Read Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) for Free Online Page A
Authors: Valerie Plame, Sarah Lovett
insert himself into the specifics of an active intelligence operation. Was the White House driving this hands-on oversight? The National Security Council? Who wanted Jeffreys so involved, and why?
“We will give you a complete briefing,” the DDO continued briskly, “when we gather enough of the threads together so we’re not wasting your valuable time.”
The DDO ended the call smoothly. “Thank you for this quick update. Now we all have responsibilities, places to be.”
Translation:
Find Farid Hasser and the missing nuclear device—and do it yesterday.
Everyone’s screen went black.
9
Just then Hays, staring at his open laptop, uttered a sharp expletive. The color drained from his face.
He picked up the computer and carried it with him the few meters to the coffee table, where he almost dropped it in front of Vanessa. “This just came up on Twitter and YouTube—they’re calling themselves True Jihad.”
Hays darted back to his other computer to make certain Headquarters knew about the new development and to link them in. In Washington, Athens, and Paris they were all watching the same video unfold.
Both Jack and Vanessa stared at the screen, horrified. She struggled to make sense of the images: a young man on his knees facing the video camera. His arms appeared to be tied behind his shirtless back. His head was bowed, but the bruises and bloody contusions on his face and chest were visible enough. And after a few seconds, heraised his head slightly to look at the camera, and Vanessa saw it was Farid Hasser.
God, no . . .
She could barely breathe.
Someone else—unidentifiable behind a black hood and a heavy oversized flak jacket—stepped into partial view. The camera pulled back just enough to show a crude banner on a bare wall: The writing was Arabic.
When the hooded person raised a gun in one gloved hand and pressed the muzzle to Farid’s head, Vanessa did stop breathing. A male voice speaking Arabic came muffled through the hood.
Farid flinched and his gaze found the camera for just a few seconds, long enough for Vanessa to see the flat stare of a man stripped of his spirit. A man who knew his fate.
A low moan escaped her throat, but she was only conscious of the crude sound coming from the video. She recoiled but forced herself not to look away when the hooded man fired point-blank into Farid’s left temple.
She stared vacantly at the spray of blood, Farid slumping forward—the horror registering silently, internally.
Every phone in the safe house began to ring, and the noise hurtled Vanessa from stupefying shock to the present. Next to her, Jack had buried his face in his hands. Sweat slicked Vanessa’s palms, her heart was beginning to race, thoughts accelerating, too—she recognized the symptoms—
she couldn’t afford to panic—
“Merde . . .”
Vanessa’s head jerked up at the sound of the new voice.
Marcel Fournier stood in the arch of the foyer, his expression grim and his dark, heavy-lidded eyes narrowed on Vanessa. He shrugged as if remembering something inconsequential and pulled a badge from his pocket.
“Marcel Fournier, DCRI,” he said curtly, lines etched deeply across his forehead. He jerked his chin toward the final frozen images of the video on the screen.
“The Arabic words you heard right before the execution . . .” he said. “I can give you a crude translation: ‘Payback for U.S. bombs in Iran.’”
10
Fournier held out the jacket he’d pulled from the rack in the foyer. “Put this on.”
Vanessa shook her head. “That’s not mine.”
Her heartbeat finally was slowing and she could breathe again.
“Then find yours, because you’re coming with me,” he said tersely. “If you want a prayer of working with Team Viper, don’t slow me down.”
Same asshole delivery he’d used when she boarded the jet boat—only now she didn’t want to punch him. Somehow he’d jolted her from the beginnings of a panic attack. He’d
“We will give you a complete briefing,” the DDO continued briskly, “when we gather enough of the threads together so we’re not wasting your valuable time.”
The DDO ended the call smoothly. “Thank you for this quick update. Now we all have responsibilities, places to be.”
Translation:
Find Farid Hasser and the missing nuclear device—and do it yesterday.
Everyone’s screen went black.
9
Just then Hays, staring at his open laptop, uttered a sharp expletive. The color drained from his face.
He picked up the computer and carried it with him the few meters to the coffee table, where he almost dropped it in front of Vanessa. “This just came up on Twitter and YouTube—they’re calling themselves True Jihad.”
Hays darted back to his other computer to make certain Headquarters knew about the new development and to link them in. In Washington, Athens, and Paris they were all watching the same video unfold.
Both Jack and Vanessa stared at the screen, horrified. She struggled to make sense of the images: a young man on his knees facing the video camera. His arms appeared to be tied behind his shirtless back. His head was bowed, but the bruises and bloody contusions on his face and chest were visible enough. And after a few seconds, heraised his head slightly to look at the camera, and Vanessa saw it was Farid Hasser.
God, no . . .
She could barely breathe.
Someone else—unidentifiable behind a black hood and a heavy oversized flak jacket—stepped into partial view. The camera pulled back just enough to show a crude banner on a bare wall: The writing was Arabic.
When the hooded person raised a gun in one gloved hand and pressed the muzzle to Farid’s head, Vanessa did stop breathing. A male voice speaking Arabic came muffled through the hood.
Farid flinched and his gaze found the camera for just a few seconds, long enough for Vanessa to see the flat stare of a man stripped of his spirit. A man who knew his fate.
A low moan escaped her throat, but she was only conscious of the crude sound coming from the video. She recoiled but forced herself not to look away when the hooded man fired point-blank into Farid’s left temple.
She stared vacantly at the spray of blood, Farid slumping forward—the horror registering silently, internally.
Every phone in the safe house began to ring, and the noise hurtled Vanessa from stupefying shock to the present. Next to her, Jack had buried his face in his hands. Sweat slicked Vanessa’s palms, her heart was beginning to race, thoughts accelerating, too—she recognized the symptoms—
she couldn’t afford to panic—
“Merde . . .”
Vanessa’s head jerked up at the sound of the new voice.
Marcel Fournier stood in the arch of the foyer, his expression grim and his dark, heavy-lidded eyes narrowed on Vanessa. He shrugged as if remembering something inconsequential and pulled a badge from his pocket.
“Marcel Fournier, DCRI,” he said curtly, lines etched deeply across his forehead. He jerked his chin toward the final frozen images of the video on the screen.
“The Arabic words you heard right before the execution . . .” he said. “I can give you a crude translation: ‘Payback for U.S. bombs in Iran.’”
10
Fournier held out the jacket he’d pulled from the rack in the foyer. “Put this on.”
Vanessa shook her head. “That’s not mine.”
Her heartbeat finally was slowing and she could breathe again.
“Then find yours, because you’re coming with me,” he said tersely. “If you want a prayer of working with Team Viper, don’t slow me down.”
Same asshole delivery he’d used when she boarded the jet boat—only now she didn’t want to punch him. Somehow he’d jolted her from the beginnings of a panic attack. He’d