Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) (38 page)

As Ghaniyah had eagerly shown Adnan her adopted country of Jordan, she had also purchased numerous gifts for Abasah that she had mailed to the girl’s home near Ash Shatrah. The bodies of the young girl’s father, grandmother, and the veterinarian had been found at the ranch. The Iraqi police had then found Abasah’s only living relatives – an aunt and uncle who lived in the same area. Both Ghaniyah and McKay had flown with Abasah in a military helicopter to the rural area where she was reunited with her family. Both Ghaniyah and the girl had cried when they had to say goodbye, but Ghaniyah had promised to visit. It was a promise she fully intended to keep.

The pilot’s voice came over the speaker, announcing that they were just twenty minutes from landing in Baghdad. He told them to make sure their seats were upright, their seat belts fastened. Adnan looked at his wife. The pilot’s announcement had awoken her. He kissed her gently and was rewarded with a beautiful smile. He helped her return her seat up to its normal position.

“I wish we could travel like this all the time,” Ghaniyah said with a sleepy grin.

“I think this was our once-in-a-lifetime treat.”

“You never know,” she teased. “We might help the Americans again and be given another nice trip.”

Adnan smiled. She was speaking not only of the use of the private jet, but also the all-expenses-paid stay at the luxurious resort. However, he simply replied, “I got my reward the day you married me.”

Ghaniyah smiled. “Me too.”

Gonz sat at an outside table of an eatery that had been renamed “The Scottish Highland Inn.” Since Basra was essentially a city controlled by the Brits, it was hardly surprising to find that they had renamed the popular café. With all the British voices surrounding him at adjacent tables, Gonz knew that if he closed his eyes, he could easily imagine that he was in some warm coastal town in the U.K., far from Iraq. Laughter erupted behind him. He looked over. Five British soldiers had squeezed themselves around a small round table, drinking the tap beer and laughing loudly.

He turned his attention back to his laptop on the table in front of him. Even with his sunglasses on, he had to squint to read, the bright sun nearly washing out the screen. He adjusted the monitor’s brightness until he could read the screen. Peterson had forwarded two e-mails. The first detailed efforts to track down the terrorist known as Yusuf, but so far no luck. The man had simply vanished. The second was from Langley notifying Peterson that he was now officially, yet temporarily, assigned to Marco Polo 5. Within 30 days, he would have to undergo extensive training in their computer engineering program in order to remain with MP-5. Even then, a lot of corners were being cut to allow Peterson to remain with Gonz’s team.

Peterson had written “
Thank you, thank you, thank you, sir!! :)”
in the e-mail. Gonz knew the director was cutting him a lot of slack in keeping Peterson for one simple reason – his team was good. Even the director knew better than to try to fix something that wasn’t broken.

Somehow, the symbol of a smiley face didn’t fit Peterson. But Gonz was relieved to see that the paperwork had gone through. He certainly didn’t want to lose Peterson.

“What? No beer?”

Gonz looked up. McKay pulled out a chair opposite him and sat down. Her blonde hair loosely falling over her shoulders, he thought she had never looked so beautiful. He noticed that a few Brits at the adjacent table had similar thoughts.

“I was waiting for my doctor to give me the okay,” he said with a grin.

“Yeah, right.” McKay laughed.

A waitress appeared and Gonz ordered two beers. After she left, he looked at McKay. “So?”

“Still touch and go on the little boy. He may need kidney treatment for some time to come.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

McKay nodded. “Still, no one died. That’s amazing. I mean Ghaniyah’s aunt is no spring chicken.”

“You did good work, McKay.”

The waitress brought their beers as the next table exploded with laughter. McKay nodded to the laptop. “Anything important?”

“Still have no sign of the guy called Yusuf. And we got guys watching Ghaniyah’s father. Nothing yet, but I have a hunch he’ll help us out at some point.” Gonz was referring to the decision by Langley to watch Ghaniyah’s father, rather than arrest him. The consensus was that he would probably find another terrorist cell to work with, which they could then exploit.

McKay nodded, sipping her beer. Gonz reached into his breast pocket and removed a piece of paper. “This just came in.”

McKay unfolded the paper and read it. Twice.

“You’re a free woman, McKay.”

She didn’t know what to say.

“Obligations fulfilled.”

McKay slowly nodded in acknowledgment.

“What? I thought that’s what you wanted. Go back to Philly. Be a real doctor. On staff at a hospital.”

“Yeah,” she replied vaguely. She noticed him watching her and she added, “I was just thinking. About the ricin and everything. I mean, it was important. Being here.”

“Are you kidding? We couldn’t have done it without you. You’re the one who figured out the old lady was poisoned. That was key.”

She hesitated. Measuring her words carefully. “I was thinking of extending it. Six months, maybe.”

“I already put in your paperwork. Electronically filed last night.”

Feeling awkward, McKay nodded.

“But if you want to stay on...” His words trailed off.

“I’d stay with you?” she eagerly asked. “I mean, MP-5?”

“Yeah.” Gonz looked at her. He had hated the idea of losing her. “There is one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

Gonz shrugged. “You know how it is. We can’t... well, we shouldn’t... well, not if we’re both in MP-5. I’m your superior.”

McKay waited. Not sure where he was going.

“I thought since it’s official, you’re out, we could see what happens.” Gonz suddenly leaned across the table and took her hand, caressing it softly. “I’ve heard of a great place for dinner. Taken over by the Brits of course, but great food. Dancing. Right on the water.” He looked into her eyes. “We could see where it leads.”

McKay couldn’t believe her ears. Or the way his hand felt touching hers. She didn’t trust her own voice, but finally managed, “And then what?”

“Then we’ll send notice that you’re still in MP-5. If that’s what you still want.”

“Might be awkward.”

Gonz gave her a steady look. “No harder than it’s been to ignore what I’ve been feeling for so long.”

McKay smiled.

“Okay with you?”

McKay nodded. “Okay with me.”

Read The Next Book In The Series

Still based in Baghdad, our favorite CIA team must contend with an elite and powerful foreign terrorist group on a secret mission in the new M.H. Sargent novel,
The Shot To Die For
.

The mutilated body of Marine Corporal Jason Briggs, missing for two days, has been found in a Baghdad field. Investigating the death are Rick Gonzalez (Gonz) and Dr. McKay, two experienced CIA operatives. Even though they have seen their fair share of dismembered bodies before, this one is different – embedded in an amputated testicle is a pen that houses a computer flash drive.

Meanwhile, Maaz, a photographer with
The Iraq National Journal
has been kidnapped. The owner of the newspaper and the man’s family, all of whom had worked with the CIA operatives a few months before to stop a major terrorist attack, appeal to Gonz to help find him. Soon, Gonz finds that Corporal Briggs’ death and the missing photographer are tied to the same terrorist group – a Palestinian terrorist cell that is desperate to recover the memory card from the photographer’s camera.

But what is on the memory card? And does it have anything to do with the sudden collapse of Iraq’s major banks?

Once again, Sargent delivers a fast-paced thriller you won’t be able to put down.

An excerpt of
The Shot To Die For
is available at the end of this book
.

Seven Days from Sunday
is the first in M.H. Sargent’s thriller series featuring this CIA team. The next four, along with a World War II novel published in 2011, are listed below.

CIA MP-5 Series

Seven Days From Sunday
, Book One

The Shot To Die For
, Book Two

Operation Spider Web
, Book Three

The Yemen Connection
, Book Four

Alliance of Evil
, Book Five

Also by M.H. Sargent:

Toward Night’s End

M.H. Sargent would love to hear your comments on this book.

You can write to the author at [email protected]

Acknowledgements

Every writer needs a top-notch editor and
thank you
is not enough for Shelley Holloway at Holloway House. You are a joy to work with, and you’ve made each book that much better.

To Angie Seeley for always being there and giving me the insight and courage to see things through.

To June Grgurich for not only being the ideal Godmother, but also taking the time to read this manuscript and offer suggestions.

To Joy Moeller for sharing your brilliant mind and your love of books with me. And of course, your encouragement with this book.

To Laurel Mallory for your wisdom and most of all, for your faith in me. And of course, making me laugh.

To the other Shelley, Shelley Pelle who has been there from day one, reading drafts of this manuscript and giving me great feedback.

Maaz awoke with a start and immediately realized he couldn’t breathe.

Panic set in as he struggled to gulp air, but only inhaled some sort of foul smelling cloth that was wedged in his mouth. Instinctively, he drew air through his nostrils, the appalling odor almost overwhelming him. Lying on his right side, curled up in the fetal position, he frantically tried to move inside the dark, cramped space and soon realized his hands were firmly tied behind his back. One shoulder ached in protest and his head throbbed with pain. He tried to look around, but it was dark, too dark to adequately see anything.

Fighting off the rising panic, he suddenly realized that he was in the trunk of a car. It was idling. He could feel the vibration. Then the driver put it in gear, let the clutch out too soon and the vehicle lurched forward, rocking Maaz back against the trunk compartment.

Who were these people and what did they want?
He tried to take deep breaths through his nose, telling himself to calm down. He was alive. He had a chance.

Another wave of panic rolled over him as he inhaled the stale air. How much fresh air was in the car trunk? How much time was left before he would be gulping in carbon monoxide instead of oxygen? He tried to move again and his head screamed in pain. Ignoring the agonizing ache, he rolled onto his back, his arms painfully pinned under him as he tilted his head upright. He could see a glimpse of light along the seams of the trunk. But did that bring in any air? He had no way of knowing, but he doubted it.

He rolled back on his side. The back of his head hurt like hell. He wanted desperately to touch it, to see if he was bleeding, but of course, he couldn’t. Bits and pieces of the last – what? hour? two hours? – came back to him. He had been at the Palestine Hotel, taking wedding pictures. The groom was the nephew of his boss, Dr. Lami who owned
The Iraq National Journal
– a well-respected daily newspaper that came into being after the fall of Saddam.

Maaz had stayed several hours, taking pictures of the joyful wedding party and many guests. Pictures of cutting the cake. Pictures of the bride and groom enjoying their first dance as husband and wife. Pictures of the various guests dancing. He had even gotten a picture of Dr. Lami dancing with his four-year-old granddaughter. Dr. Lami would love it. He had a very soft spot in his heart for his granddaughter.

It had been after nine at night when the party died down and he had left to go home. Although an invitation had been extended to his wife Daneen and their two sons, Maaz had thought it wouldn’t be right. He was working, getting paid to photograph the wedding, and Daneen didn’t know any of the guests other than Dr. Lami. She had agreed it might be awkward and was happy to stay home with the children.

He remembered being anxious to get back to his family that night. In another hour curfew would be in effect, and he couldn’t risk being caught on the streets. But soon after exiting the hotel with his camera gear, everything had gone wrong. A young Iraqi woman wearing traditional Muslim attire had sought his help, saying she had just been robbed, her husband beaten. Always looking for a story for the
Journal
, he followed her down an alley where she said her husband lay. But the alley was empty.