Page 16 of High Treason
“Kord Davidson and Monica Alden,” he said. “Prince Omar is expecting us.”
“Yes, sir,” a man said. “Your license plate is not in our system. This will take a few moments to verify you and your passenger. Our facial recognition doesn’t have either of you on file.”
“Since when? We were given authorization this morning.”
“New measures have been instituted. I’ll do my best to expedite the matter. Each of you will need to exit the vehicle, approach the kiosk for a facial and retinal scan. Then a fingerprint check. Expect ninety-second delays while your identities are confirmed and filed into our system.”
“Check your records. We’ve been cleared.”
“How long would you like to sit outside the gate?”
He muttered a few choice words and grabbed a baseball cap from the backseat to prevent recognition from anyone spying on the home. She didn’t have a thing with her to shield her identity.
Monica bit back a laugh. Obviously the man at the security company had spoken with Kord types before. “Want me to go first in case you open fire on the monitor?” she said.
“I’ll restrain myself.” He planted the hat on his head and exited the car.
While Monica waited for her check, she took in the exterior of the grounds and the street for signs of potential problems. Although law enforcement patrolled the area and kept constant surveillance, small inconsistencies could mean unwanted casualties. The neighborhood boasted of quiet affluence. Those who held the highest ranking wereof old money, certain to frown on international visitors invading their empires. Massive oaks hid what residents wanted disguised and showcased what they wanted others to believe.
Hovering gray clouds indicated more rain. Flash flood warnings affected the low areas of the city, making some streets, roads, and underpasses impassable. Her T-shirt offered little warmth since it had been soaked while on the roof of the high school and clung damp to her skin.
Kord gestured for her to take her turn at the security camera. She left the car, and he joined her on the left side, blocking her from the street view.
“Oh, to have changed clothes before Prince Omar arrived.”
“Nothing we can do about how you look.”
She took a cursory look at herself and cringed. Her stained brown T-shirt and tattered jeans made her look like a reject from the cleaning crew. With what she’d been briefed about Prince Omar and his extravagance, he’d regard her with less than an ounce of respect or brains. But regrets never solved anything, and she’d been given this assignment because of her experience and abilities. What did Kord or the prince expect when she’d been pulled from an undercover job?
When she passed the security procedures, the gate opened. His frown annoyed her.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“We’ll talk later. A word of advice—don’t expect a welcome committee.”
“I’m CIA and I’ve faced these people before. Play your intimidation games somewhere else.”
He chuckled. Who was this man?
IN THE CIRCULAR DRIVEWAYof the Saud family home, Monica exited Kord’s Charger, a new model and spotless. A great ride. But his car would have been better suited in the rear service area. Prince Omar had probably offered a more luxurious vehicle, but that could have been interpreted as a bribe, a career breaker for law enforcement.
She couldn’t imagine living in a home this huge. A perfectly groomed landscape in tiered layers of green looked as though an artist had used a brush to paint the scenery. A marble fountain caught her attention, and she allowed the aesthetic experience to momentarily dispel her misgivings about her ability to work the case. She and Kord needed answers and an arrest. After that, protection detail should be less stressful. Maybe.
And Kord’s attitude would not dampen her mood or run her off. He didn’t want a woman working the task force? Get over it.
He joined her. “I’m a jerk,” he said. “You’re good at what you do. How did you pass for a local in the Middle East?”
“Wig, contacts, makeup.”
He gave a thumbs-up.
“We could be a daunting team.”
“Daunting?” A slight grin met her. She’d take a human response. They walked to the heavy wood-and-glass double doors of the home’s front entrance. “Ready to meet Prince Omar?”
“By all means.” Her thoughts dwelled on her gender being a massive communication barrier. The prince was highly traveled and well versed in Western practices. Perhaps being a woman was a moot point.
Get a grip, Monica. You know the odds against you are stacked higher than Mount Rushmore.
