Killing Me Softly: A Romantic Suspense Anthology, page 240
* * *
You know that guy who never backs down from a fight? That’s me.
* * *
It’s served me well in the military, my billion-dollar security firm and my dream job as the Undersecretary of Security at the UN in Geneva.
* * *
But nothing has prepared me for the fight I’m about have when an explosion destroys my family and puts me in the crosshairs with a beautiful Azeri woman.
* * *
At 10 years my junior, she’s done all she can to stay alive and drinks single malt to forget.
* * *
Her sexy smile and soft curves captivate me in a way I can’t escape.
* * *
Which is fine because we are stuck with each other as we race to find the proof of who’s behind the bombing before one of us gets killed.
Layla
Five Years Ago
This is the worst day!
I wake up thirty minutes after my alarm goes off, then I drop my coffee while waiting for the bus. I’m late for my first class, my professor gives me the evilest stare in the world as I sneak into the lecture hall, knowing she will want to see me after class is over to ‘discuss my tardiness’, as she refers to it.
This day cannot get any worse, I think to myself as I sink into my chair, trying to avoid her eyes as much as I can.
I lower my gaze to my textbook in front of me and pretend to be making notes. Luckily, I have already read through this section, and have highlighted the important paragraphs.
Being on a scholarship does that to a person. It makes you work a little harder because you cannot afford the bad grades. I also cannot afford the tuition for four years at Harvard.
My grades were very good in high school, but I never expected to receive a full scholarship from them for the entirety of my coursework. My father and mother encouraged me to take a leap of faith and to apply for courses I was interested in, and I did.
Romantic Literature and International Relations.
An odd combination, but those are the things that interest me. My father is a journalist for the Associated Press and I definitely inherited my love for international affairs. I often spent evenings with him in front of the television or reading the newspaper to keep up with current events around the world. My father is my hero, and although I have not seen him in a while, he is always with me. My fingers automatically reach up to the love knot pendant around my neck and I touch it with a heavy heart.
I have only been at Harvard for about a year, and it is very different to see how things are in Azerbaijan, my home country. I miss my parents, and my little brother, Tahir, so much, as well as my friends back home in Baku.
But things are better here in the States, and it is safer for me to be here. My father has been working on a very exclusive article about the Azerbaijani president, whose actions are driving the economy into the ground, while pocketing money for himself, and his other political friends. Apparently, my father has almost enough evidence to make sure the president and all his corrupt friends go to prison for a very long time.
That is what I love about my father. He believes in justice, fairness, and in doing the right thing, no matter how difficult it is.
God, I miss him so much.
There have been so many times I’ve wanted to pick up the phone and just call him, hear his voice, but I am not allowed to. I don’t want any of my father’s enemies - and there are quite a few lately - to know who I am and where I am.
The whole point of me coming to the States as Layla Said was to ensure my safety.
Still, the temptation to call him is always there. I need to hear his voice. It has always comforted me in the past.
When the class ends, I gather my textbook and notepad and head for the door, but my professor, Professor Cramer, motions for me to join her at the board. I sigh to myself and approach her.
“You know I do not appreciate tardiness, Layla.”
“I know, and I am sorry. I’ve been having the roughest morning and…” My voice trails as I notice the expression on the professor’s face.
“You do realize you are here on a scholarship, and you cannot afford to be late, or allow yourself to be distracted.”
“Yes, I know, Professor. It won’t happen again. I’m really sorry,” I say to her.
She studies me for a few seconds and presses her lips into a fine line. She nods and says, “You’re free to go, Layla. I will see you tomorrow, on time.”
“Absolutely,” I say as I clutch my bag against my chest and rush out of the lecture hall.
Once outside, I head to my next class, but I find it empty. A note written on the blackboard indicates the class has been canceled due to the technology symposium being held in Sanders Theater on campus.
I had forgotten about it, actually. Today being what it is, feels like a dark rain cloud above my head.
Nevertheless, I keep my chin up, because storms don’t last forever.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I retrieve it as I step out into the sunlight.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, Layla. This is Aria DeJardin. You don’t know me, but I am a good friend of your father, and I work with him from time to time as well.”
“My father?”
“Yes, Oscar Nussinbaum.”
I stop dead in my tracks and slowly glance around me. No one knows my real identity, or the fact Oscar Nussinbaum is my father.
No-one.
I’ve been sworn to absolute secrecy, and my father would never tell anyone about me.
Would he?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, bravely.
“I know you may be skeptical about how I know this, but I would like to meet you, as a favor to your father.”
“A favor? What do you mean?”
“He wanted me to give you something, and I-”
“I’m familiar with who you are, Miss DeJardin. I’ve seen your work on the BBC, but how do I know it’s really you? How do I know it’s safe to meet you?” I ask.
“We can meet at the Sanders Theater, it’s very public.”
I bite my lip and glance around me once again. “Okay. I’m heading there right now. Where shall we meet?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find you.”
I open my mouth to answer but the call ends before I can say anything. Sliding the phone back into my pocket, I make my way to the Sanders Theater, feeling nervous and anxious. I know of Aria DeJardin. I’ve seen her on television. Her reporting on the BBC is renowned. I have heard my father speak of her and how she’s helped him get information out of Azerbaijan when all his avenues were closed off. But I’ve never met her personally and can’t imagine what her intentions are with me.
Thinking about what she said. What if my father really did give her something to give to me? A message maybe?
Anything from my father would be better than nothing, especially today.
The Sanders Theater is filled with people, and there are two men on stage, talking about a new technology in security systems they developed but I am not paying them much attention. I keep looking around me, almost paranoid, looking for Aria DeJardin.
I see a couple of friends and they wave at me. I give them a tight smile and walk over to them.
Josh, who is from North Dakota, and Simone, a tanned California girl who is smarter than anyone I have ever met, greet me as I join their small group.
“Hey, Layla.”
I shrug my shoulders shyly and smile. “Hello.”
“Check this out,” Josh says and hands me a brochure. “These two guys on the stage are talking about it. It’s the newest in security technology.”
“It looks like a facial scanner,” I say with a frown.
“That’s exactly what it is,” Josh says looking at me with a frown. “How did you know?”
I freeze when I see them staring at me in disbelief and I scoff. “It says so, right there. Facial recognition scanner,” pointing to the printed words on the brochure.
Simone narrows her eyes at me for a moment, before taking the brochure from me.
“Anyway. Those two guys up there, they are designing one that can even tell twins apart, because they’re actual twins,” Josh says with amusement.
I raise a confused eyebrow at him and wait expectantly for him to continue. Is that supposed to be a joke?
“It wasn’t the first time you said it, and it’s not funny now,” Simone sighs.
“Come on, it was funny, right, Layla?” Josh raises his eyebrows.
“Give it a rest,” Simone says and shakes her head.
“Maybe you are trying a little too hard to be funny,” I point out.
I look around me again, wondering whether Aria DeJardin is looking for me in this crowd, and what exactly did she mean when she said, “I’ll find you”?
“Looking for someone, Layla?” Simone asks, wiggling her eyebrows at me. “Dr. Love, maybe?”
“Don’t be silly, Simone. He’s way too old for me, and for you.”
“Age is merely a number, plus the Doc is hot,” Simone chuckles. “Have you seen him when he starts talking about romance and tragedy?”
“That’s because he’s experienced tragedy. Lots of it,” Josh points out.
“I’ll console him,” Simone says and winks at me.
Dr. Love is the best Romantic Literature Professor at Harvard University. The passion and love he has for literature is unrivaled, I have honestly never seen anything like it. I have a class with him twice a week, and even though he is a very good-looking man. Not that I would act on it. He is not my type.
Frankly, I don’t have the time or the energy to deal with guys. I have to study hard to maintain my grades and my scholarship. I can’t afford to slip, because my dad and I worked too hard for me to simply drop out of University. I don’t have many friends either, mostly Josh and Simone. They’re far from home, like me, so we relate to one another.
“Seriously, Layla. Who are you looking for?” Simone asks again, spinning me back to the present moment.
“No-one,” I insist but my friend is not fooled. “I am supposed to meet someone, but -.”
“Like a blind date?”
“It’s not a date. We only spoke on the phone-”
“Holy crap, it’s a blind hook-up. Layla, I didn’t think you were the type,” Josh exclaims.
“It’s not a hookup. And even if it was, why would I meet him here, of all places?” I ask.
Josh and Simone exchange glances and Simone turns back to me with a grin. “So it is a guy?”
I groan and roll my eyes. “No.”
“I’m confused,” Josh says.
“Clearly,” Simone chortles.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” My friends nod at me.
I make my way through the crowded hall, scanning the crowd when I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. Maybe it’s Aria, and she’s seen me.
So much for finding me, I scoff inwardly.
When I take my phone out, I almost drop my phone when I see the number. It is my cousin in Azerbaijan who sent me a text. “Get to a TV, something has happened.”
I look around the room and remember there is a television in one of the smaller rooms outside the theater. I make my way out of the lecture hall and run down the hallway to the room. Much to my surprise, the door is already open and a bunch of people are gathered in front of the television. They are all journalism students, or international relations majors. I glance at the television and it shows a burnt-out car, with the Baku firefighters standing nearby. Police cars are also around the vehicle and I turn to the closest person to me.
“Can you turn the volume up, please?” I ask.
“Sure,” he answers and turns up the volume.
“This terrible accident happened in the city of Baku, in Azerbaijan less than an hour ago, when a bomb inside a car detonated and wreaked havoc in the quiet streets of Baku,” the newscaster says.
My eyes widen as I stare at the car, the familiar shape of my father’s car can be seen from the rubble. No. My eyes are playing tricks on me. But why else would my cousin send me that text?
“The car belonged to a well-known journalist of the Associated Press, Oscar Nussinbaum,” the newscaster continues. “From witness accounts, it was confirmed Mr. Nussinbaum, his wife, Fatima, and their eleven-year-old son, Tahir, were in the car at the time of the blast. Tragically, all three died in the explosion.”
My eyes fill with tears even before I get a chance to register what is going on. My body freezes on the spot and it feels as though a part of me has died right at that very moment.
I don’t hear another word from the television as a loud ringing erupts in my ears, drowning out all the noise around me. My heart pounds painfully in my chest and even breathing is a task too massive to perform.
I dart out of the room, walking blindly along the hallway. I have no idea where I am going. I just need to be alone.
Alone.
I race down the hall but every room is occupied. The feelings are overtaking me and I can’t keep them down anymore. I finally lean against a wall of the commons area.
Feelings rush around inside me.
Hurt.
Anger.
Sadness.
I feel my heart being shredded in my chest with every shallow breath I take. Tears of sadness and heartbreak stream down my face. My knees buckle and I sink down to the floor, in shambles.
Everything hurts.
My whole life just fell apart. Ripped from my grasp and blown into pieces.
Literally.
I sob uncontrollably on the floor, trying to keep myself upright against the wall. This wall is not the only thing holding me together.
I just want this to stop.
Suddenly, I feel someone at my side and the strong smell of Opium perfume - my mother’s perfume. In one swoop I feel someone yank me up from the floor and rush me into a small room just off the commons area. This nightmare has just begun.
1
Reed
Present Day
There are 49 Emergency Exits in the Geneva United Nations Building, and of those exits, five of them are wheelchair accessible. There are also nine wheelchair-accessible elevators in the entire building. Forty-two fire extinguishers throughout the building and a detailed evacuation plan diagram is mounted at every emergency exit.
How do I know this?
Because it is my job.
As the Undersecretary for Safety and Security at the United Nations Office of Geneva (UNOG), it’s my job to know every single detail of every room, every staircase, every elevator. Everything.
I have protected countries around the world with an elite team of security officers, trained in military combat, terrorist negotiations, and every kind of attack. I’ve made my millions this way and enjoyed it.
When the Former Secretary-General of the United Nations, Kofi Annan contacted me, offering me the job of Undersecretary for Safety and Security in Geneva, I didn’t give it a moment’s thought.
I am good at this, and my attention to detail is impeccable. My bosses know it.
I glance down at the blueprints of schematics of the UNOG building in front of me, a tired sigh escapes my lips. The empty coffee cup next to me is a clear indication my body is caffeine-deprived. I should get off my ass and pour myself another cup.
Just as I stand up, a knock sounds on my door and I call out, “Come in.”
Nick Meyer, is one of my security officers and the most trusted member of my team, stands in the doorway holding his laptop.
“Good morning, Reed,” he greets me.
“Morning, Nick. What have you got for me?” I ask, looking down at the schematics.
“I found something I think you will be interested in,” Nick says.
“If it doesn’t have two wheels and a Harley engine, I don’t want it, Nick.”
Nick pauses for a moment and finally says, “Actually, this is something rather big.”
“Something big, huh? It’s not that woman at the kiosk who’s asking you to run errands for her again, is it?”
“No, it’s something much more interesting.”
“Tell me,” I say.
“It’s not about telling you, it’s about showing you.”
As soon as I see the look on his face, my attention focuses solely on him. He looks at me with a pensive expression on his face - more so than usual, which can only mean one thing.
This is serious stuff.
“Then show me,” I say as I roll up the schematics and place them safely to my left.
Nick places his laptop on my desk and taps on the screen.
I immediately recognize the video and even after 5 years, it still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It is footage from a car bomb that killed Oscar Nussinbaum, his wife, and his son, in Azerbaijan. It was a grim day since Oscar had allegedly uncovered a massive conspiracy within the Azerbaijan government, and he was about to release the information to the public. A clear hit on his life, and his entire family as well. Tying up loose ends.
I clench my jaw and draw in a deep breath. “I’ve seen this before. And it gets grimmer every time I look at it.”
“I know. I don’t like looking at it either.”
“Then why are you showing me this?”
“You know when the FBI and Scotland Yard assisted on the case and they narrowed it down to one possible suspect?”
“They assumed it was one of the politicians in the country, Shahik El-Nassar,” I say with a nod. “The Minister of Defense at the time.”
Nick cocks his head for a second and says, “It was, but they had a second suspect.”
“Who was it?”
“A guy called Uve Kasimov.”
“Rap Sheet?”
“As clean as they come.”
I frown and shake my head. “That means either he’s a model citizen, or he’s working for the right people who can make it all disappear.”
