Page 216 of Whisper
Kris sagged in the driver’s seat. Had Dawood followed him from Langley? Stolen his truck from Kris’s building, camped outside Langley and waited, for hours and hours, for him to leave? How had he known Kris was in the Bolt?
Dawood waited, his hands in his pockets, by the truck’s door.
He should call this in. He should text Danright now, call for reinforcements. Get the police, the FBI response team, out here immediately.
Instead, Kris slid out of the car. Faced Dawood.
Dawood looked terrible. As terrible as Kris felt, maybe worse. He rocked from foot to foot, and his shoulders were bunched, clenched tight up by his ears. In the morning light, Kris saw stubble, regrowth from where he’d shaved the beard he’d sported only two days before. His eyes were red, bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept or like he’d been crying for hours.
“You followed me. Again.”
Dawood nodded.
“Why? Think you can steal more intel from me? Newsflash, hon. Thanks to your little snatch and grab, the CIA is probably going to fire me.”
Dawood winced. He turned to the truck and curled inward, pressing his forehead to the window, his hands clenching the door. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”
“Please, tell me what youdidn’tdo. Because from where I’m standing, you fucked me. You used me. And you stole from me.”
Dawood hissed, long and sharp. His breath shook.
“What youdidn’tdo was tell me the truth.” Kris shook his head. “Do you even care about me at all anymore? Even a tiny, tiny bit?”
“I fuckingloveyou!” Dawood whirled, exploding, shouting through gritted teeth. He strode toward Kris, reaching for him.
Kris jerked back, out of his range. He put up his fists, dropped into a fighter’s stance.
Dawood froze. “I’ll never hurt you,” he whispered.
“You already have hurt me. More than you’ll ever know. Ever understand.”
Dawood’s expression crumpled.
“Why did you take my laptop? What are you planning?” It was the strangest fucking interrogation of Kris’s life, standing in the middle of his old street with his formerly dead husband, the CIA’s most wanted terrorist. He still had Dawood’s touch on his skin, could still feel the ghost of his kisses on his shoulder, his thigh.
Down the block, a garage door opened. A jogger appeared, a man heading down the block away from them. He did a double take, though, and ran backward, staring. Strangers in the middle of the street were unusual in this neighborhood. It was quiet, serene. Private. That’s why they’d picked it, all those years ago.
“Can we go somewhere and talk? I have so much to tell you.” Dawood’s words trembled, his voice wound through with something that sounded like regret.
“You can tell the CIA everything you need to.”
“No, I can’t do that.” Dawood dug in his pockets, pulled out a cell phone. “Kris, I am trying to help—”
“By what? Attacking us? What’s your target? The CIA? Or something else?”
“No!” Dawood held out the phone. “Read this! Please!”
“You want me to be the one to push the button? You want me to detonate some bomb? God, you’re fucking cruel, you know that. Entrap me in your plan, make me the murderer—”
“No! Do you think so little of me?”
“Yes. After yesterday? After the past decade? Yes!”
Dawood’s lips thinned. He rubbed one hand over his face. He held his phone out again. “Please,” he breathed. “Read these texts. You don’t have to push anything.”
What did Dawood gain from him reading the messages? Would it matter that his prints would be on Dawood’s phone? If he called this in in the next few minutes, no. He could say he was reeling him in, playing along. What would he gain from reading the texts of a terrorist? What manipulation was Dawood trying to pull?
He wouldn’t know unless he read them.
