Jacob had looked at him with his flat eyes and said, “They won’t.”

Nothing else.

Omar had watched him walk away, the other Lost Boys in tow. They’d entered the shack, and he’d focused intently on the light spilling out from the seams in the wood, trying to ascertain what was happening, but seeing nothing but shadows dance back and forth. Four minutes later the door had opened, and the group had emerged.

The men at the fire barrel had glanced their way, curious, but not concerned. The other Lost Boys had jumped in the back, and Jacob had approached his window.

“I’m riding shotgun. Here’s your pass.”

For the first time, Omar had seen the blood on his shirt.

They’d gone through the checkpoint without issue, then driven the remainder of the way to Istanbul in silence. Omar wanted to ask what had occurred, but decided it was better not to. Not out of fear, but because he already knew.

Now he had to decide if Jacob’s commitment was enough to execute in his absence. Jacob had done so once before, but could he succeed outside of Syria, when his life wasn’t in play?

He left the small room of the TAV Hotel, a cheap, postmodern building attached to the Istanbul airport, all metal and pressed wood, with the rooms so close it looked more like military barracks than a place for business travelers.

He went down to the lounge—really more of a cafeteria, with harsh fluorescent lights overhead and cheap metal chairs—and saw Jacob sitting with Devon and Carlos.

He sat across from them, seeing Jacob drinking a beer. He frowned and said, “I got an email today. It’s not good news.”

“What?”

“The linkup with the supplier has been delayed. I must wait for a day, which means I cannot be there for the substitution.”

Jacob said, “Why is that a problem?”

Omar pointed at the beer bottle and said, “Because I won’t be there to make sure you do it right.”

Devon and Carlos looked concerned. Jacob showed nothing but confidence. He said, “The target hasn’t changed? A church group from Florida?”

“Yes, that’s the target.”

“And the ultimate target? Is it the same? Or are you just tricking us?”

Omar felt the vibration of hatred, and decided to press.

“Why are you here?”

“What does that mean?”

Omar looked at Devon and Carlos and said, “Leave us. Now.”

They did, scurrying away like children scolded by a parent. Omar watched them go and said, “I know why they fight. I know what motivates them, but not what motivates you.”

“Why does that matter?”

Omar settled back and said, “Because I can’t trust them to wear a suicide vest correctly. I need someone to ensure they do so. Someone like you, but I don’t know what motivates you. I don’t believe you care about the Islamic State.”

“I do what I do for my own reasons. Why does it matter? I’ll get you what you want. I’m willing. That should be enough.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Jacob leaned forward, getting his face inches away. Omar felt the heat of his anger and knew he was dealing with something beyond a wish to see Allah. Something stronger.

Jacob said, “You trust me because you see in me what you see in yourself.”

Omar reached forward slowly, placing his hand on Jacob’s neck. Not squeezing, but showing the threat. He said, “Don’t test me, boy. I trust believers. And you are not one.”

Jacob stretched his neck out, looking to the ceiling and giving Omar full ability to harm him. He said, “Not a believer in what? Life? Or my death?”

Taken aback, Omar said, “You think I will spare you?”

Jacob turned his flat eyes on Omar and said, “Yes. My death matters little to me. But it means a great deal to you, and therein lies my strength.”

Omar pulled his hand away, a ghost of a smile on his face.

He said, “You will do.”

29

Jennifer was sitting on the edge of the couch like she was balancing on a spring-loaded booby trap. She watched Shoshana pace the room, I guess waiting on her to explode and try to kill us both. I knew she wouldn’t, as much as she might want to.

After a bit of a verbal debate at the coffee shop, she’d reluctantly agreed that my men were on the target, and maybe she didn’t know everything that was happening. Which was par for the course for me as well. We’d gone back to the InterContinental Hotel, where she and Aaron were staying, and now we were waiting for him to show up.

She said, “They’d better not lose his ass.”

I said, “That depends on the definition of his, I suppose.”

At the coffee shop, she’d refused to tell me what was going on, or who her target was, but she had at least stopped her operation. I understood that, because I would expect the same silence from my men. Her team leader, Aaron, would be the only one with the authority to spill the beans. If he would even do it.

Shoshana turned from the window, no longer wearing her Arab garb, and now regretting her decision, stomping back and forth with her quick pace.

She was fairly tall, about five nine, with a tomboyish body made of muscle. No breasts, no ass, and hair cut short—you had to look at her twice to see if she was female. When you did, you saw a face like a porcelain doll, seemingly full of innocence; she looked fragile and weak while being anything but. There was no way you would fear her, right up until she put a blade to your throat. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, but she was attractive. At least to me, but that may be because I envied her skills.

I heard the lock of the hotel door snick and Aaron Bergman entered, looking at me with as much interest as if he’d found a bowl of fruit delivered to his room. He had always been cool under pressure, but this was a bit much. I’d expected at least a little reaction.

I stood and said, “Hey, Aaron. Looks like you’re playing Uncle Kracker again.”

That finally brought some confusion. He said, “What?”

Seeing I was going the smart-ass route, Jennifer stood up, giving me a palm and saying, “Pike, stop that. Sit down.”

I did and Shoshana’s eyes shot open. She said, “What button do you push to get that? I want it.”

Jennifer ignored her and said, “Sorry for interfering with your operation. I don’t want to dance around, which is what Pike will do.”

I said, “Jennifer . . .”

She held her hand up again, which was really, really embarrassing. I remained quiet. To me, Shoshana said, “Okay, what’s up with her? How does she do that? I would have used it in the coffee shop.”

Aaron removed his coat without a word, draping it over a chair. He sat down and said, “Shoshana, save it. You brought them here. If you wanted to fight, you would have.”

He turned to me and said, “So, to what do I owe your incredible presence, Nephilim?”

I leaned forward and stuck out my hand, saying, “I didn’t mean to wreck what you were doing.”

He shook it and said, “You never mean to. But you always do.”

I laughed and said, “Not this time. I think we can help each other out.”

“Last time we ‘helped each other,’ one of my men was killed.”

My face grew hard, I said, “Right after your actions caused the death of one of mine.”

He said, “Okay, fair enough. Let’s hear it.”

I leaned back into the couch and said, “Unfortunately, I’m not cleared to talk to you unless I know who you’re working for. Shoshana said you’re no longer with Mossad.”

“It’s complicated.”

“So she said. How complicated? Counter to me?”

He smiled and said, “Well, if you mean I’m going to compete against you for a contract to protect some archeological dig, no.”

Meaning, I was as full of shit as he was. He still had no idea who I worked for, but also knew if the web was run back, it ended at the United States government. Which was at least something. I didn’t know if he was working for a Russian oligarch.