Epilogue

EPILOGUE

D ariush Ghazi stared out the window across the water. On a clear day like this, he could just glimpse the state of Maine from the second floor of the house he'd found on the southern tip of Nova Scotia, a deserted cabin in a deserted town in the middle of nowhere.

Nobody would find him here.

It was the last Saturday of December, and people with brains—and choices—stayed far from this part of the world at this time of year, when snow piled up and wind whipped off the dark ocean water.

This was a summer retreat, though why anybody would choose to stay here even in the warm months, he couldn't imagine. Did they not know there were places with clear, blue water and sunny skies? Had they never heard of the Mediterranean? The Caribbean? Even Florida had to be better than this.

This was a godforsaken place. Or would be, if there were a god.

Dariush had been trapped in Canada ever since he'd barely escaped the bullets that'd come too close that cold and terrible morning. The morning his plans had been thwarted. Again .

The day Khalid Qasim, the old fool, had almost surrendered to the Americans, the only thing he could not do.

Dariush had shot him, of course. In his fury, he'd tried to kill the man's pathetic little wife, who carried his pathetic spawn. But the woman lived. Yasamin, now Jasmine. Her twin sister also lived. Leila French, née Nawra Farad.

The curly-haired blonde from Munich, Sophia Chapman, lived.

And all those Wright brothers lived. All in Maine.

Dariush hadn't known the lame one who'd saved the blonde in Germany was related to the one with Khalid's wife, nor had he realized before this trip the man he'd seen from afar in Mytilene, the one who'd rescued Nawra and killed Waleed, was related to the others.

He hadn't put it together until he'd seen them all through his binoculars the day of the failed attack.

Rabie had told him that Derrick was one of six brothers. Dariush had their names now. And their images and the images of their women and children.

He could exact revenge if he wanted to.

But Khalid was dead. Waleed was dead. Hasan was in custody. Fortunately, he had never known Dariush's true goal, or his plans would be ruined.

Khalid had known, though. Dariush hadn't had a choice. They'd made a deal—the whereabouts of his pretty little wife for the name of the Russian.

Which was why Khalid had had to die.

Dariush's mission wasn't about the petty plans of petty people out to serve their petty gods.

He could pretend faith when it served his purpose. He could kneel on a mat and touch his forehead to the floor. He could recite words in a cathedral. He could feign worship in a synagogue .

He could play the part of loving brother. He could play the part of devoted son.

Dariush Ghazi could be whatever the moment dictated.

What he could not be, would not be, was defeated. And yet, here he was, in a drafty cabin in Nova Scotia. All his plans ruined, the people he'd planned to use, dead.

He stalked away from the window and into the sad little brown kitchen, all wood siding and linoleum. He flicked the top of his lighter open, sparked the flame, and snapped it closed, over and over.

Thinking. Thinking.

He was safe here, for now.

Infuriating as the snow was, Dariush's footprints, which had led from the back door of this house to the deserted store down the road and all the nearby cabins, were hidden beneath the fresh powder. He'd helped himself to provisions—food and supplies and everything he needed to stay alive and accomplish his goals.

He'd ransacked all the homes and found a decent computer and an old cell phone—couldn't risk using his own, of course. There was no Wi-Fi in this house, but there was cell service here, so he'd connected the phone to a plan using one of his many aliases and then used his hotspot to connect the laptop.

While he waited until it was safe to travel again, he did research.

He gazed at the website he'd found a few days earlier. Alyssa Wright, cousin to Derrick and Michael and the rest of those brothers.

An interesting family, these Wrights. Dariush had had enough run-ins with the men and didn't relish facing them again. But women…

Women were a different story.

Alyssa's father, Gavin, had worked for a government contractor and had contacts in the US government and other high-ranking officials around the world. It seemed Alyssa did some work for Daddy on the side, as well as for her cousin, Michael, the CIA agent.

Thanks to his own connections, Dariush had learned many things he wasn't meant to know.

Alyssa Wright's website claimed she was an investigator, but he dug, and some of the treasures he unearthed told a different story altogether.

He sat back and flicked his lighter, enjoying the flashes of light, quickly snuffed out.

Yes, he had a feeling about this woman.

He'd lie low…for now. And then, when it was safe to move, he'd connect with Alyssa Wright.

Through her, he'd get what he needed, one way or another.

The End…