For San Diego's elite FBI agents,
risking their lives is standard procedure
when it comes to capturing the city's
most dangerous criminals-
but falling in love is the greatest risk of all.
TARGETED
FBI Heat #2
Marissa Garner
Released June 7th, 2016
Forever Yours
RIPPED FROM THE HEADLINES . .
.
FBI Special Agent Marissa Panuska
faces the most explosive case of her career when she impersonates a female
terrorist to infiltrate an al-Qaeda cell. Her dark hair, olive complexion, and
Arabic fluency make her the perfect imposter, but each passing hour raises the
risk of discovery. Can she stop the dirty-bomb plot-alone-when the Feds don't
even know the target? And should she trust the mysterious man who bursts into
her life when her cover is blown?
SO CLOSE TO REALITY . . .
Former Navy SEAL Ameen Ali has a
very personal reason for hating the terrorists and vowing to stop them. But
when a beautiful woman joins the sleeper cell spreading death-to-America
propaganda at his mosque, he doesn't want to believe she shares their evil
goals. Can he convince her to join forces before it's too late?
Night
had fallen when Samir parked the truck in front of the dilapidated
house in the drug-infested Tijuana slum. Once he killed the
headlights, the moon provided the only illumination along the
crumbling asphalt road. Wedged between Samir and Omar on the seat,
Marissa Panuska scanned the neighborhood of decaying buildings,
hoping to catch a reassuring glimpse of the two agents who were out
there—somewhere—following her, watching her back.
On
five previous occasions, the terrorists had brought her to their
hideout in Mexico, just across the border from San Diego. Marauding
drug gangs ruled the area where crackling gunfire was as common as
barking dogs. The constant smell of weed permeated the air and stung
her nostrils. The residents were rarely visible, preferring relative
safety behind walls.
Marissa’s
gaze swept over the run-down house, checking for any signs of change
or trouble. Boards protected the windows from prying eyes, and a
padlock secured the door against thieves. The electrical connection
dangling from the sagging overhead lines was one of the few in the
slum, and the satellite phone antenna on the roof was definitely
unique.
After
an anxious look around, Omar jumped out to unlock the door before all
three darted inside. Samir switched on the lamp that sat on the floor
by the door. Ignoring the stench from the barely functioning
bathroom, they hurried past it and the bedroom on the left. A narrow
archway separated the front room from the larger back room, which
included a rudimentary kitchen along one wall. The furnishings
consisted of six metal folding chairs, a wooden table, and three tall
lamps. Several boxes of electronic parts, including a new one, were
lined up near the rear door. The place was filthy, but no one cared.
The
stifling heat in the closed-up house stole Marissa’s breath. Sweat
dampened her skin beneath the long, black abaya
and niqab,
the Muslim robe and veil she wore over her other clothes. While the
men turned on the lights, she sank onto one of the flimsy chairs,
morbidly wondering if she was more likely to die from heat stroke
than at the hands of the terrorists.
Holding
the niqab
away from her face, she drew slow, deep breaths and grimaced at the
pain in her lungs and stomach. The stress of impersonating Baheera
Abbas, of pretending to be the female terrorist previously unknown to
the US intelligence community, gnawed at Marissa’s nerves. If only
she could determine Baheera’s role in the planned attack, she might
be able to finish the covert operation, might be able to survive.
Every passing minute held the threat of discovery and diminished that
possibility.
Marissa
wiped the sweat from her face and watched the two men admire the
sword-like knife Samir had purchased in a shop along Avenida
Revolución
on their way through Tijuana. On previous visits, Samir’s first
priority had been to unlock the metal gun cabinet bolted to the floor
in the bedroom closet and to confirm the delivery of additional bomb
components. But tonight, the sleeper cell’s leader and Omar were
distracted by the massive blade, which they took turns brandishing
menacingly at each other.
Samir’s
satellite phone lay on the table. The phone never left his sight
because it represented the cell’s umbilical cord to the Middle
East, the only method of communication between the terrorists here
and those at home. Homeland Security couldn’t fathom why just one
means of contact existed, why no alternate options were in place.
They suspected the men in charge didn’t trust anyone except Samir
and wanted to minimize the risk of the plot being traced back to the
source. Unable to determine the terrorists’ reasons, US officials
decided the terrorist mind was impossible to comprehend and worked to
exploit the obvious weakness in the cell’s strategy. The Bureau and
other government agencies had simply taken advantage of the situation
and monitored the terrorists’ calls with ease.
Until
two weeks ago, Marissa had been one of the agents monitoring those
calls, listening to and translating many long distance conversations
between Samir and his bosses. Discovering the true identities of the
people had been a frustrating, and often futile, process. No one used
a last name, and even the first names were suspect as they were
frequently aliases. Husaam was the name used by the man who seemed to
be at the top, but the common Arab name made it impossible to
positively identify or trace him.
The
sat phone’s ring interrupted Marissa’s thoughts.
Everyone
froze.
Samir
shot it a startled glance. The call seemed to confuse him for a
moment, suggesting he didn’t expect to be contacted tonight. He
grabbed the phone, answering warily in Arabic. His face tensed, and
his tone turned respectful when he launched into a detailed status
report. As usual, he lowered his voice and walked into the front room
so neither Omar nor Marissa could hear.
She
prayed that someone in Washington would be listening in real time—not
hours later to a recording.
Only
five minutes passed before Samir, wearing a Cheshire cat grin,
strolled back through the doorway and held out the phone to her. Her
stomach knotted. Only Samir talked on the sat phone.
Saying
nothing, he thrust it at her again.
Hesitantly,
she put the phone to her ear and spoke in precise Arabic. “Allahu
Akbar.”
The
man on the phone greeted her affectionately—as his wife.
BUY NOW
I'm a
wife, writer, chocoholic, and animal lover, not necessarily in that order. As a
little girl, I cut pictures of people out of my mother's magazines and turned
them into characters in my simple stories. Now I write sexy paranormal romantic
suspense, steamy contemporary romance, and edgy romantic thrillers. I live in
sunny Southern California with my husband, but enjoy traveling from Athens to
Anchorage to Acapulco and many locations in between.
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