by Pamela Clare
More food pics.
Elizabeth scrolled through them. “The guy likes his noodles.”
When the files had finished uploading, Shanti sorted through the videos. Among those of the little girl and her mother were others that had clearly been filmed at night, each one showing up as a dark preview image.
Connor pressed his hand over hers, stopping her from clicking. “If it’s what he said it is, it’s going to be ugly. Prepare yourself.”
Shanti tried not to let her annoyance show. “This is evidence. I’m a prosecutor.”
They clicked on the video—and opened a door into hell.
Screams. Gunshots. Children crying. Mothers sobbing.
The camera wavered, moving quickly before focusing on something—three men holding a woman down while a fourth raped her and the man holding the camera laughed.
Shanti’s stomach rolled.
In the background, men with rifles beat an old man while bamboo huts burned, screams telling Shanti that the huts were not vacant.
And on it went, scene after scene and video after video of unspeakable violence and depravity. Rape. Beatings. Dismemberments. Lynching. Burnings.
No mercy. No compassion. No one spared.
Genocide.
Shanti tried to control her emotions and her body’s response. She clicked on the third video, watched a soldier kick a decapitated head, laughing as it rolled.
Her stomach revolted.
She jumped up, ran to her bathroom, and threw up, her body shaking.
Someone came up behind her—Connor.
He knelt beside her, held back her hair. “It’s okay, Shanti.”
Mortified, she flushed the toilet, willed herself to breathe deeply, her stomach still in knots. “I’m sorry.”
He drew her to her feet. “You’ve got no reason to apologize.”
Still shaky, she made her way to the sink, rinsed her mouth, brushed her teeth, and splashed cold water on her face, while he stayed with her, his big body making the space seem smaller.
She dried her hands and face. “You must think I’m a wimp.”
“No.” His gaze was warm with concern. “You’re having a normal reaction to some seriously fucked-up shit.”
“You and Elizabeth aren’t throwing up.”
“We’ve been at this a little longer than you have.”
Maybe it was his kindness, or maybe she was already at an emotional edge. Her eyes filled with tears, and she sank against him. “All of those people.”
He drew her into his arms, held her, a big hand stroking her hair while she wept. “This is why we’re here. This is why you’re on this mission. You’re a voice for every man, woman, and child these bastards hurt and killed. But being a badass prosecutor doesn’t mean you’re made out of granite.”
His voice was deep, his body strong, the feel of his arms around her comforting.
She didn’t know how long they stayed that way—a couple of minutes perhaps—but gradually she came back to herself.
She drew away, wiped the tears from her face. “Thanks.”
“That soldier made these videos never thinking you would have them. He gave you the rope. Now, hang Naing with it.”
She drew a deep breath, exhaled. Her stomach wasn’t happy, and she still felt shaky, but she had a job to do. “Let’s get back to work.”
Connor stood in the doorway to Shanti’s room, watching her work, unable to shake the thought of how good it had felt to hold her, as if she were precious, as if she belonged in his arms. He’d never felt that way with anyone, not even Mandy.
Dude, you’re losing it.
He tried to tell himself it was just hormones, that he needed to get laid. But as he stood there watching her, he knew that wasn’t true. He respected and admired her for her resilience and determination. This wasn’t just a job for her. She truly cared about people.
In her own way, she was tough. She hadn’t thrown up again. She hadn’t shed another tear. She’d stepped out of that bathroom, chin raised, and had dived headlong into murder and chaos.
She’d begun uploading the videos to the ICC’s cloud server and was now combing through the footage frame by frame with Shields’ help to identify villages, army units, and individuals. In return for Shields’ help and expertise, Shanti had agreed to share the footage with the CIA—provided they kept it top secret until an arrest warrant was issued for Naing.
“Oh, honey,” Shields had said. “The Agency’s job is keeping secrets. You could ask about the weather, and they would neither confirm nor deny that there is weather.”
Jones came up beside Connor. “Why aren’t we going after that fucker?”
Word about the videos and what they contained had spread quickly through the team, leaving the men grim-faced and angry.
“Remember what Tower said.” Connor slapped him on the shoulder. “She’s going after him, and we’re helping her. So, we are going after him in a way.”
“I think I’d rather light him up than help send him to prison.”
Connor understood that. “You and me both.”
He stepped into his own room for a quick video conference with Tower and Corbray. He brought them up to date on the situation, and both men expressed the same concern that Connor had.
“If it were up to me, she’d be on her way home tomorrow,” Tower said.
Corbray agreed. “Until the bad guys know the videos are in ICC hands, they’re going to be looking for that phone and trying to neutralize everyone who saw it.”
But Corbray and Tower didn’t know Shanti.
Connor tried to explain. “She missed an interview today thanks to our early exfil, and she’s got three more days of interviews scheduled.”
“Does she still need these interviews when she’s got the videos?” Tower asked.
It was a reasonable question.
“She’s here to get testimony from people who saw Naing at the massacres, not to prove that the massacres happened. There’s a difference.”
“Shit.” Corbray rubbed his face with his hands. “Maybe someone else could come down to do those interviews while she heads back to the Netherlands.”
“Or maybe she should wait until the situation cools down and come back later to complete that mission,” Tower suggested. “One thing is sure—we can’t lose her, and we don’t want to lose any of you.”
“I hear that.”
“Does her boss, Mr. Meijer, know about this?” Tower asked.
“She called him on the way back from the camp, told him about the phone, tried to win his support for moving witnesses and her interpreter to the Netherlands. She’s been uploading the videos to their cloud server and shooting him emails, so he must have some idea what’s in them.”
“I’ll give him a call, see what he’s thinking,” Tower said. “Ultimately, it’s up to him whether Ms. Lahiri stays or goes. Any word on the two guys who fired the RPG?”
“Not yet. We’re waiting on the Bangladesh Police. Did you see Shields’ report?”
While they’d been at the camp today, Shields had put together an analysis of the people on Pauline’s list and had assessed that Naing had eyes and ears somewhere in Pauline’s organization—a clerk or staff member with access to schedules and other information.
“What about the missing witness?” Corbray asked. “If Naing’s men took him, it’s possible they tortured information about Ms. Lahiri’s arrival out of him.”
Connor shook his head. “He wouldn’t have known about the helicopter tour. Whoever ordered that attack knew right where she was going to be—and when.”
“Right.”
Connor asked what was on everyone’s mind here tonight. “Any chance we can use these videos to talk Uncle Sam into letting us or DEVGRU hit this target?”
“And risk a war with China?” Tower laughed. “I doubt that would be their first choice. They are grateful for the intel, however. She should know that.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Ke
ep us posted.”
“Copy that.” Connor ended the video conference and went back into Shanti’s room to find her hard at work with Shields, some of the men standing or sitting on chairs around her, watching.
“Those are definitely army uniforms, not border patrol or militia,” Shields said.
“Stop! Go back. A little more. Freeze it.” Shanti pointed. “Can you blow up the background right there?”
“Let’s give it a shot.” Shields hit a few keys. “Well, hello, you son of a bitch.”
“Oh, my God.” Shanti stared, slowly got to her feet, her eyes wide. “It’s him. It’s Naing. We got him.”
“Thanks, Elizabeth. I couldn’t have done this so quickly without you.” Shanti stood, rubbed the kink in her neck.
She still couldn’t believe it. She had footage of Naing at a massacre.
“I just hope you can nail this bastard to the wall.” Elizabeth stood, picked up her cup of coffee. “I heard about the mudslides today. That’s the last thing these people needed. O’Neal was pretty shaken up. His Hot Wheels arrived this evening, but the little boy he had hoped to share them with is dead.”
Okay, that made no sense.
“Hot Wheels?”
“He sent Cobra guys to his parents’ farm in Colorado to get an old box of Hot Wheels out of the attic. He’d hoped to give one to that little boy and leave the rest for staff at the hospital to distribute to other children.”
Shanti’s heart melted. She remembered the stricken look on his face when he’d seen the child. Now she understood. “I had no idea.”
Elizabeth gave her a knowing smile. “You’re attracted to him. Oh, don’t try to deny it. What red-blooded, hetero woman wouldn’t be? Just be careful. There’s no such thing as an uninjured soldier.”
Before Shanti could ask her what she meant, Elizabeth was gone.
Attracted to him?
Okay, fine. Shanti could admit that. As Elizabeth had said, what heterosexual woman wouldn’t be? But what had she meant by that last part?
Shanti turned off her computer and watched the screen go dark, wishing it were that easy to shut off her mind. She was drained, exhausted, but also strangely wired, as if she’d had too much coffee.
That’s adrenaline.
She’d read lots of reports in her time with the ICC, and she had listened to witnesses describe terrible things. But seeing it, seeing the cruelty of it, hearing people’s screams, watching soldiers laugh while they hurt, maimed, and killed in ways intended to inflict pain and humiliation—that was different.
She showered and then dug through her increasingly disorganized suitcase for her nightgown. She had uploaded all of the video footage and the stills to the cloud drive and sent Bram an email telling him she had video footage of Naing overseeing two of the massacres. Bram had congratulated her—and informed her that he wanted her home.
“It’s not safe for you there,” he’d said. “The men from Cobra tell me there’s a leak somewhere in the camps, and that’s why your helicopter almost got shot down. Now this phone with such important evidence… I don’t want to lose you.”
“What about the other witnesses I came to interview?”
“You can return later—or we’ll send someone else when things calm down.” He had assured her that the organization was having a conversation at the highest levels of the Dutch government about bringing Noor and the others to the Netherlands.
Shanti had felt relieved.
She’d sent Pauline a quick text message telling her that she might not be able to make it to the camp tomorrow and to cancel her appointments with her witnesses for the day. She couldn’t help but feel that she was letting the other witnesses down, but she was in danger if she remained in Bangladesh. Besides, she wasn’t going home empty-handed. She had several witness interviews. More than that, she had proof that Naing had commanded the massacres.
That was more than she’d hoped for when she’d come here.
She brushed her teeth and drew down her sheets, but hesitated when it came to turning off the light, images from the videos flashing through her mind.
Screams. Crying babies. Women stripped naked.
Think about something else. Think about … Connor.
Well, that wasn’t hard. Six foot plus of male perfection.
She turned off the light, lay back on her pillow, remembering how it had felt to be in his arms. She’d been too upset at the time to truly appreciate it, but she could remember how hard his body had felt, how he’d stroked her hair, how his voice had rumbled in his chest. She could get used to that.
Yeah, well, don’t. You’re leaving.
She was going back to The Hague. That meant she would be saying goodbye to him. She lived in The Hague, and he lived in Colorado. She wouldn’t see him again—a sad thought.
She began to drift.
But it wasn’t thoughts of Connor that followed her into sleep, but the screams of women and the laughter of soldiers.
Screams.
Gunshots.
Blood.
The houses were burning! She could see people inside—women and children. Where was Noor? Was she trapped inside, too?
Shanti ran toward Noor to set her free but stopped.
Heads. There were heads on the ground. She couldn’t step on them.
One of them rolled and rolled, coming to rest near her feet.
And she saw.
It was her grandfather’s face, his lifeless eyes staring up at her.
Shanti screamed.
9
Connor dried off from his shower and stepped into a clean pair of boxer briefs. He’d just pulled them over his ass when he heard a strangled cry in Shanti’s room.
He grabbed his Glock, opened her door, and stepped inside, his weapon ready.
The room was dark—no movement, no sign of intruders—but he could hear Shanti weeping.
Her voice broke the silence. “Connor?”
She sounded afraid.
“Are you okay?”
She switched on her bedside lamp, looking defenseless and terrified, her hair in tangles, tears on her cheeks, her words coming in sobs. “There were soldiers… Noor was there… My grandfather…”
Her vulnerability and fear tugged at Connor, put a knot in his chest. He forgot that he was in his underwear and walked over to sit beside her, setting his firearm on her nightstand.
He’d already held her once today, so taking her into his arms again was easy. “Come here. It was just a dream.”
She clung to him, her breasts pressing against his ribs, her head resting against his shoulder, her hair spilling like silk over his skin. “I was in one of the camps. Noor was trapped in a burning hut. I tried to reach her, but then I saw heads rolling on the ground. One rolled so I could see its face. It was my grandfather.”
Connor knew what it was like to have nightmares like that. “Someone once told me that dreams are the mind’s way of taking out the garbage. You saw some really awful shit today.”
“I don’t know how he did it.”
Connor wasn’t keeping up. “How who did what?”
“How can the soldier who filmed all of this horror kiss his wife and hold his daughter after what he’s done? How can he rape and kill women and children one day and then go home to his wife and child the next?”
Her words struck that sore spot inside Connor, guilt sliding through him. “I guess he compartmentalizes it somehow.”
That’s what Connor tried to do.
It was an accident. It wasn’t deliberate.
She drew away, looked up at him. “Last night, you said something about all the things you’ve seen and done. Do you have nightmares?”
“Yeah—sometimes.” He wiped the tears off her cheeks with his thumbs, his gaze drawn to her lips. It would be so easy to lean down and taste them.
Not the right time and place for that, buddy.
Tower and Corbray would have his balls for breakfast if Connor touched her.
“
Elizabeth told me about your Hot Wheels and how you wanted to give one to that little boy who died today. I’m so sorry he was killed. You’d made a connection with him. It was still incredibly sweet of you to try.”
Connor brushed off her praise. He wasn’t a hero. He’d likely been as motivated by guilt as anything else—as if giving one child a toy could make up for taking another child’s life. “We aren’t going back to the camps, so it doesn’t matter.”
You’re pathetic.
“Maybe we can ship them to Pauline.” That was Shanti—never giving up.
“Maybe.”
Then Shanti grew quiet, her expression troubled. “How do you do it? How do you face down gunfire and make yourself fight, knowing you might die?”
“You have to make your peace with death. Then fear disappears.”
“I can’t imagine that.”
“A man who isn’t afraid of dying is dangerous.” He didn’t expect her to understand any of this, but that wasn’t her fault.
How could she understand something she had never experienced?
“Does all of this ever become too much for you—the risk, the violence, the gore?”
That was a tough question to answer, especially when all he could think about was kissing her. “I have trouble going home.”
Her brow bent in confusion. “Trouble going home?”
“I call it re-entry. It’s like an action hangover. Best way to deal with it is more action—a little hair of the dog. Sometimes, it’s easier to stay in the field.”
What would she taste like? God, he wanted to know, the need to kiss her pulsing inside him like a heartbeat.
Don’t do it.
He hadn’t crossed a line with her yet. He was close right now, but he wasn’t over. He hadn’t yet done anything he couldn’t put in a report to Tower and Corbray. He should leave her and go back to his room before he did something stupid. Besides, if she knew everything there was to know about him, she wouldn’t want his hands on her.
He tried to remember what he’d been about to say. “It’s hard to go from hitting a target to hitting the grocery store. One minute, you’re hopped up on adrenaline, doing your best to achieve your objective and keep yourself and your fellow soldiers alive. The next, someone’s asking if you want fries with that. When the adrenaline wears off, that’s when the nightmares and the self-doubt set in.”