Pussycat in Peril (Pussycat Death Squad Book 3) Read online

  Pussycat Death Squad

  Pussycat in Peril

  Roslyn Hardy Holcomb

  roslynhardyholcomb.com

  Pussycat Death Squad Pussycat in Peril

  Previous Books in this Series:

  Pussycat Death Squad

  Pussycat Death Squad The Lion in Russia

  Copyright May 2015 Roslyn Hardy Holcomb

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Roslyn Hardy Holcomb.

  Cover Artist: Whit Holcomb

  This e-book is a work of fiction. Though it might refer to historical events and actual people and places might be mentioned, the names, characters, places and incidents are either made up by the author or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Glossary

  abaya a simple, loose, over-garment similar to a robe

  adhan call to prayer

  Amati aunt

  Ami uncle

  Babba colloquialism word for father, like Daddy

  habibti endearment, my love

  haram sinful, forbidden

  hijab a veil that covers the head and chest

  imam worship leader at a mosque

  Inshallah if God wills it

  Khara shit, a crudity

  mosque a place of worship for followers of Islam

  muezzin person who calls to prayer

  rakat the prescribed movements and words followed by Muslims while offering prayers

  salat is the practice of physical and compulsory prayer in Islam

  fajr pre-dawn

  dhuhr midday

  asr afternoon

  maghrib sunset

  Isha’a night

  Salat jum`ah Friday prayers

  Shisha tobacco smoked in a hookah

  Ya Allah Oh God

  Chapter One

  Astaria stared out from her perch on the flat rooftop, surveying the city below. Amaru, her birthplace, was an old town, even ancient. Many of the buildings were hundreds of years old. The city was laid out in a picturesque grid that made navigation a breeze and aided in her task as well. The buildings were old-style, with shops occupying the first floors and living quarters above. Fortunately, while it was early evening most of the city’s occupants would still be having dinner on the second floor of their homes, not sleeping on the third floor so they’d have no cause to wonder about footsteps on the roofs of their houses. The narrow whitewashed buildings were placed close together and the roofs in this nearly rainless climate were flat, making it possible to dash from one to another with little trouble. As she settled into the sniper’s lair she’d set up hours before, Astaria continued her surveillance. Her gaze moved from one landmark to another, taking in the locations of her intended targets.

  Her backpack held a gallon of water and the fruit and nuts she preferred to snack on while lying in wait. She pushed her ball cap back on her head. Though it was mottled in dark grays and black like the rest of her attire the incongruous slogan “Hot Shot” splashed in bright fuchsia across the drab colors made her smile. It had been a gift from her husband, Kaeden, who admired her deadly aim. They’d only been married a few weeks when he took her to the firing range with him on the base. She smiled again when she remembered his astonishment at her prowess. As always when she thought about Kaeden she felt a sense of unease. An almost indescribable feeling took over her stomach. His dark good looks made her uncomfortable in all sorts of ways, and living with him in close proximity for more than two years had done nothing to rectify it.

  Kaeden was Arab. His parents were originally from Egypt, but they’d immigrated to Tennessee before Kaeden was born, and lived on a small farm there. Kaeden had dark hair and striking hazel eyes and looked totally Arab, but there was a distinct touch of Tennessee in both his speech and mannerisms. It could be disconcerting at times, but it was charming as well. There were times when she struggled to remember that theirs was a marriage in name only. Assuming she made it out of Laritrea alive and no one discovered she’d left the States, two big ifs, she would have her green card that summer and she and Kaeden could part ways. Paradoxically that too left her more than a bit edgy.

  She wiped a hand over a face. She really wasn’t going to think about him. He’d be furious if he had any idea where she was or what she was doing. Far better to think about her targets on the ground, she knew what to do about them.

  More for something to do while she waited she did a safety check of her weapon, a British made Lapua Magnum she’d had for quite a while. She could break the rifle down and reassemble it in less than a minute and Lelia teased her that she put as much time in upkeep on the thing as most people did a Ferrari. Astaria had rolled her eyes and dismissed the comment with a snort; a Ferrari was hardly a matter of life and death. Though she generally worked as a bodyguard for those wealthy enough to afford her services, she prided herself on her ability as a sniper. A skill she maintained with rigorous practice. She rarely missed more than a day at the firing range so her skills were more than adequate for any circumstance in which she might find herself. Even this one: combat sniper.

  She closed her eyes briefly, almost overwhelmed as the memories of how she came to be in this situation flared up, but she shook her head in firm negation of those thoughts. Today, her mission was simple one; locate and take out as many IJIWO fighters as possible, preferably without dying or being captured herself. Her goal and that of the organization she worked with was to undermine the occupiers as much as possible. To forward that goal they focused on assassinating IJIWO leaders, but any member would do.

  Though her organization was small, she could see evidence of their impact below: the enemy always traveled in groups now. Their soldiers were seldom seen without at least a half dozen companions. The leaders were always heavily guarded. She smiled and chuckled under her breath. They were making her job easier. She could take out a half dozen men from this location in less than thirty seconds. That type of speed would allow her to escape any repercussions before the men even had a chance to regroup.

  The heat was oppressive, even for someone like herself who had been born and raised in North Africa. The few years she’d lived in America had clearly softened her up. It was early April and the weather in D.C. was still lovely and mild. In Laritrea summer had begun with daytime temperatures in the high 80s everyday. Even though the sun had already set, its heat was still present, especially on top of a three-story building. Fortunately, she had been trained in Laritrea and was accustomed to the discomfort of the desert climate. She watched as two groups of soldiers passed below, presumably on their way to dinner.

  The occupiers had taken over several buildings in the city center to use as their headquarters and they almost always ate at a local restaurant they’d also commandeered. Night was falling more quickly now and she looked impatiently up at the sky. Twilight was the best time for killing. It was difficult to pick out snipers in the mottled light, which had a tendency to flatten and distort shapes and shadows. Her rifle had an excellent flash suppressor, but in pitch darkness even the tiniest flash was easy to see making her as much a target as those she fired upon.

  Finally her patience paid off. Three men she recognized as IJIWO officers came into sight, accompanied by a couple other men she didn’t recognize. The Legion of Valor, the resistance group she fought with, had an excellent intelligence network and made sure all its operatives had a working knowledge of
the enemy. After turning the bill of her cap to the back she stretched out on the rooftop. She propped her rifle on the rest she’d made by leaning her backpack against the raised roof edge. Steadying it with a practiced hand she began conscious breathing. Inhaling and exhaling with measured breaths.

  Even after years of training and practice the excitement of the kill still made her heart race, and if she wasn’t careful the increased respiration rate would throw her shot off. But she wasn’t consciously thinking of this, simply going through the routine she’d developed to ensure that each shot was deadly and accurate.

  Even as she waited until the men came into firing range, several others joined her original target. She calculated how many she could conceivably take down before jeopardizing her own position. Seven would really be pushing it, but she was determined to take as many as she could. Oh well, she’d have to do her best. She waited until they’d crossed another five hundred meters, then another fifty for good measure. Scanning the rooftops constantly for any enemy snipers she counted slowly. She didn’t want to start firing until they were well within range of her rifle so she could pick off as many as possible before they could retreat.

  She inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, waited until the breath was halfway out then fired five shots in rapid succession, aiming for the beginning and the end of the group, and then the middle. Each shot was a kill shot, and she wanted to give the impression that there was more than one sniper. Her targets erupted into chaos as rifle fire reverberated through the square and the crowd scattered looking for cover anywhere it could be found. She grabbed her backpack before running across the rooftop and then leaping the narrow distance to the next house with the nimbleness of a mountain goat. Reaching her second lair in record time she took up another firing position, this one with a building at her back. The overhang of the pitched roof cast her in shadow, disguising her position. She began firing again, the flash suppressor on the rifle combined with the shadow of the overhang to make it almost impossible to detect her position.

  She continued in this fashion for nearly fifteen minutes, firing and moving into a new position before the enemy could get a bead on the target she made against the tops of the buildings. Finally they retreated out of range and she gathered her backpack, slipped it and the rifle onto her back and made a diving roll from the top of a two story building into the narrow alley. From there she quickly removed an abaya and hijab from the backpack. After swiftly breaking the weapon down into two parts, she shoved it into the backpack before strapping it to her torso with the bulk in front of her stomach. She pulled on the abaya concealing her backpack under the voluminous fabric, thus disguising herself as a heavily pregnant and observant Muslim woman. Adjusting the head covering took only a few seconds more. After taking a couple of calming breaths she crept into the hidden entrance to the house of a known Legion of Valor ally, leaving no trace of the mayhem she’d wreaked only moments before.

  *****

  “So are you planning to tell me where my wife is?” Kaeden Nassir studied his hosts, Lelia Assad and Patrick McBride over his cup of truly Arab coffee, taking note of the fact that they both seemed stunned by his question. The strong astringent aroma was bracing, a characteristic he was sure he was going to need to get the information he needed from the canny couple. “Did it not occur to you that I might want to know where my wife is, especially as she’s been missing for more than two months?”

  A long pause followed, during which neither of them spoke. Kaeden grit his teeth. His muscles twitched with an almost overwhelming need to do something physical. Just when he was about to succumb to the urge, Lelia gave him a sheepish look, one that Patrick shared. “Actually, to be frank Kaeden, we’d forgotten you were her husband.”

  It was all Kaeden could do not to gape at her. “What? But it was your idea for us to get married in the first place. How could you just forget about it?”

  “I know, but that was purely for immigration purposes. It’s been several years now. She’s practically a citizen. I assumed you had gotten divorced. When Astaria came to us…” Lelia let the sentence trail off as she continued to look perplexed. Patrick leaned forward in his seat on the sofa to pour himself another cup of coffee. He raised the pot in Kaeden’s direction in inquiry. Kaeden shook his head, refusing the refill. Lelia took him up on the offer when Patrick turned to her, and he carefully filled his wife’s cup.

  “Astaria came to you for what? Isn’t she on a mission for you?” Kaeden asked. What in the actual hell was going on? He’d been on assignment himself when Astaria left. He’d been off to Syria to rescue hostages being held for ransom there. When he returned a few weeks later Astaria wasn’t there, but he’d assumed she’d been sent on assignment as well. Their missions had frequently overlapped that way with weeks, sometimes even longer passing, but in those cases he’d usually known where she’d gone. Neither was at liberty to divulge details to the other, but they would usually share at least a general idea of how long they would be gone, and at least what region of the world they’d been sent to. He should’ve known something was wrong when Astaria hadn’t even left him so much as a text message.

  “Uh no. That is, not exactly,” Lelia trailed off, then gave Patrick a beseeching look.

  “What my lovely wife is trying to not tell you, man, is that your wife is in Laritrea,” Patrick said in his usual blunt manner.

  Kaeden’s heart skipped a beat, and suddenly it was hard to breathe as he was stricken with an emotion he so rarely experienced he almost didn’t recognize it. Pure. Unadulterated. Stomach churning terror dried his mouth and left him struggling to form complete thoughts. An experienced marine, he rarely felt the emotion for himself, at least not to a degree worth noticing. That’s what training was about; the fear was present but compartmentalized in such a way that it didn’t interfere with the mission. Unfortunately compartmentalization wasn’t going to help him now. Of course, fearing for her made about as much sense as fearing for himself. The woman had spent her life as a warrior just as he had. She’d had plenty of assignments since their marriage. But the events in Laritrea these days had surpassed dangerous quite a while back and was well on its way to full-scale genocide on a level not seen since…since whenever the last genocide was. It was becoming so common he’d lost track long ago.

  “What? Why in the world would she go back there? Didn’t Colonel al-Fariq still have a price on your heads?” he asked, struggling to keep the tremor out of his voice. A few years before Lelia and the rest of her Amazonian Guard, including Astaria, had escaped al-Fariq’s political machinations by the skin of their teeth.

  Lelia nodded, her deep brown eyes conveying her concern. “You know her family is there. Astaria was trying to get them out,” she said.

  “Yes, but she’s been begging them to leave practically since she got here,” Kaeden said.

  “She thought if she went, they would finally agree to leave,” she said.

  “But it’s absolutely insane over there right now. They’ve killed the Colonel,” Kaeden began, then broke off as Lelia winced and lowered her eyes at his words. Despite the abominable way the man had treated her, imprisoning her with every intention of having her beheaded after she discovered his Byzantine scheme that resulted in the death of several young Guard members, Lelia had loved and respected him. It was clear from her expression that she was greatly pained by his horrific death.

  “She was already gone by the time they murdered him, or we never would have let her leave,” Lelia said softly as she rose from her seat next to her husband on the sofa. She began to slowly pace around the room, her arms wrapped around her torso as though she was in pain. “Astaria’s father is an archaeologist.”

  Kaeden nodded. He knew a bit about his wife’s family despite the fact that they’d lived for the most part as roommates over the years it took to satisfy immigration requirements. She talked to them as frequently as possible by phone and sometimes Skype. And she had told him so many stories about them that he felt he
knew them, though, of course, they’d never met.

  “Dr. Ibrahim is devoted to preserving our country’s cultural heritage. The Colonel,” she made a gesture to indicate indifference, “the Colonel was for the most part ambivalent about such things, but he indulged Dr. Ibrahim out of respect for him. And, of course, the possibility of developing a tourism industry. Dr. Ibrahim encouraged this, though, with all the violence it will not be possible now. If ever,” she said her words hollow with pain.

  Kaeden leaned forward to place his now empty coffee cup on the low coffee table. The pale blues and grays of the room, as well as the low-slung furniture were stylish and modern. A man his size should’ve felt totally out of place, but somehow he never had. The overall atmosphere of the room was calming and soothing, characteristics he desperately needed at the moment.

  “I understand, but what does that have to do with Astaria going off into that bloodbath?”

  Lelia closed her eyes briefly and exhaled heavily through her nose as though reaching for her patience. “I’m trying to explain it to you. The Colonel wasn’t indifferent to all of Dr. Ibrahim’s findings. In fact, he was downright hostile to the discovery of Roman ruins throughout our country. He saw them as evidence of western colonialism begun back in antiquity.”

  It was all Kaeden could do not to scream at his best friend’s wife. What the fuck did any of this National Geographic shit have to do with what had happened to Astaria? But he refrained because Lelia didn’t tolerate obscenity and Trick, who treated his wife, who could probably decapitate Kaeden with one of the delicate silver spoons that was placed just so on the elegant coffee tray, as though she was made of spun sugar, would also field strip him in nothing less than a heartbeat for causing her the least discomfort.

  “Well, Colonel al-Fariq was prone to that type of thing,” Kaeden said gently to spare Lelia’s feelings. Al-Fariq had not been one of his favorite world leaders, being prone to the kind of rhetoric that kept him in power at the expense of his people.