Siren in the Wind Book One of the MIT Series

Prologue

New York.

Three Years Ago.

Liberation was a few steps away. Today they'd finally be free. Sharon watched the shoppers spill out from jammed escalators. Long wait times fueled the oppressive atmosphere in the mall. Black Friday posters scattered throughout the pandemonium added to the frenzy.

Arisha tugged at Sharon's jacket, staring up with solemn eyes. "We need to find a seat, Mamma."

She ran a hand through her daughter's thick black hair. Sharon despised her own wispy blonde hair and always kept it trimmed in a neat bob. Reaching down, she picked up their two small suitcases, nudging Arisha forward. "Then find us one."

The packed food court gave them few options. A man and woman situated nearest the terrace railing cleared their table and Arisha ran up and waited. The lady smiled. Her little girl captivated people, with her mother's delicate features and her father's Iranian ancestry. Sharon stepped up, and the woman's smile faltered. Her gaze skimmed over Sharon's abaya with censure. Sharon was used to a daily dose of anti-Islamic sentiment and mentally shrugged it off. The world was at war, and the Americans knew it. The couple moved on, and Sharon scanned the bustling mall below.

It was an unusually balmy day for November, and the heating in the crowded mall ran high. The man's broad girth resulted in a warm bucket seat, and Sharon hid her disdain. First-world greed was leading to more obesity. The smell of charred burger hung in the air, making her stomach roil. It was nerves, and she had every right to feel rattled. Today was a big day. The men were coming to take them away.

"I'm thirsty, Mamma," Arisha said.

Sharon shoved her purse into her daughter's hand. "Quickly get a drink and please, my love, don't go far."

Arisha dashed through the crowd.

Sharon yelled at her disappearing back, "Please do not run!"

Ignoring the noisy kaleidoscope of screaming children, yelling parents and people dashing about, Sharon wiped at the sweat clinging to her brow. This is what it had come to. The feverish air rippled with fresh energy as he stepped up from behind.

Sully had come. Her savior. Her rescuer. Her destruction. Was Sully's team with him, led by the capable soldier with the icy eyes? She couldn't let that man see her. It felt like he'd seen into her soul the one time they had met and if he looked at her now, he'd know.

***

The slight stiffening of her delicate neck and the rise of her head were a good indication that Sharon knew he'd arrived. Simon "Sully" Cook squeezed her shoulder as he assessed the environment. Arisha made her way back to the table while gulping down a drink. He glanced down at their packed bags and slid into the seat opposite Sharon Nasari, of New Zealand descent, the current third wife of Abdul-Habsid Nasari.

Abdul Nasari was a suspected terrorist and a wife beater. Sharon was ready to blow the extremist whistle on her husband's sleeper cell. Cook had approached her twelve weeks ago. Winning over her trust had taken perseverance.

After a particularly harsh beating ten days ago, she'd finally reached out, promising to testify against Abdul. They were preparing the warrant, but Abdul wasn't the primary target. They were chasing a significant player known as the Sandpiper, who held no allegiances to any extremist group. A businessman who sold arsenals of terror to private organizations and collapsing regimes in East Africa—An arsenal that included training camps, suicide bombers, and weaponry.

Her hollowed-out cheekbones looked harsher than when he'd seen her three weeks ago. Sharon was young enough to be his kid. Anger surged when he thought of one of his daughters trapped in a marriage with a sadistic monster.