Melody's Six

“Later,” she replied without moving her lips.

Atwell’s craggy face graced a poster of the top ten most wanted global terrorists under the name Badih Azizi. His real name from his real life in Afghanistan. How in the world had he wound up here, waltzing around Colorado as a free man?

The last time she’d been this close to him, in the village outside his personal fortress on the other side of the world, he’d controlled a small empire focused on smuggling drugs and weapons. That had only been the tip of the criminal-interest iceberg.

She’d agreed to meet on his territory to negotiate the return of a shipment of surface to air missiles. He’d invited her only so he could kill her without fear of an investigation.

From his perspective, the negotiation had been a complete success.

The memory of the blast from the car bomb rippled over her skin. Her lungs scorched, ribs broken, gut heaving from the stench of burning hair and clothing as the SEALs protecting her dragged her away from the blaze.

The incident had been the last straw for Mel. Even though they’d pulled her out of the field, she’d put things in motion to leave the CIA. Desk work wasn’t her true calling. Unlike Claudia, Mel would be held up as an example of what not to do, thanks to her failed attempt to manage the risks and intangibles.

Survival that day had come down to last-minute intel from Azizi’s household and Mel’s own intuition about Azizi’s flare for the dramatic. If he wanted her dead, he sure wouldn’t be subtle about taking her out. She’d never learned who had sent the warning, or if their betrayal had ever come to light.

It sure would if he recognized her.

That harsh possibility galvanized her more than anything else. Warnings and explanations would wait. The director was already introducing Dean and Mel was next.

Clearly adapting to American customs, Azizi extended his hand to shake hers. As if it didn’t matter that she was female. She gripped his palm with a firm grasp and a brilliant smile. Kept her voice light, her words to a minimum, and managed the brief exchange without flinching. Or worse.

And then it was over. His focus returned to Spalding and Mel could hardly hear him over the buzzing in her ears.

The past didn’t matter, she reminded herself firmly. Azizi had no reason to suspect her true identity. Back in his country, they had never touched, she had never smiled at their meetings. And she was tremendously thankful now that she’d used a dark wig under the requisite scarf to hide her natural hair.

Her presence hadn’t wrecked the assignment. Yet.

How long would that hold true?