiatrist was as good as he claimed. Inching forward in bumper-to-bumper DC traffic, the man shrugged. He, too, could die.
