Chapter One
I stepped out of the cab and pulled my shearling fur coat tight around my slender frame as I looked up at one of Manhattan's most exclusive high-rise apartment buildings. I've never liked New York City, especially in the winter. I grew up in the Cuban part of Miami, where warm sunlight coaxed us out of all but the skimpiest clothing. We spent our days at street festivals and in backyard parties and our nights dancing in sweaty nightclubs as a cool ocean breeze blew through open windows to dissipate the day's heat.
New York's bitter cold wind blasted through the tunnels between its buildings, pushing its pale, callous people indoors, where they minded their own business and rarely spoke to their neighbors. My career as a CIA intelligence officer ensured a lonely life to begin with, but among the throng of anonymous Manhattanites hurrying along the sidewalk, I'd never felt more isolated.
"I'm here, Cal," I said softly. The microphone in my earring carried my voice to a room twenty floors above, where my partner was likely watching me through binoculars.
" I hear you loud and clear, Audrey. The strike team is ready on the floor below Prince Nazari's apartment," Cal Turner told me through my earpiece. "They're listening on this channel and can be upstairs in fifteen seconds." His voice was cold and professional, nothing like the charming smartass I'd come to know. My partner had been distant since our last mission in Bogotá, and I couldn't blame him. We'd spent most of our years together trying to deny a strong attraction to each other. The former Army Ranger didn't talk about it, but my actions during that mission had hurt him deeply. I had tricked him into standing down while I fucked a ruthless drug lord to secure information vital to national security, and even though I succeeded, it had left a chasm between Cal and me.
But our ultimate objective bound us together despite that gap; we were both determined to find the elusive terrorist known as the Mountain Wolf, a man who had organized dozens of lethal attacks on Americans in Afghanistan. Cal knew I would do whatever it took to bring the Wolf to justice, and I knew he would help me see it done.
So here we were , following the years-long trail with relentless determination, fixated on our manhunt. Personal feelings would have to wait.
"Thanks, Cal," I said. "I don't expect trouble, but it's good to know you're there."
Several uncomfortable seconds passed in silence. I would have given anything to talk to Cal in person right then, to assure him that this was the only way. But the strike team was listening on this frequency, seven former special operators like Cal who now worked for the CIA. They were amped up and hoping to kick ass, but it wasn't likely to come to that. Not tonight, at least.
Just weeks before, Cal and I had scored a major intelligence victory by uncovering Prince Nazari's role in funding terrorist operations in Afghanistan. But despite his vast wealth and power, Nazari was only an intermediary. We knew he funneled money to the Mountain Wolf. But to find the Wolf, we needed to get close enough to Nazari to make the connection.
Prince Nazari was extremely paranoid about his personal security, and the CIA's best technical analysts had failed to track down his illicit money transfers. But the Prince had a weakness; his sexual appetites were as large as his bank account.
The building's doorman held the door for me, and I saw the disapproval in his eyes as I stepped in out of the wind. It was his job to be polite to guests, but he knew who owned the building's penthouse suite: Wajid Sha'ban Nazari, Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. Prince Nazari was the perfect tenant most of the time, since he rarely visited the city in person. But every few months, he used the suite to host a series of attractive young American women. This doorman was sharp enough to know what those women were after, and
I stepped out of the cab and pulled my shearling fur coat tight around my slender frame as I looked up at one of Manhattan's most exclusive high-rise apartment buildings. I've never liked New York City, especially in the winter. I grew up in the Cuban part of Miami, where warm sunlight coaxed us out of all but the skimpiest clothing. We spent our days at street festivals and in backyard parties and our nights dancing in sweaty nightclubs as a cool ocean breeze blew through open windows to dissipate the day's heat.
New York's bitter cold wind blasted through the tunnels between its buildings, pushing its pale, callous people indoors, where they minded their own business and rarely spoke to their neighbors. My career as a CIA intelligence officer ensured a lonely life to begin with, but among the throng of anonymous Manhattanites hurrying along the sidewalk, I'd never felt more isolated.
"I'm here, Cal," I said softly. The microphone in my earring carried my voice to a room twenty floors above, where my partner was likely watching me through binoculars.
" I hear you loud and clear, Audrey. The strike team is ready on the floor below Prince Nazari's apartment," Cal Turner told me through my earpiece. "They're listening on this channel and can be upstairs in fifteen seconds." His voice was cold and professional, nothing like the charming smartass I'd come to know. My partner had been distant since our last mission in Bogotá, and I couldn't blame him. We'd spent most of our years together trying to deny a strong attraction to each other. The former Army Ranger didn't talk about it, but my actions during that mission had hurt him deeply. I had tricked him into standing down while I fucked a ruthless drug lord to secure information vital to national security, and even though I succeeded, it had left a chasm between Cal and me.
But our ultimate objective bound us together despite that gap; we were both determined to find the elusive terrorist known as the Mountain Wolf, a man who had organized dozens of lethal attacks on Americans in Afghanistan. Cal knew I would do whatever it took to bring the Wolf to justice, and I knew he would help me see it done.
So here we were , following the years-long trail with relentless determination, fixated on our manhunt. Personal feelings would have to wait.
"Thanks, Cal," I said. "I don't expect trouble, but it's good to know you're there."
Several uncomfortable seconds passed in silence. I would have given anything to talk to Cal in person right then, to assure him that this was the only way. But the strike team was listening on this frequency, seven former special operators like Cal who now worked for the CIA. They were amped up and hoping to kick ass, but it wasn't likely to come to that. Not tonight, at least.
Just weeks before, Cal and I had scored a major intelligence victory by uncovering Prince Nazari's role in funding terrorist operations in Afghanistan. But despite his vast wealth and power, Nazari was only an intermediary. We knew he funneled money to the Mountain Wolf. But to find the Wolf, we needed to get close enough to Nazari to make the connection.
Prince Nazari was extremely paranoid about his personal security, and the CIA's best technical analysts had failed to track down his illicit money transfers. But the Prince had a weakness; his sexual appetites were as large as his bank account.
The building's doorman held the door for me, and I saw the disapproval in his eyes as I stepped in out of the wind. It was his job to be polite to guests, but he knew who owned the building's penthouse suite: Wajid Sha'ban Nazari, Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. Prince Nazari was the perfect tenant most of the time, since he rarely visited the city in person. But every few months, he used the suite to host a series of attractive young American women. This doorman was sharp enough to know what those women were after, and
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