by Fiona Quinn
That image helped, and Remi leaned into it.
Pulling a chair to his bedside, Remi slid her hand under his. Remi wanted him to feel her compassion and concern but not do anything that would cause him more pain.
She licked her lips and then sat silently.
That moment held for a long stretch. Both of their faces were wet from tears that dripped without being tended to by the swipe of a finger.
Finally, Jean Baptiste said, “Don’t expect to see them again unless they show up in a propaganda video.” His voice, barely a whisper, pushed out through cracked lips.
Remi’s face crumpled. She swallowed.
“And then, for your sanity’s sake, don’t watch.”
Remi shook her head.
“I was there. I went through it. I watched Marie-Claude and Éloïse go through it. I know how tough you are with strangers. I promise you, it will eat your soul if you watch it happen to your friends. You’ll be done with this business.”
Remi blinked hard to clear her vision. “Are you serious right now? Are you done?”
“Done. I talked to American University, accepting their offer of a professorship. I’ll be teaching over there. If ISIS starts pushing over the border, I’ll jump into the Mediterranean and swim to Europe if that’s the only way I can get out. I was with them for hours, and I’m headed to a life of nightmares. Don’t. Make. This. You.”
“I’d be an observer, not a participant. This is a horrible consideration. Look, I talked to Karen. She said that FR3 got a ransom.”
“Promise me you won’t watch.”
Pressing her lips together, Remi stared out the window for a long moment while Jean Baptiste squeezed her wrist.
“Remi?” He pressed her for the promise.
“Don’t you think it’s important that their friends watch should it come down to that? Isn’t it craven to simply say, ‘You suffered, and I’m going to turn away and pretend it didn’t happen?’”
“For others? Yes. They should watch and know the dangers. And know what happens when governments fall to terror. Let others carry that.”
Remi shook her head, eyes still focused out the window.
“Remi, we need you. The world needs you.”
Remi started laughing. She laughed so hard she snorted. With her wrist covering her mouth, she focused back on Jean Baptiste. “Sorry. Nerves, apparently.”
“I’m serious.”
Remi sobered.
“We’re a unique brand of nuts,” Jean Baptiste said. “It takes an insanely sane person to do this job. Very few can. It’s important. I didn’t burn out. I was burned out of the profession by becoming the story. Experiencing it for myself.”
“And you don’t think that personal experience would help you better explain to the public?” Remi asked.
“I think that it will open old wounds. Retraumatize. My mental health was always kind of rocky. It has to be. Who but someone with Swiss cheese brains could walk through a mire of dead women and children, searching out the best image to explain the story?” He tapped his finger on her wrist. “Granted, photojournalism is my job, not yours. And there’s a big difference.” He paused. “The point is the same. It’s a unique personality that can be both sensitive and insensitive. Willing to face humanity’s worst and stay with courage, looking for glimmers of hope. And still have self-preservation somewhere in the mix. Some of the people with those characteristics become military. Some aid workers. We,” he tapped an index finger to his nose, then pointed it at Remi, “we’re the storytellers. Not many can hack this line of work. Don’t watch any videos of Éloïse and Marie-Claude. Guard your ability to do the job for as long as you can. It’s important work. You never know what tomorrow brings.”
Remi looked over her shoulder as a nurse pushed through the door. “I’m sorry, visitor hours are over for today. It’s time that I get Monsieur Roujean fed and cleaned up for the night.”
Standing, Remi leaned in carefully to kiss Jean Baptiste’s cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Have the nurse text me what I can bring you besides flowers and flan.”
***
Taking the stairs to the lobby, Remi answered her phone.
“Remi? It’s Puck.” It was a reporter friend covering the Department of Justice, Washington D.C. “I read your story in the paper today. Kudos.”
Remi didn’t like the tone in his voice; this was a preamble. “Thanks.”
“Listen, today, the DOJ seized thirty web domains that are associated with regional propaganda and disinformation.”
“Okay.”
“Some state-owned TV channels were taken down as well. The DOJ was targeting allied rebel groups in Yemen. One of them was based out of Beirut.”
“Oh, interesting. Did they give a reason other than Yemen?” Remi’s voice echoed in the stairwell as she clattered down the steps.
“Disinformation campaigns aimed at U.S. voters. The web domains were owned by U.S. companies.”
“That would mean webpages that aren’t on American domains are still functioning. They’re just not able to reach U.S. citizens. Is that right?”
“That’s right. I thought that you might want a heads up. You’re in Beirut, traveling with Senator Blankenship, who has a lot of sway on these kinds of issues. I’ve been watching the chatter amongst the stakeholders. I need to warn you, being in close proximity to the senator right now might not be healthy.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Remi
Friday, Beirut, Lebanon
Remi walked out of the hospital into a twilight sky.
While she was visiting with Jean Baptiste, the streets filled with the masses protesting the government's lack of action in providing for basic needs. Chants were going up now about the fuel shortages.
Remi had recently done an article on how bad it was for the Lebanese citizens. The quantities of fuel smugglers took over the border into Syria, turned the already difficult situation dire.
Before wading into the crowd, Remi took a moment to put her wrist supports in place. Since she was off duty, she pulled her bag off her shoulder and tugged at the embroidered press patches that were Velcroed in place. Without backup, she certainly didn’t want to be a target. She’d just blend in as she made her way back to the hotel.
When Remi moved through dense crowds like this, it was her practice to grab her own wrists, holding her bent arms up at chest height. Not only was she ready to throw a block or a punch, but her sharp elbows discouraged people from crushing her from the right and left. The space she created in front of her chest protected her from being pressed so tightly that she couldn’t inhale enough air and possibly pass out.
Remi had been in Paris at an S.O.S. Racism concert at the Bastille for le quatorze juillet celebration. The stage held a string of famous artists. The area was a beehive of humanity. Remi was only there because she was reporting on the celebration and the influx of francophone refugees. Pressed so tightly together that she was lifted off her feet, the undulations of the crowd moved her about like she was fighting a riptide. Remi had been terrified both by her claustrophobia, the feeling of zero control, and the genuine chance of being crushed or trampled.
As people passed out, they were lifted overhead, and their unconscious bodies were passed, person to person, like a stage diver into a mosh pit. Eventually, the person in crisis made it to the other side, where a line of ambulances waited for the next victim to be handed out of the crowd.
At one point that night, Remi saw a guy she knew. Big, like T-Rex, Remi had screamed his name. His long arm had shot out into the crowd. He grabbed her hand and hauled her back to him. He was so big that he had become a pillar of refuge. He had five other women clinging to him. Remi was the sixth. They all just hung on for dear life as he pressed the masses away.
Christian, yeah, that was his name. She could use that kind of help now if only T-Rex were here.
When Remi had finally left the Parisian concert, she made it to the last Metro of the night. Everyone
was so anxious to get on those cars and get home that there was another press and swell of humanity. As the train approached, bodies heaved forward. Remi had climbed a metal ladder attached to the wall for her safety. She decided that once the station cleared out, she’d try to find a taxi, or rest on a bench until the trains started up in the morning.
Clinging to the rungs, head and shoulders above the swarm, Remi watched as a woman lost her balance and fell onto the track. She was killed by the train.
Remi’s camera had the right angle for the pictures. Her story made the front page top fold. It was the story that launched her reputation as a significant journalist. But Remi would have been just fine if she’d written her little article about racism in France and gone home to sleep in her bed, and that woman was still alive.
Crowds could be lethal.
Remi had to get herself out of this bruhaha.
After a few minutes of struggle, Remi made it to the other side of the throng, where she saw him. T-Rex stood there scanning the crowd.
At first, Remi thought he was trying to assess the dangers of the rally in proximity to the senator’s hotel. But when she caught his eye, and saw the flood of relief on his face, Remi knew he was there to find her.
She raised her hand to wave, then jostled through the last of the human knot and out into a pocket of air.
They walked across the street together, away from the others.
“Are you okay?” Were the first words out of his mouth.
“Good.” She needed to catch her breath before she said more.
T-Rex had an interesting way of splitting his focus. He seemed to both look at her and assess their surroundings. She could well imagine him in the streets of Kabul or wherever, looking over a map while maintaining awareness of the comings and goings of possible threats.
It was a skill born of requirement.
T-Rex slid a hand down her arm to her wrist then lifted it to see better. “What’s this about? Are your wrists hurt? You had them on yesterday in Oxford.”
Remi didn’t want to tell the truth because there might be accountability. She simply turned them over. “Braces,” Remi added. “Journalists are forbidden from carrying a weapon.”
He ran his finger up the metal support. “Unless it’s a weapon of opportunity.”
She smiled. “In countries like London, where even as a civilian I can’t carry things like pepper spray, I often wear these when walking alone.”
“You don’t think it makes you seem like a target?”
“Because I look wounded?” She adjusted her pack to keep herself from reaching out to touch T-Rex. “Hopefully, my bearing shows them that I’m not a victim. My eye contact. My voice when I need it. But yes,” she held out her arm and twisted it this way and that, “this makes an excellent close protection tool.” She held it out to him. “I had it lined with an anti-stab material, so I can fend off knife attacks, which are prevalent in some parts of Europe.”
“Like London.” He released her wrist and focused on her eyes. “Clever.” He tipped his head and started to walk away.
That was that.
Man, Remi knew they called these guys the silent professionals, but T-Rex seemed to take that to extremes.
She jogged a couple of steps and fell in beside him. “Hey, I had a heads up from a friend about a DOJ Beirut connection that may or may not show up in your intelligence reports. Connecting the dots, it might lead to Senator Blankenship.”
He stopped her at a bench under a date tree. Scanned the area for any ears. “Give me a minute, please.” As she sat there, watching him, T-Rex pressed his sternum. “Echo Actual.”
And just like every time he did that, hormones shot through her and left her panties damp with need.
T-Rex moved to stand far enough away that she couldn’t hear him. Remi took advantage of the opportunity to stare at him, taking in his muscular thighs, the length of his leg, his huge feet. Remi reached up to run a finger along the corners of her mouth to make sure she wasn’t visibly drooling.
Luckily her phone pinged with a text distraction.
Liu: Since you’re hanging out with special forces beasts (lucky girl), I thought you might like to see this.
She tapped on the link. Scanning down the article, reading about the unnamed female sailor who had completed a thirty-seven-week training course to become the first-ever special warfare combatant-craft crewman. Remi stopped and mouthed that title. It sounded daunting. Thirty-five percent of those who begin that course succeed in graduating, she read. Wow. Remi would love to interview her. Maybe one of her contacts could find her a way in.
This gal was going to head one of the three Navy Special Warfare’s boat teams. Good for her.
“You look happier,” T-Rex said as he came over.
“Five syllables,” Remi said.
“What?”
“Nothing. About my look, I was excited about the potential for a story.” She handed her phone over to T-Rex, and he scanned down.
It was a test; Remi would admit it. What would his reaction be, having come up through SEALs to his present position? Would he be upset that some estrogen had made its way into the all-boys club?
She was not disappointed when a big old grin crossed over his face, handing the phone back, he said, “Good news.”
God, she loved his smiles.
“Two syllables.” Remi accepted her phone and swiped the screen closed.
“Are you playing a game?” he asked.
“Of sorts, I guess.” She slid the phone into the thigh pocket on her tactical tights. She was tired and wanted to go in. But it might mean that she couldn’t be with T-Rex, so she didn’t move from the bench.
“When I found you coming out of the crowd, you looked like… Did you get to see Jean Baptiste? Did he have news about Marie-Claude and Éloïse?”
“Your team keeps you well informed. Yes. I saw Jean Baptiste for just a moment. He seemed to believe that our friends Éloïse and Marie-Claude will, in all likelihood, never come home. Knowing what I know, having followed so many stories, I’m afraid that if they do come home, they will most likely have had their souls crushed into a billion sparkling pieces, each one sharp enough to draw blood.” She found stability and support in T-Rex’s gaze. “I don’t know what to pray for. A quick death? No one is going to save them—no one’s going into Syria.” She looked out over the harbor. “I want to turn back time. To beg them not to go.”
“Turn that around,” T-Rex said, “if you had a story you were following, would your friends be able to keep you back?”
She stared at the water for a long time. Too long. She should say something, and yet no words would come to her. She was a blank. Finally, she sniffed and opened her mouth to say no—but instead, she pulled out her pinging cell phone. Boxing up her angst for Marie-Claude and Éloïse and putting it on the shelf with her worries about all her other friends in harm’s way, Remi swiped the screen.
Diamond: I can’t get the senator on the phone. Plane issues. Spending the night in Jordan. Should be there by noon and her speech at American U. Thanks for passing on the message.
“She should get a better night’s sleep wherever she is,” Remi said, handing the phone off to T-Rex, again, so he could read it, too.
Remi stood and adjusted her pack over her shoulder.
T-Rex fell in step with her. “What are you doing now?”
“I thought I’d go up to my room and call room service for some dinner.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Remi stopped and sent him a lust-filled look that she hoped he’d read as an invitation. “Starved.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
T-Rex
Friday, Beirut, Lebanon
“Starved,” Remi said with those gorgeous eyes of hers.
She took his breath away. Blood thrumming through his body, his dick stood at attention. He definitely wanted to follow through with the invitation he read in her eyes. Work the problem, he told himself.
After Winner had called with information about the protest down the street, passing by the hospital where Remi had gone to see Jean Baptiste, T-Rex had swapped his schedule with Havoc’s, then went after Remi to make sure she made it back to the hotel safe and sound.
She’d been fine.
Physically.
Bad-freaking-ass.
But he’d been worried about her mentally. Not about the things that had happened on their trip. She seemed fine about that. But from overheard conversations, T-Rex knew that Remi’s friends were family, just like his Echo brothers were family to T-Rex.
The FR3 team was facing brutal circumstances.
Remi seemed to be able to compartmentalize like he and his brothers in special forces were trained to do. T-Rex was beginning to see the parallels in some aspects of their careers.
Even with that training, T-Rex was having trouble with compartmentalization. Remi was a distraction. She wasn’t trying to be.
“Starved.” Yeah, so was he.
He couldn’t hold her hand, put his hand on her back, or heck, even walk too close as they moved into the hotel. Winner could be at her computer watching them cross the street now with eyes in the sky. Not that spending personal time with Remi was against the rules. He simply thought that Remi would appreciate the privacy.
T-Rex took a breath and counseled himself, go for it. Make a move. “I was heading to my room to order dinner. I’m not on duty until zero two hundred.”
Remi looked up at him expectantly. It was the look he’d been hoping for.
“Would you like to join me?”
She rolled her lips in. A moment of hesitation. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”
Keeping his hands to himself, maintaining proper social distancing between them, was killer. Waiting until they reached the fifteenth floor to touch her, to taste her lips? Agony.