Free Seven Days From Sunday (MP-5 CIA #1) by M. H. Sargent, Shelley Holloway Page A

military of some sort, although there were a good number of American and British civilians mixed in.
    The colonel took a seat opposite the staff sergeant as the young man turned the DVD over, reading the back.
    “Sneak peek for you,” Colonel K.C. explained. “It won’t be released in the theaters until next month.”
    “You serious?” Michaels asked. “How did you–?”
    The colonel smiled again. “It’s the real deal, I promise. And it’s all yours.”
    “Geez, thanks.”
    The DVD was Tom Cruise’s latest Mission Impossible movie. The colonel stabbed his lukewarm scrambled eggs with a fork. “Open it.” Michaels did so and then looked up sharply at the colonel who laughed, saying, “Attractive, huh?”
    Michaels studied the picture fastened to the inside of the DVD cover. It was a close-up picture of a young woman. Certainly Iraqi. “Looks a little young for you, but what the hell,” he said with a grin.
    “I’d like to know who she is.”
    The Marine laughed. “So would I, believe me.”
    Colonel K.C. looked around. While the room was crowded, they sat alone at the table and no one was paying any attention to them. “She brought Timothy Quizby’s head to Checkpoint 2 yesterday.” This got the staff sergeant’s attention. He just stared at the colonel, unsure. A group of Marines approached, carrying their food trays and laughing loudly. Colonel K.C. looked at the Marines and said quietly, “Close it.”
    The staff sergeant did as he was told and a moment later the Marines passed. Finally he asked, “What’s going on?”
    “You tell me. You’re the media liaison for the Marine Corps. Your boys were working Checkpoint 2.” Colonel K.C. nodded toward the DVD. “She brought them the head.”
    “I don’t know anything about that,” Michaels protested.
    “Then someone’s not telling you everything.”
    “Look, if what you say is true, you know the drill. I probably won’t be able to tell you anything anyway. If it’s true.”
    “It is.”
    “Where’d you get this?”
    “Come on,” Colonel K.C. chided him.
    Michaels shook his head, digging into his pancakes. “Thanks, but no thanks, okay?”
    “Just ask around. That’s all I’m asking.” The colonel smiled. “Throw it away, if you want and just watch the movie. But it’s just a matter of time before her picture makes headlines all over the world.” He could see the staff sergeant’s look of hesitation and pushed on. “You remember the news when a Palestinian woman became the first female suicide bomber? This will make news and I guarantee you, you better be on top of it.”

Somewhere Over Iraq Thursday, April 13th 9:22 a.m.
    “You must wear it all the time.”
    McKay glanced up at Ghaniyah who sat across from her. She had the embroidered scarf, or hijab, in her lap, fingering the silk fabric.
    “It is to show respect,” Ghaniyah explained.
    “I’ve seen some women without them,” McKay pointed out.
    “Yes,” Ghaniyah allowed. “But not a good idea.”
    “She’s right,” they heard Gonz say through the No. 2 pencil in his mouth, which he had been gnawing on since the Gulfstream V had taken off. He sat across the aisle from them, papers piled on his lap.
    The executive jet suddenly jolted as it hit a pocket of turbulence, and Ghaniyah gripped the armrests tightly in fear. She saw McKay smiling at her. The American woman asked, “First time flying?”
    “No,” Ghaniyah replied evenly. “Second.” McKay laughed out loud and Ghaniyah smiled.
    Gonz tapped the pencil on the papers and asked Ghaniyah, “Your brother, half-brother, whatever, he speak English?”
    “Very little. A few words, maybe. I learned in school. He hated school, he didn’t finish.”
    “Could he have written the note?”
    “No,” she answered. “No, I think not him.”
    “Any idea of who it might be? One of his men, maybe?”
    She mulled this over for a moment. “Perhaps Sharif–”
    Gonz sat forward, eager. “Sharif?”
    “Not his