Page 74 of High Treason
“We’re good. It’ll take a while here.”
Kord ended the call.
The photos sailed in with a text, as vivid as Agent Richardson described. How unusual and yet a smart move to enlist a woman to carry out the death sentences.
Monica looked at the ER door facing the street. Could the woman have acted alone here in the US while taking orders from someone in Saudi or Iran?
Prince Omar arrived. What was the prince thinking? Saad and Wasi were on both sides of him. The prince wore designer jeans and a button-down shirt. A good choice since his face and Saudi dress had been flashed all over the media. But with the shooting, the place would soon be swarming with reporters—who’d recognize him. She wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled.
Prince Omar marched to Kord and Monica like a general in command of his troops. He turned to Kord. “Wasi drove your car here.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
“Has the woman spoken?”
“Still unconscious,” Kord said.
“What do you know about her?”
Kord confirmed what the news had claimed and described the incriminating evidence at her apartment.
“Suicide bomber. Photos of me and my family,” the prince said. “I suppose she could have downloaded those of me, but my mother and sisters would be more difficult. When can we talk to this Iranian?”
“Prince Omar, the woman may not live.”
He pressed his lips together with a hint of a smile. “The killer has been apprehended, perhaps forever, thanks to Miss Alden.”
She stifled a smile with the prince’s compliment—said to Kord, not to her.
“Prince Omar, with all due respect, would you let Saad and Wasi drive you home?” Kord said.
“I’m staying. I’m tired of others risking their lives. It’s imperative for me to assist with the investigation.”
“You’d end up as target practice and most likely a few others as well.”
“I’m an excellent shot. And I want you gathering evidence on this woman. We’ll work together.”
“How can I do that and protect you at the same time?” Kord said.
Monica heard a bit of frustration in Kord’s voice. She’d felt the same, often. At times the prince seemed to grasp the seriousness of endangering others, and other times he took on his “gotta be in control” status.
“Prince Omar,” Ali said with the same quiet firmness she’d come to recognize as his caring trademark. “Kord is making an appropriate assessment of the situation.”
She breathed a thank-you.
The prince stiffened. “I’ll remain at the hospital until I have word from the doctor. If she’s alive, I will talk to her. If she dies, I’ll have my men take me back to my sisters.” He snorted. “But I won’t like it.”
“I’ll make sure there are FBI agents at the home until we return,” Kord said.
The prince reached into his pocket and handed him his original cell phone. “I removed the battery once I heard about the shooting. Your people need to figure this out.”
Kord appreciated Ali running interference with Prince Omar. Although the prince had made himself less conspicuous in his dress,he wasn’t safe and would never be as long as he held the title of royalty—with a price on his head.
They’d waited over thirty minutes for the doctor. Updates poured into his and Monica’s phones with the national and international reporting on the shooting.
The BBC stated the assassination attempt was only temporarily thwarted.
TheNew York Timesshowed a photo of Parvin Shah upon entrance to the US.
