Page 7 of Blind Prophet

“We aren’t looking to build a case for prosecution,” Trevor says. “We’re looking to stop them.”

“Our aim is to dismantle the attack, and if we can’t do that, to mount a multipronged defense that prevents the attack from doing any damage,” Ryan says. “And to ensure we have evidence that prevents the wrong party, or in this case, countries, from being blamed.”

I exhale, understanding the situation.

“If we’re wrong, we exonerate the Moore men. Remove them from the persons of interest list,” Sophia says, her direct eye contact communicating volumes. She’s looking to me for a solution.

“If you want to get someone into his compound, then I’m your best bet.” I eye Sophia, wondering if this was her objective all along. “For the record, I don’t believe Dorian would do this. But I can access his home. He won’t turn me away.”

“You’re not trained to be in the field,” Sophia interjects. “What if I come with you, as your friend? We’ll say we were in the area.”

I haven’t seen him in seven years, and I’m coming by to say hello with my friend tagging along?

“It’s best if I go alone.”

Dorian Moore is an all-consuming alpha male, and I left him to preserve my sanity and dignity, but they’re off on this. The Moores have the means, but not the motive.

As a counter-terrorist analyst, I have the expertise and knowledge to confirm the Moore men do not match a terrorist profile. But based on recent intel, a threat looms. As Americans, we prefer to believe the threat is abroad. Before a world war commences, we need confirmation.

I understand the logic. And the truth is, I have unfinished business that I’ve been putting off. Perhaps this is fate’s way of telling me it’s time I face my past and bury it once and for all.

CHAPTER2

CAROLINE

“You ready?” Sophia asks.

I spent the day prepping with the team and being instructed on the surveillance devices. Yes, I’m Langley-trained, but I’ve never served in the field.

“You sound worried.”

Her doe-eyed expression says she’s definitely worried. I understand. If anything were to happen to me, she’d bear the guilt.

“He might not be the man you remember.” She twists a pen top in her fingers, and I release an exhausted sigh.

There are two sides to Dorian. The side I fell in love with, and the emotionless, egocentric, cold individual I left. Neither of those sides are dangerous.

“Dorian won’t hurt me. Even if he’s behind this, he won’t hurt me.” Dorian can be emotionally distant and cruel, but he’d never physically hurt me.

For a time there, Dorian Moore was a media darling. The nephew of an American president and the son of a multibillionaire, he is American royalty. But after our split, he shunned publicity. Perhaps his fall from press pet status contributed to his placement on the persons of interest list. He’s wealthy and shrouded in mystery, after all.

When I noticed his presence on tabloid covers diminished, I assumed he’d found someone, and she convinced him to step away from the limelight. I assumed she achieved what I hadn’t. My assumption could still be correct.

Arrow Tactical, and apparently, intelligence agencies the world over, are placing trust in this informant who holds the Moore men accountable. But tipsters are notoriously unreliable. An unnamed insider could be anyone from the hotdog vendor on a street to a senator with a vendetta. I asked for information on the contact but was told that, for the source’s safety, they were not disclosing the information.

Sophia’s decision to bring me in and leverage my connection is wise. If there’s a planned attack, there’s an undeniable benefit to shortening the suspect list. My connection has value.

“There are other ways we can get what we need,” Sophia says.

“Would you stop? It’s fine. It’s a chance to work in the field.”

CIA candidates technically don’t know what they’ll be assigned to after going through training, but I never stood a chance of a coveted spy role, thanks to my marriage. Facial recognition will almost always recognize me, even if hardly anyone recognizes me on the street these days.

Stella joins us. She’s juggling a bottle of wine, three hard plastic wineglasses, and a corkscrew.

“Got your flight booked,” Stella announces. “Let’s head to the rooftop. We can watch the sunset and hear all about your date with Mr. Sexy.”

“Oh, yes. Luke.” Sophia’s devilish grin says she’s aware I’d rather not chat about my date.

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