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Rescuing You

By Robin Patchen

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The woman Michael Wright had given his heart to was gone. Just…gone.
Maybe he should’ve told his family, but considering he hadn’t even told them he was dating someone, it felt a little awkward.
Plus, it wasn’t exactly the best day to share tragic news. His parents were celebrating their anniversary. Fifty years, and still so in love. 
He’d made the mistake of letting himself believe he could someday have what they had.
Until two weeks before, when Leila had been snatched off the street in Munich by masked men. The van she’d been forced into was later found deserted and burned, all evidence destroyed. 
Years of CIA training, years of uncovering the evil deeds of evil men, and Michael had no idea how to find her. 
It was a clear, chilly day on the coast of Maine. The sun shone in a royal blue sky, the bright red and yellow leaves shivering in the breeze. Far below his brother Sam’s house, boats bobbed on the choppy water of the Atlantic in Shadow Cove as if all were right with the world. 
As if Michael hadn’t gotten the woman he’d come to care for killed. 
Bryan caught his eye from the far side of the seating area on the oversize deck where the family talked and laughed. The second-to-youngest Wright brother was eight years Michael’s junior and the most perceptive of the brothers. 
Michael wasn’t ready to answer Bryan’s questions. Even if he wanted to talk about it, he had to keep his mouth shut. He wasn’t sorry when his phone vibrated in his pocket. 
The name on the screen made his stomach tighten. It was Stone.
Michael had been waiting for this call—and dreading it. Confirmation of what he already knew. 
Leila was dead.
Crossing the deck away from the party, he answered. “Wrong here.”
“Wrong” because the people on his elite team of CIA agents assigned to the White House for special projects used call signs to protect their identities, and Michael’s had gone from Wright to Mr. Wright to Mr. Wrong in about five seconds. Now, he was simply known as Wrong—or sometimes, because his teammates thought they were so clever, Always Wrong. 
Michael used to think it was funny, but it was a little too on-the-nose these days. 
“You’re at Sam’s?” Stone asked.
Michael had kept his team apprised of his activities. “Yeah.” He hurried down the wooden steps toward the yard. “What’d you learn?”
“Meet me out front.”
“You’re here?” What was Stone doing in Maine? Michael had known the news would be bad, but if Stone made the trip to tell him in person…
His feet hit soft grass. He ran to the road that snaked down the hill toward the rocky shore. 
Peter Mason, aka Stone, pushed off from the hood of a red sedan.
“What is it?” Michael called from a few yards off, shoving the phone in his pocket. “Why are you here?”
“Leila’s alive.”
Michael’s steps faltered. 
She was alive. Alive. Thank God. 
Hope crashed like a tidal wave of relief and elation. Maybe he hadn’t gotten his girlfriend killed after all.
Maybe he could still keep her safe, protect her from his dangerous life. 
But Stone added, “Or she was a few days ago.”
Just like that, the relief faded. He froze in the middle of the road, swallowed to keep his emotions in check, then continued more slowly toward his teammate and friend. “Tell me what you know.”
“We got pictures of her boarding a private jet in Berlin.” Stone’s words were delivered matter-of-factly. At just over five-ten, his fellow agent was a few years older and a few inches shorter than Michael—but no less powerful. Any enemy who looked into his eyes knew he was not a man to be discounted. His voice was even when he added, “The guy assigned to Vortex after you left caught sight of him at the airport. Your friend was with him.”
Leila was with Vortex?
No. 
The terrorist had been Michael’s primary assignment in Munich for nearly a year, a man whose face he and his team had seen but whose identity they’d never confirmed. His passport named him Assad Ghafran, but no one by that name who was his age—late fifties, maybe early sixties—seemed to exist anywhere. There were no school records, no birth records, no military records. No matter how long Michael watched him or how many of his allies Michael uncovered, he could never ferret out the man’s real identity. 
As far as anyone could tell, Assad Ghafran didn’t exist. 
Vortex did.
They’d dubbed him “Vortex” because he sucked in the weak and vulnerable—often young, fatherless men—used them for his own purposes, and left chaos and destruction in his wake. 
Like a tornado, except Vortex wasn’t a natural disaster. He planned and executed his tragedies for the highest possible casualty rate.
All in the name of his religion, as if he believed in anything but himself.
Vortex was cooking up something, but Michael hadn’t been able to figure out what. 
Since he’d been called back to the States when he told his team leader that Leila, the woman he’d been secretly dating, had gone missing, Michael had lost track of Vortex and his movements.
If the terrorist had kidnapped Leila, then he had to know Michael was on his trail. Had he taken her for retribution or leverage or both?
The thought had his hands clenching into fists. Sweet, sweet Leila, captured by that monster. 
But she’d been spotted, alive. “Was she all right?” Michael asked. “What did he do to her?” 
Stone opened a manila envelope he’d had tucked beneath his arm, then pulled out the contents and laid them across the hood of the car. 
Michael studied the glossy photographs. 
Sure enough, there was Vortex, an Iraqi, they believed. One of the most dangerous terrorists in the world.
Beside him, Leila Amato. Her long, silky black hair was hidden by a drab brown hijab, her shapely body invisible beneath a black abaya. In the year he’d known her, he’d never seen her don traditional Arabic garb. She was a Christian and seemed eager to put her Islamic roots behind her. She’d never talked about her past, despite Michael’s gentle questioning, as if she wanted to pretend she hadn’t had a life before she arrived in Germany. 
Michael could have found out where she was from if he’d wanted to. He could have done a full background check, run her fingerprints. But she was his girlfriend. Not an asset. Not a suspect. 
The agent had gotten a clear shot of Leila’s face. Her skin was darker than Michael's and perfectly smooth, making her look closer to twenty than the twenty-nine he knew her to be. She had high cheekbones and full, shapely lips. But it was her eyes that had drawn him in on their first meeting. Gorgeous, almond-shaped, obsidian eyes. 
It was Leila, no question about it. 
In the hands of a terrorist.
The photographs tracked their progress from an airport terminal, across the tarmac, up the stairs, and into a waiting Gulfstream. 
Beautiful Leila, an innocent immigrant, who had nothing to do with Michael’s work, nothing to do with all the ugliness he dealt with on a daily basis. 
But if Vortex had realized his movements were being watched, then it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to have someone tail the watcher. 
That someone must’ve seen Michael and Leila together. That was the only thing that made sense. 
Michael had kept his relationship with Leila secret from his team. But he’d failed to keep her secret from his enemy.
Leila would be safe if not for Michael.
Stone said nothing, just stood beside him, arms crossed. Waiting for…what?
Michael studied the photographs again, noting details he’d missed at first. He’d never seen her without makeup before. And the confidence he’d always admired in her expression was gone. She looked afraid. 
But Stone didn’t know her at all, so that couldn’t be what had him wearing that concerned—suspicious?—look. 
And then Michael understood. 
Leila wasn’t being dragged onto that plane. There were no weapons. No guards forcing her. As far as Michael could tell, she climbed aboard willingly.
“That doesn’t make sense.” He spoke as if Stone had vocalized his thoughts, which he might as well have. “She was snatched off the street. You saw the footage.” 
Michael had watched the CCTV recording a hundred times or more, trying desperately to see something, anything, that would lead him to her kidnappers. But they’d worn masks. Not a single clue remained in the burned-out van, no indication whatsoever of where her captors had taken her. 
After days of frantic searching, Michael had lost hope that she’d be found alive. That was when Toby Brock, their team leader, had called him back to the States, promising that the rest of the team would continue the search for Leila while agents assigned to the embassy in Germany would pick up surveillance of Vortex.
Forcing Michael to trust Brock and the team. Which he should. Of course. They were on his side. But it was killing him to do nothing. Killing him that he couldn’t be involved.
“She was kidnapped,” Michael said.
“That’s what it looked like.”
“She’s a hotel manager, not a spy. Not a soldier. She doesn’t have the skills to escape.” He tapped one of the photos. “She’s not fighting because she knows it’s hopeless. Or they have something on her. She’s not going willingly.”
“If you say so.”
Michael had never had the desire to punch his friend before. He turned to face him fully, squeezing his hands into fists to keep from doing something stupid. “When were these taken?” 
“Tuesday.”
Four days ago.
“Why did it take that long for us to get them? Or have you had them—?”
“The team watching Vortex was focused on him. They had no idea who she was when they passed along the images. Nobody knew there was a connection.”
“There isn’t a connection.” Not between Vortex and Leila. None except Michael. 
Stone said nothing, but his gaze moved to the photos, his eyebrows hiking, the implication clear.
“She’s not a soldier. She has no training. Of course she’s not fighting.” Michael hated to imagine what Vortex and his men had put Leila through. And it had to be something terrible because the only other option was that Leila was involved with Vortex somehow. If that was the case, then… “She’s not a terrorist.”
“Because she’s pretty? Because you like her?”
“Because I know her. She’s sweet and innocent, and—”
“I assume she would say that she knows you?”
Again, Stone didn’t have to explain what he meant. 
Leila knew Michael, the machine parts salesman. 
She didn’t know Michael, the CIA agent. 
But it was different. Maybe Michael hadn’t shared his true profession, but he’d shared who he was—his personality, his character, his values. 
And she’d done the same, he was sure of it. Michael might not be the most skilled spy in the world, but he could smell a liar, and Leila wasn’t a liar. 
Unless he was losing his edge. Had he been blinded by her beauty and charm?
He wouldn’t be the first to be played by a beautiful woman. 
Still, what reason could Leila possibly have to deceive him?
Unless she knew who he was. 
Unless she’d been working him all along.
No. 
Maybe. 
There were too many questions, not nearly enough answers, and certainly none that Stone could provide.
“Where’d they go?”
“Vortex flew to Heathrow,” Stone said, “but she didn’t get off the plane when he did. We’re still working on where the jet went after that.”
Vortex didn’t own a jet, not that Michael knew of. And he knew a lot about the guy. “Charter?” At Stone’s nod, he asked, “You’re sure she’s not in London?”
“She didn’t go through customs. The team watching Vortex hasn’t seen her.”
“Where did he go?”
Stone sighed. “Brock wants you to stand down and trust us to find her.”
Of course he did. Brock never stepped a toe out of line, and if he’d ever had any feelings besides intolerance and scorn, Michael had never seen them.
“Vortex left her on the plane, and the plane took off,” Stone said. “Wherever she is now, my guess is, she’s there willingly.”
“You don’t know that. Somebody could’ve met the plane. There could’ve been someone on it when Vortex and Leila boarded.”
Stone lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “Brock wants to know everything you told her.”
“I didn’t tell her anything.” As rage heated him, Michael’s words got colder. “We went out a couple of times. That’s it.”
“You started dating nine months ago.” For the first time, Stone’s face registered anger. “And lied to us about it.”
Michael should have known they’d learn the whole truth. He’d been vague about his relationship with Leila, but they were spies, after all. Even spies deserved a personal life, didn’t they? “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t mention—”
“Same thing and you know it. Was it her idea to keep your relationship secret?”
“No. And it wasn’t a secret. I just didn’t—”
“She’s been seen with a terrorist, a terrorist you were watching. You wouldn’t be the first agent to be taken down by pillow talk.”
Cold fury stole Michael’s voice. He breathed, considering and then discarding a handful of responses, reminding himself that Stone was his friend. This would be going very differently if Brock really believed Michael had shared secrets with Leila. He’d be in custody, or at least brought in for questioning. 
Although that might be Brock’s next move.
“No pillow talk,” Michael said. “No pillows. No sleepovers. Dinners, long walks, mountain hikes, sightseeing. As far as she knows, I’m a salesman.”
“And as far as you know, she’s…”
“A hotel manager.”
“Well, we know you were lying. Maybe she was too.” 
“That’s your assessment, or Brock’s?”
Stone’s expression softened. “I trust your judgment. We’re still working on locating her. Brock sent me here to remind you that you’re sidelined until this is over.” 
When Leila first went missing, Michael had seen no reason to worry. For all he’d known, she’d had an emergency. Her parents lived outside Munich. He’d never met them, and she rarely talked about them, which had always struck him as strange. But he hadn’t delved into that, trying to stay solidly on the boyfriend side of the boyfriend-spy line. 
Because of the long-distance nature of Michael’s relationship with Leila, they didn’t see each other often or consistently. So, at first, he hadn’t worried when she didn’t answer his phone calls or texts. But when twenty-four hours passed and she still hadn’t responded, he flew to Munich and started asking questions. He learned she hadn’t shown up for work for a few days. 
He got ahold of the CCTV footage around the hotel where she worked and lived. 
That was when he saw the recording of her being dragged into the van. At which point, he’d alerted his team. 
Maybe if he’d told them sooner, they’d have already found her. His desire to keep his work life away from his personal life… 
Talk about an epic fail. 
Now they knew a terrorist had taken her, and it might be Michael’s fault. 
And he was supposed to do nothing? 
Stone’s gaze flicked to Sam’s house, then toward the little cove at the bottom of the hill. “This isn’t a bad place to rest.”
“I can’t sit here and do nothing.”
“Take it up with Brock. I’m just the messenger.”
“Fine.” Michael grabbed his phone and tapped the speed dial. 
Stone leaned against the car, arms crossed, patient as ever. 
His calm only irritated Michael. 
The team leader answered the way he always did. “Brock here.”
“I have to find her.”
“You’ve done enough, Wrong.” Brock made the call sign sound like an indictment. “Stand down.”
“She means something to me. If this is my fault—”
“Your fault came when you didn’t tell me about her. Your fault came when you trusted an Arab Muslim—”
“She’s a Christian—”
“—and chose to keep your relationship a secret. Did you tell her anything?”
“Of course not.”
“She know you’re with us?”
“I kept my cover.”
“Mmm-hmm. Here’s the thing. You take off looking for that woman, and you’re going to force me to make assumptions about where your loyalty lies.”
The threat stiffened Michael’s spine. “You know I’m loyal.”
“Here’s what I know. You’ve been cavorting with a woman associated with a terrorist. Maybe you want to save her. But maybe you want to hide her from us. Or join her.”
“I would never—”
“I hope that’s true.” The way Brock’s voice lowered and evened out… This wasn’t an empty threat and he wasn’t just following some procedure laid out in some manual somewhere. “The problem is, I don’t know. And this is Vortex we’re talking about, not some low-level thug. Even if I wanted to give you free rein, you know I can’t.” 
He paused, but Michael didn’t voice his thoughts in the silence. Because, God help him, he could see it from Brock’s point of view. Brock was wrong about Leila, but Michael’s confidence wouldn’t be enough to change his mind. 
“If you go after her,” Brock said, “you’ll give me no choice but to assume the worst. You know what that looks like.”
Once, a few years past, Michael had questioned a witness at a black site. He’d seen how terrorists were treated. If it was believed Michael betrayed his country, his American citizenship wouldn’t garner him better treatment. In fact, it would probably earn him far worse treatment from people who believed him a traitor.
“Stand down,” Brock said. “We’ll find her and take it from there.”
Michael kept silent for so long, eventually Brock gave up waiting for the yes sir that wasn’t coming and ended the call. 
In all the years Michael had worked with Brock, he’d never known the man to change his mind about anything. Which meant Michael would be stuck in Maine, twiddling his thumbs while somebody else rescued Leila. 
Assuming they did. 
Assuming Michael’s attraction to her, his desire to get to know the pretty hotel manager, his desire to have a life beyond the CIA…
Didn’t get her killed.


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