Sloan couldn’t believe the tears pouring down her face as she rushed to get inside her apartment and as far away from Dan as possible. Admitting that she’d been in love with him while they were at Bagram, had been a bomb blast going off in that living room. She’d seen sudden awareness in Dan’s eyes, and then, to her horror, watched him shut down. It was as if those were the last words he ever wanted a woman to say to him, much less her. There was such a powerful sense of denial in him at that moment.
She locked her door and leaned heavily against it, pressing her fingertips against her hot, wet face. Sloan stumbled into the dark bedroom and sat down on the creaking springs of the thin, lumpy mattress. Her weeping deepened, and she laid down on the hard pillow and pulled her knees up toward her chest. She couldn’t get the bewildered look on Dan’s face out of her mind. All along, Sloan thought that she’d seen love in Dan’s eyes for her. She’d never reached that level of intimacy with anyone but him. What a fool she’d been! Dan had never loved her. Whatever she’d seen in his expression, she’d misinterpreted.
After some time, Sloan sat up, hands shaking as she wiped the last of the tears from her cheeks. She sat there in the gloom, a small light on in the kitchen, chasing away the darkness in the room. The one good thing to come out of tonight’s conversation was that Dan now knew that her entire A team had been interviewed about the crash, and they had all said in one voice to the Army investigators that Dan had not committed pilot error. Maybe knowing this, he would no longer blame himself for what happened.
Despite how hollow she felt inside as she took a tepid shower, Sloan still wanted only good things for Dan. He seemed so tragically alone and appeared disconnected from the throbbing life she lived in every day. If he swallowed the Army’s secondary cause of the crash as pilot error, she knew that would have devastated him. He was so proud of his stature as a Night Stalker pilot. The damned Army had robbed him of that. Those bastards! She climbed out of the shower, simmering with anger toward the military. They’d obliterated Dan’s career. They’d destroyed him personally, and now, what she was looking at was a shell of the former man he used to be.
Slipping into a pair of cotton pajama pants and a tee, all Sloan wanted to do was fall off a cliff and sleep. She was exhausted on every level, not expecting the intense and emotional confrontation she’d just had with Dan. Her hair was still a bit damp, but in this sullen, dry heat within her apartment, it would dry soon enough—and Sloan didn’t care for once.
Maybe by tomorrow morning, she’d be more alert and less the fool when it came to Dan Malloy. It shook Sloan’s confidence in herself to identify emotions in others. As a medic, it was an acquired skill. She could have sworn she’d seen love in Dan’s eyes for her. But she’d been wrong. So wrong.
CHAPTER 6
Fahd Ansari was careful. He’d driven easily into the Port Sudan International Airport in a Toyota Hilux, its white color a dusty yellow-brown from never being washed. The insides of the fenders were rusted, making it look like he was one of the men who worked outside the main terminal. The morning sunlight was strong from the east, highlighting the coastal piers that looked like hulking, metal monsters in the shadows. Cranes were busily swinging back and forth, taking containers off ships from around the world.
He continued to drive around slowly, imprinting the area in his mind and looking at buildings where a bomb might be placed. He paid special attention to the security, which seemed lax. That was good. Then, Fahd drove into a parking lot and got out. He was dressed in a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and sunglasses. He’d bought a black baseball cap with a Canadian flag sewn on the front of it, and even shaved his beard off to mingle without being identified as a Muslim. People would leave him alone precisely because he looked and behaved like a tourist. He’d gone to a Nubian barber who had trimmed his hair in what he called an “American” style—whatever that meant. Fahd had seen very few Africans before because his area of expertise was in Pakistan. The barber’s black skin was glossy, and he was mesmerized by the color. He even asked him in halting Arabic, if he got hot out in the sunlight. Black color drew heat. In his country, they wore white and cream colored clothing, not dark colors. The barber had laughed, his teeth big, white and evenly spaced. His laugh sounded like a deep drum to Fahd. The man was huge! At least six feet tall, very muscular and yet, he cut his hair so delicately. When done, Fahd had stared into the hand mirror that the barber had given him, shocked at how he looked without his scrawny, unkempt beard. Yet, he needed to blend in and look like a tourist so that he could go into places he wasn’t supposed to go, and airport security would shrug it off to him being lost or stupid.
He stood at the six-foot-high cyclone fence. There was no concertina wire across it to detour someone who wanted to climb over and reach the tarmac. There were several planes either boarding or disgorging tourists down their long flight of stairs. He noted that the luggage carriers wore dark blue one-piece uniforms, security wore black ones, and he saw some Sudanese men dressed in light tan one-piece uniforms who tended the fueling and other needs of each airliner. These were the mechanics. Fahd rubbed his smooth chin and smiled a little.
He turned, walking casually, hands in his pockets, emulating a tourist. He’d picked up a red and white knapsack from an open-air market yesterday. He could put all his bomb-making equipment, wires and everything else he needed, in there. Back in the cab of his truck, the heat of the day starting, the coolness evaporating beneath the rising rays of the sun, Fahd watched some more. He was a careful man, given to details—because it was the details that could get him killed. After another hour, he drove out of the parking lot, heading for a group of buildings south of the airport terminal. It was there that the Delos helicopter was hangared.
As he slowly drove by the aluminum-paneled structure, he saw the main and rear doors had been pushed open, allowing the briny breeze to move through the building. He was sweating now. The trickle down his temple and jaw felt odd, and he wiped it with his hand, laughing out loud. If he had his beard, it would have soaked up the sweat instead of tickling his skin. Fahd found it amusing that he had to learn how to shave to keep his cover. The fake passport identified him as Amir Khogani, a Canadian from British Columbia. There was a picture of him shaven in it as well. The address, if run by immigration security, was a mosque located in sprawling Vancouver.
Eyes narrowing, he saw a white man, who he instantly identified as Dan Malloy, the pilot who flew the Delos helicopter. He allowed his truck to drift by the opening. There was also a woman with him, an American from the looks of it. He didn’t recognize her. Spotting two Sudanese mechanics, dressed in tan uniforms, he smiled a little. This might be easier than he first thought because there were no security vehicles or any other type of guard around the hangar. Delos was a charity, and they probably felt they were harmless and therefore, not a target. His mouth curved disdainfully.
*
Dan tried to tame the knot in his gut. He’d barely slept all night, replaying the conversation with Sloan, the look on her face, the way her voice sounded last night after dinner. She had never exploded like this with him and been so emotional. She was upset for him, defending him, angry at the Army and the flight board for questioning his piloting skills. He didn’t take her anger personally. It was aimed at those who had devastated his career and broken him by demoting him.