Chapter 2

Present-day,

North Carolina, Fort Bragg.

Every muscle ached, and Atlas took a long swig of beer, barely keeping his eyes open. Jet-lag kicked his overworked ass, and he ran a hand through his hair as he glanced around the pub. Charlie Mike’s was a Special Forces bar that held regular ceremonies to honor lost members of the SF community. Ignoring the fellow SF soldiers gathered at the bar, Atlas picked up his phone and stared at the blank screen, before placing it back down. He should call her. They hadn’t spoken in months, and he missed hearing her sure voice. Hell, he missed seeing her. Atlas stretched his back as Donnie took a seat beside him at the bar.

“You okay, bud?” the analyst asked.

Atlas placed his beer on the counter. “Fucking exhausted. You?”

“About the same. I want to get home to my girls.”

“When do you dudes leave?”

“In the morning.” Donnie suppressed a yawn.

The MIT2 team was returning to Utah after their deployment and subsequent debriefing at MIT headquarters at Fort Bragg. Atlas wouldn’t be flying back to Utah. He had other plans that included more hours spent on an airplane, and a couple of connecting flights to Europe. He’d be using personal days, aside from his three weeks’ worth of rest between deployments.

“Max is still acting sketchy,” Atlas stated.

“Yeah. I’m worried about him. Maybe some time spent with his family will sort him out.”

Atlas nodded, but he doubted it. Their team leader—Erik Max Andersen—had been suffering from PTSD burnout for the past six months. Ever since he saw his wife and daughter being targeted by a sniper at their mountain home, he wasn’t sleeping well, and his ordinarily uptight ass was now about to implode.

In only three months, Atlas would’ve been with his MIT2 team for almost 18 months. Time spent working seamlessly with a well-trained and smoothly oiled black ops team. He couldn’t have wished for better unit camaraderie. His brothers-in-arms were all incredible men with noble hearts. Atlas was no longer the newbie, and he’d proved himself time and again in the field. As the Protection Specialist and Sniper, he kept his team safe and fought alongside some of the bravest men he’d ever known.

Although they were the opposite in every way, Dave Donnie Wilson was Atlas’s best friend. They balanced each other out in the field. And they’d survived a hair-raising rescue in Morocco. Donnie reached for a coaster and lined it up before balancing his beer glass in the center. Anal bastard. Atlas took another swig of beer, and nudged his glass into the side of Donnie’s well-placed beverage, causing the golden liquid to spill onto the bar.

“What the hell, man!”

“If you’re going to act like a gnarly old lady, fiddling with coasters and napkins, I’m gonna upset your apple cart.” Atlas grinned.

“I’ll shove an apple up your ass. Touch my beer again, and I’ll flatten you.”

And Donnie could do it. His martial art skills were legendary in the SF community.

Atlas snorted as he turned his back and surveyed the crowded bar. “Any news?”

Donnie paused while mopping the spillage with a damp napkin. He knew what Atlas meant and swore under his breath.

“You’re supposed to be the best analyst in the army—”

“I am the best.” Donnie pinned him with a glare. “Whoever those men are, they’re better. I have no leads on the plate number or their faces. Have you spoken to her?”

Atlas shifted uncomfortably. “Elana replied to one of my emails a month ago. She’s in Greece—I think—could be Turkey. She’s ghosting me, and it’s pissing me off.”

“If you’re gonna do something stupid—you need to check-in at least once a day. If I don’t hear from you, I’m flying out to kick your ass.”

“History repeating itself. We don’t need another Morocco debacle.” Atlas shot Donnie a sideways glance.

“Then don’t disappear under the radar. And if Elana is into any illegal shit…”

That statement angered Atlas. “Dude, I won’t walk away from her.”

Donnie grabbed Atlas’s arm in a firm grip. “No, you’ll run. And if she implicates you in any way, I’ll be coming for her.”

“Jesus, Donnie. Elana is Charlie’s best friend. We all care about her, including you.”

“All I care about is Charlie. My wife is my everything, and if Elana endangers my family—”

Atlas clenched his hand around the bottle. “Cowboy the hell up, bro. She won’t, and you know it. Elana loves Charlie like a sister.”

Donnie slumped back in his seat. “Shit, I know you’re right. I’ll keep digging, and if I find anything, I’ll push it your way.”

“Thanks, homie.” Atlas placed his glass back on the bar. “I gotta bounce. I have shit to plan.”

He clamped Donnie on the shoulder and searched for Max, spotting him nursing a beer in the corner.

The MIT2 Team Leader looked up as Atlas approached. Atlas straightened automatically, having nothing but respect for Erik Max Andersen. The man was a legend in the SF community. An astute superior who led his team with honor and resourcefulness.

“Sir, I’m heading out. I just wanna… uh—I’m gonna—”

“Get yourself into hot water?”

Of course, Max knew of Atlas’s plans. Nothing got past the perceptive warrior.

“That’s doubtful. I’m checking on Elana.”

Pale eyes narrowed with laser-focus. “You call me if you need assistance.”

“Sir, I—”

“No-one else gets hurt on my watch. We’re racking up fucking scars and injuries like we’re the Expendables.”

“Chicks dig scars.” Atlas grinned, and Max grimaced. “But, yes, Sir. I agree… I’ll handle it, and I’ll be gone for two weeks at the most.”

“You’ve earned time off. Watch your own six.” Max stared ahead, his body tense.

“Say hello to Abby and the kids from me.”

Max’s expression tightened. Atlas wanted to say something but had no clue where to start. James Johnny Cane—their team medic, built like a brick house stud—approached, intruding on the awkward moment. Atlas exfiled, walking away from his team while pulling out his phone.

***

Elana braided her blond hair carefully and calmed any flyways. She’d chosen not to wear a dress or shorts. Instead, she wore flowing navy pants paired with a fitted white cardigan—an appropriate choice for the day ahead.

The cool April breeze drifting through the open window energized Elana, and she took a moment to take in the spectacular view. Crete was her favorite Greek island. She loved the old-world charm, still present in isolated regions across the large stretch of land. In remote parts, families owned livestock, rode their horse-drawn carts, and lived a rural existence in an area where tourists flocked to beaches and flopped around in the sedate sea.

Calling out a greeting to her cousin, Elana passed through the kitchen onto the expansive deck appreciating blue skies, shrubbery, and a sea view that stretched for miles.

The breakfast spread drew her attention, and she helped herself to homemade Greek yogurt and mixed berries.

“Marhaba.”

Elana grinned and returned her cousin’s greeting.

“Salma, you should stay over more often—you’ve spoilt me with this huge breakfast. And we had a great work session last night.”

“I need to be nearer to the safe house.” Salma popped a grape in her mouth and dished up a bowl of fruit.

It felt good to be back. Salma wasn’t just a distant cousin; she was like a best friend. For an only child like Elana, extended family meant the world. Thankfully, Elana had plenty of family to choose from, on both her mother’s and father’s sides.

There were times that Elana spent more time overseas than with her parents back home. But they all had busy lives, and she’d lived with that fact for a long time. Her family was never going to change. Her father was a workaholic, and when he wasn’t working, he was wrapped up in his charity work. Her mother was a social butterfly and could easily star in one of those glamorous housewives reality shows. Momma did love the limelight. Elana didn’t harbor any resentment, at least not anymore. She had her own busy life to live, and she may have bitten off more than she could chew. She might choke to death on the resulting carnage of her secretive life.

Salma walked over to the table and reached for a slice of toast, and Elana studied her calm persona. Unlike Elana, Salma wore a Hijab over her hair. The colorful silk scarf framed delicate features, and the shorter, curvier woman only just reached Elana’s shoulders.

Salma looked like their father’s side of the family with dark brown hair, pale skin, and obsidian eyes. Salma considered her eye color as her best feature, and people always commented on that striking shade.

As far as Elana was concerned, Salma was a beauty in every way. A soft-spoken angel with the kindest soul.

Although they spent time together as children in Istanbul, their paths had diverged when Elana had turned five. Elana’s family had moved to the States, and her father drifted away from his Islamic faith. Elana’s father and by default, herself, were now classed as secular Muslims. Yet, her father fought for spiritual equality for women in the Middle East, and also focused on the decline of women’s rights in Turkey.

His participation in forming a Turkish coalition that brought together Secularist and Islamic activists, to end violence against women, made Elana proud. He’d used his infamy as a famous Turkish architect to fight for legislation changes, and spoke about how violence against women hurts the family institution. This intelligent approach spoke to the conservative agenda of the government in Turkey and was a positive step in a fight for women’s rights.

The Celik family had made actual changes and invited healthy debate in a region that Elana thought she’d left behind. Now she found herself back where she’d begun, situated across the globe and facing immense beauty, secrets, and deception.

Salma glanced sideways, eying Elana’s cardigan as she spread butter on her toast. “Let me guess; this isn’t a beach day?”

Rolling her eyes, Elana replied. “You know what day it is, don’t get clever. I had one day to myself. One day of relaxation on the sand, and this is what I get?”

“And what you now have is golden-toned skin. Why can’t you burn like the rest of us? Because you’re a little blond princess with that teeny bikini wrapped around a towering and skinny body.”

“Don’t be a cousin hater.” Elana jabbed Salma in the arm. “It’s a private beach, you should lay out beside me, although I doubt I’ll get much time to float around in the sea in the next few weeks. We have work to do. Are you ready?”

“I’d like to eat breakfast first, and unlike you, I have actual work to do in front of a screen.” Salma headed to her laptop on the kitchen counter.

Elana walked over to the table and stared out at the view. She savored the taste of tart berries and scraped at the yogurt at the bottom of the bowl. A familiar ringtone—Feeling Groovy—broke the morning tranquility, and Elana closed her eyes, ignoring the call.

“Amirah, aren’t you going to answer that?”

Elana glared Salma’s way. “Don’t call me princess, and no, let it ring.”

The persistent tone rang off. Elana placed her bowl on the table, no longer in the mood for breakfast. “We need to get on the road.”

Her phone vibrated on the table, as the ringing re-commenced.

“Someone is determined to speak to you.”

Elana hesitated. She knew who was on the other end of that ringtone—the currently deployed man she’d been avoiding for months, who camped out in East Africa. But what if he’d been injured? The last she’d heard from him was via email, and that was weeks ago. Her palms grew damp as she eyed the mobile device like it was a spider.

Cursing, she grabbed the phone and pressed the answer button.

“Hey, Surfer Boy, what do you want?”

“Get it right. I’m a steezy boy. Snow is my vibe.”

Elana couldn’t help smiling as she rolled her eyes. “You’re just as capable on the waves. I’ve seen you on a surfboard.”

“I remember. You gave me a run for my money. Who knew that a Wyoming girl could surf like a pro?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Elana replied in a teasing tone.

Silence greeted her statement, and she cleared her throat. “So… um. Everything okay?”

“Checking on my favorite buddy.”

Elana rubbed a hand over the back of her neck. Buddies. That’s all they could ever be. “I’m fine. Living the good life on the Mediterranean.”

“How long will you be there?” Atlas asked.

“Another few weeks.”

“Turkey? Istanbul?”

“No. Crete then Italy.” Elana took a sip of apple juice.

“Sick. Crete sounds like my kind of vibe. I’m flying your way; maybe we can meet up?”

Almost choking, Elana pulled the phone from her ear and stared at the device before placing it back to her ear. “You mean, in Greece?”

“You betcha. I could do with some sun, sea, and sand.”

“I have commitments… family stuff with… uh… family.” She glanced at Salma.

“You can’t spend one day with a friend who cares about you? One who may have saved your life once or twice?”

Gritting her teeth, Elana paced. Was Atlas really playing the ‘you owe me’ card? And why was he so determined to meet? Did he miss her? Elana ignored her twinge of anticipation at the prospect of seeing him again. She wasn’t in Greece to play, especially with a tall blond warrior. She was here on a mission—a dangerous one that could get her killed. Atlas needed to stay as far away as possible.

He spoke into the silence. “I need to see you. We need to talk.”

Elana frowned at his words. He sounded serious, and that wasn’t the Atlas she knew; in fact, she suddenly felt like he called the shots. She didn’t like that feeling—not one bit.

“Elana? Talk to me.”

Perspiration dampened her brow, and she paced a circle on the tiled floor. Perhaps if she gave Atlas one or two days—she could take him to lunch, they’d lie on the beach or take in the sights. She’d drop him back at his hotel, before flying out to Italy.

Elana swallowed, feeling like she was tumbling down a rabbit hole. “Text me when you land. I’m in the East—in the Lasithi Region—outside of Agios Nikolaos. You’ll fly into Heraklion Airport, and will need to board a bus to Agios Nikolaos.”

“I’ll rent a car.”

“Fine. There are plenty of hotels on the coast. Pick one.”

“Cool… I’m not staying with you?”

“Don’t push your luck, mister. I have to go.” She hung up without saying goodbye and turned to see her cousin staring with wide eyes.

“Are we having visitors?”

“More like one annoying flea—a friend from back home. He won’t interfere with our plans, and speaking of those, we need to move. We’re late.”

Elana grabbed her bag, checking for her knife and mace. She pulled out a silk scarf and wrapped it loosely around her thick hair. Salma locked up and followed Elana out to the Fiat Spider Convertible. Only once they were on the open road, did Elana blow out a nervous breath.

“So it’s a he?” Salma asked.

“Who?”

“Your phone friend? The flea?”

Elana grunted as she slowed, rounding a tight curve. “I don’t want to talk about him. Let’s focus on your engagement to the lovely Rasul.”

Ignoring Elana’s attempt to change the subject, Salma asked, “Has your father met your friend?”

“Salma! No, and why does it matter. He stays a friend, and besides, he’s not a Muslim.”

“Is that an issue? You’ve never been a practicing Muslim, and neither has your father. You’ve always forged an independent path. You need to do what makes you happy.”

“Are you happy? In an arranged marriage?”

Salma sighed. “My parents met the same way and have been happily married for twenty-eight years—and I like Rasul. He’s not a stranger. We’ve known each other for years. I like who he is and what he believes in.”

“I know, and I think he’s a great guy. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Salma crossed her arms over her chest. “Dating is confusing. An arranged marriage might not sound all that romantic, but it gives me the power to ask the hard questions. It’s an effective vetting system, plus I trust my family’s judgment. I know Rasul’s family, their history, and his beliefs. I know I can grow to love him.”

Elana shot her a sideways glance. “You’re braver than I am. The concept of marriage has me running for the hills.”

“Running is what you do best. You’re a restless wahasha.” Salma laid her head against the seat rest.

“First, you call me a princess and now a beast.”

“Yip. You’re both a beauty and a beast all rolled into one.”

Elana poked a finger in the side of her cousin’s head as they turned off the main road. “Well, remember not to call me by my real name at this meeting.” Elana used an alias and went by “Eleanor Sevil” and most called her “Ellie.” No-one knew her real name with concern to her dealings. Technically, “Sevil” was her name. It was her middle name—"Elana Sevil Celik”—and now she used it as a last name.

“Back at you. I’ll probably stay in the car.”

Salma also used a fake last name, although she’d kept her first name—which was a common enough girl’s name in the Arabic culture. No-one involved in the operation knew that the two women were cousins. They’d decided it was safer to pretend that they were childhood friends.

Fifteen minutes later, and they pulled up alongside the nunnery tucked deep into the surrounding hills. The whitewashed stone walls and tiled terra-cotta roof held decades worth of secrets. It was the fresh secrets that held Elana’s interest—shrouded secrets that destroyed souls.

Both women stared at the path that led to humble wooden doors.

“This isn’t going to be easy.” Salma squeezed Elana’s arm.

Elana opened the driver’s door and stepped onto the rough stone. She pulled off her scarf and straightened her cardigan. “Eradication never is.”