Page 212 of Whisper
Dan’s face twisted, heartache and rage battling for dominance as Kris spoke. His hands made fists on the tabletop.
“Al-Qaeda says Al-Khorasani is here on a mission. It’s the September eleventh anniversary in two days. He must be here to pull off some kind of attack.” Kris covered his face with one hand, trying to hold back his sudden sob. Tears rolled down his cheeks, dripped from his jaw.
His eyes closed. He couldn’t look at Dan.
Just hours before, Dawood hadfuckedhim.
He’d fucked Kris, and fucked him over, too. Everything he’d said had been a lie. All his whispers of devotion, of his undying love. His words rang hollow and empty, especially falling from the lips of the man who’d stolen Kris’s heart and then his laptop, who’d tried to steal CIA secrets.
Who hadusedKris.
Who was here to attack them all.
“You need to call Ryan,” Kris choked out. “We have to stop him.”
Dan jumped into action, not looking at Kris as he made his calls, upgraded the APB and put out an alert for Dawood’s immediate arrest. He called for all intelligence on Al-Khorasani, everything that had been found, even if it was just a scrap, a rumor, a whisper, next.
“Dan? Have them bring the original audio recording of Al Dakhil Al-Khorasani’s speech. Not just the transcript. We’ll know then.”
He knew it was true, like he’d known he wanted to marry David, but he didn’t want to face it, not yet.
His husband was now the CIA’s most wanted terrorist.
His heart was screaming, his soul was shredding, and he just couldn’t take this anymore.
Dan’s hand covered his, silently.
When the door beeped open, Dan drew back. Kris slumped over himself. A man entered, someone Kris had only met in passing. He wore a sharp suit and had even sharper features, cheekbones you could skydive from, olive skin and dark, wavy hair combed back just so. “Dan,” he said, nodding hello. His voice was gently accented. It took Kris a second to place the accent. Israel. Tel Aviv.
“You’re Noam, right? The FIA from Israel?” Kris sniffed, loudly. He must look like shit.
The man nodded. His eyes flicked over Kris. “You must be Kris Caldera.”
Kris swallowed. So even the FIAs had heard about him.
Noam leaned into Dan, one hand on his shoulder, and spoke softly. “My people have a source in Aden. They sent us these.” He set a folder down on the table, flicked it open.
Pictures in black and white. Pictures of three men clustered around the port in Aden, Yemen, beside a moored tanker ship. Saying goodbye, hugging, kissing each other on the cheeks. In the center of the group, there was Dawood.
And then, boarding a tanker, waving goodbye to the two Arab men who’d stayed behind.
“Our sources say this man—” Noam pointed to Dawood. “—is the one they called Al-Khorasani.”
Dan’s gaze flicked to Kris’s. He exhaled.
Noam squeezed Dan’s shoulder. Their eyes met, and held. “Thank you,” Dan said softly. “This is huge.” Noam smiled, something softer than just a FIA, a Mossad agent, to a CIA colleague. Kris blinked, and saw Dan and Noam in a different light. Saw the hand on Dan’s shoulder, the small smile on Noam’s face. How long their gazes lingered.
He cleared his throat, overly loud. Lifted his chin and stared Noam down when Noam started.
“I’ll come by your office later, Dan.” Noam strode out, never once looking at Kris.
Dan wouldn’t look at him, either.
“You two know each other well.”
Dan took his time answering. “Remember when I spent those six months in Tel Aviv? On assignment with Mossad? Noam and I became friends then.”
Friends. Of course. Something dark slithered in Kris’s belly.
