Colonel Cullen didn't appear much happier, glaring, silent, leaning against the wall with arms folded over his chest, hand clutching his LMR—Land Mobile Radio. His top lip curled as if someone had overturned the latrine.
They all listened while two men conducted the interview. Special Argent Maxwell Keagan, a civilian employee in the Air Force Office of Special Investigation, peppered her with questions. Captain Daniel "Crusty" Baker, head of the advance element setup team, passed paperwork to Keagan one sheat at a time in a subtle message to the woman to keep her story clean.
No one would guess from Crusty's apparent calm and carelessly rumpled flight suit that he had as much at stake here as the rest of them since his father—the Ambassador to Rubistan—had recently been assassinated. And to think months ago Jack had gone to Crusty for those connections to help Sydney find her way here.
A powder keg of guilt rested beneath his anger.
"Why use the fake name?" Keagan asked with deceptive disinterest. His unconventional air could be mistaken for slackness—casual khakis, a purple polo, spiked hair.
Would Yasmine Halibiz look deeper and find the honed agent with a CIA background prior to signing on with the Air Force's OSI?
"If I had applied here with my real name—" her eyes didn't shift away, but she blinked fast, too fast "—members of my family would have objected to my leaving. So I used Bahijah Faris's name, with her permission. Her family needs the money I offered. They are a large family and her sister has a baby on the way."
The questions droned on while Jack studied the two men quizzing Yasmine. He'd always been able to tackle anything he set his mind to until Monica. What secret were guys like Baker and Keagan holding back from the rest of the bachelor population?
Baker was cross-eyed ecstatic with his wife, while Keagan was downright sappy since he got an engagement ring on copilot Darcy Renshaw's finger. For that matter, how did Keagan make the career thing work with his fiancee in their mutual Air Force workplace?
He'd definitely have to buy the guy a beer and pump him for information.
Keagan slid another form from the folder. "If you wanted to defect, why didn't you do so on any of the trips you made to the States with your mother?"
That "mother" word sent Monica's spine straighter than an at attention airman. As pissed as he was, he couldn't turn away from her when she was vulnerable—a rare event.
Behind her and away from prying eyes, Jack gripped the back of her chair, stroked a slow reassurance with one knuckle between her shoulder blades. She bristled under his touch, shot him a warning glare, but nothing more. If she spoke, the others would know. She had to accept his comfort.
"Because I did not want to leave my mother here alone," Yasmine continued. "Because I was a child then. Because life became... difficult for me after she died. Any number of reasons, none of which matter now. I am requesting asylum, and as the daughter of a former citizen of the United States, it is my understanding this request should be fairly simple to accommodate."
Max Keagan thumbed through a folder without looking up. "Why not just call one of your sisters?"
"I haven't been free to move since my mother and father died."
Monica's pain radiated from her until his finger burned. He didn't know what the hell was up with this Middle-Eastern mini-Monica in front of him, but if she hurt his wife, she'd be serving up that goat stew in prison.
Monica's brain echoed with Yasmine's words in this endless interview. Former citizen. Their mother. No longer alive.
Even a year after her mother's death, the loss stabbed. As long as her mother lived, there was hope of...what? Reconciliation? Some kind of inner peace over something she couldn't find her way through to forgiving?
She tried to remind herself this poised young woman wasn't the same spoiled brat who traveled to the States once a year during their mother's annual two-week treks to see her other daughters. Somehow those trips hurt worse than if they'd never seen her again. During the first year after their mother's defection, she'd woven tortured tales of how their mother couldn't return home. Wasn't allowed. A bedtime story that conversely frightened and sustained them... >Frightening.
"Please," she whispered. "If someone witnesses this..."
His hands brushed her belly just below her br**sts once before he stepped away, his search complete, no weapon discovered since she did not have one. Why would she? How useless to expect her negligible strength could outmaneuver any of these armed men. Especially one this large. She would outthink him instead.
Once she stopped seeing spots in front of her eyes.
Her uncle expected her to ferret information, to discover if this was truly a deployment to assist with the distribution of humanitarian aid, something that happened often in her country. Or was it another American mission to destroy secret training camps in their endless war on terrorism. Since Ammar might well have other spies in place here, she would have to tread this double game warily if she wanted out of the country in one piece.
The soldier with sea-blue eyes and mountainous shoulders dusted his hands along the mottled tan print of his uniform pants as if he sought to clean away the feel of her. "Who are you?"
"I am Bahijah Faris, not that it matters. You have my note. Did I not express myself correctly?" She knew full well she had. Thanks to her American mother, Yasmine spoke English almost as fluently as Arabic. "I seek asylum in the United States. And you are?"
"The wrong man for you to play your flirting games with, little girl. So let's hope you're being straight up now." His fingers banded her arm again.
She shivered, but refused to be daunted by his threats. She'd heard worse.
He charged forward, propelling her down the abandoned corridor stacked with crates. Apparently the sensitive soul she found in his eyes was housed by a brusque exterior. Of course, many men were afraid to show anything that might be perceived as weakness. "Little girl? I think you misunderstand. I am twenty-three years old, well of age by your country's standards, unmarried, without ties to this place, so there is no reason for me to be denied my wish."
"I'll keep that in mind, Methuselah," he barked, boots thumping cadence down the split-tile floor.