The fact that no one had seen him was troubling in and of itself.
Mantis held both of Alegria’s hands in his. “Look at me, Manon,” he said, and she did. “I don’t want to leave you…”
“But you have to.”
“Not yet, but if Doc says the word, I’ll have to go.”
“I told Dutch before he left for Somalia that I understood he had to go in and get you. I also told him that if the situations were reversed, I’d understand and support your decision to do the same.”
“And you understand I’m not choosing him over you.”
“You are choosing me over him,” she murmured. “You’re choosing us.”
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. God, he missed the feel of her next to him so much. He’d do anything to feel her lips on his, her arms around him, and the feeling of being inside her, their bodies joined together.
She smiled. “I can read your thoughts.”
“Good, then I don’t have to say any of it out loud.”
Alegria brought his hand to her lips. “I ache for you, Mantis.”
“I love you, Manon.”
“I love you, Gehring.”
How long had it been since she’d called him by his first name? Since they were at pilot training, he’d guess. Even before that, she called him Cassman more than Gehring.
“I wish I could read your thoughts as easily as you can read mine.”
“I want everything you do. Maybe even more than you do.” She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “When you left the hospital in Stamford, I wished we’d made love one more time, so I could remember.”
“I can’t tell you how many times I wished the same thing. There were times I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again, let alone make love to you.”
“Mantis…”
“Talk to me. Whatever you have to say, I want to hear.”
“Tell me what happened in Afghanistan.”
Mantis stood and walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” he answered, closing the door behind him and then walking back over to her. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“I am.”
“I haven’t told anyone else…”
She nodded. “I understand.”
It had been eight months, twelve days, and fifteen hours since he arrived in Kabul, and countless times he’d thought he was close to finding Bagish Safi.
Mantis had no reason to believe his cover had been blown; he wouldn’t have the access he had now if it had. He was rarely without the heavy makeup that convinced the terrorist organization he was Yousef Jamil, an Afghani native and Taliban supporter.
Once a day, he’d remove his disguise, shower, and then immediately reapply it. He had to be ready to act in a moment’s notice and couldn’t afford the risk not to be.
His initial access to al-Qaeda had been arranged by Islamic State leader Abdul Ghafor, a man to be feared far more than Bagish, but for now, the only person with plants—made up of former Taliban loyalists and now defectors—far enough inside his nemesis organization to get Mantis in.