Catalyst (Flashpoint Book 2)

by Rachel Grant

  The camp couldn’t spare peacekeepers to help her. Most of the UN personnel were medically trained aid workers and the few peacekeepers needed to protect the camp’s thousands of residents from both rebel and government forces. Plus the road to the camp would flood soon, while the road south should last for several more weeks.

  She might as well go south, where she’d come across several villages just off the main road to Juba. Someone was bound to have a radio, or if she was lucky, a satellite phone. Lacking those, they might have a truck and she could catch a ride. She wouldn’t have to walk all two hundred and fifty miles to the capital.

  With a dugout palm tree canoe, she could paddle upstream, but fighting the flow would wear her out. And the river meant risking river blindness and other fun diseases and parasites. She had her malaria pills in her pack, but they only protected her against the one disease.

  Following the road to Juba was the most promising direction. She zigzagged from swamp to road, seeking signs of friends or foes, and walking through the muck to hide her tracks. Her skin itched where mud had dried on her face. She scooped up another handful and rubbed it across her cheeks. It worked as both camouflage and sunblock.

  She sweltered in the early afternoon heat. Mosquitoes nipped at her, reminding her to take the day’s antimalarial dose. She washed it down with a few bites of beef jerky and a few sips of water.

  Venturing alone into the bush held risks greater than facing down cheetahs, tiang, giraffes, and jackals. The men who’d attacked the USAID outpost weren’t the only threat Brie might face. Government soldiers were known to rape women when they left their village to collect firewood or food. For that reason, she’d never ventured into the bush alone. Her pack had a knife, but she didn’t know how to fight with a knife. She didn’t know how to fight, period.

  She began to shake with exhaustion and fear, and forced herself to take a deep breath, think about her coworkers, and keep walking. They’d sacrificed themselves to protect her. They needed her to keep her shit together and find help.

  She came to an intersection where a muddy track split from the main road, heading west around the wetland. She knew if she went far enough, the westward road would give way to savannah, but this road must be avoided at all costs. Deep within the marshlands, there was a market where none of the factions that were destroying South Sudan reigned supreme, but where they all came together to buy and sell. At the market, men could buy anything—artifacts, drugs, weapons, but mostly they trafficked in children for labor or sex.

  Situated in territory held by neither the president nor the opposing vice president in South Sudan’s civil war, it was believed the market had formed a few months ago. The market had been the primary reason for her visit to Camp Citron, to report what she knew about it to Savannah James. But it wasn’t like the US could or would take action to shut down the operation. After all, Americans weren’t being threatened by this human trafficking.

  South Sudan’s oil was spoken for—claimed by Chinese and British oil companies with American Prime Energy and Russian Druneft vying for the pipeline construction contract. Closing down the slave market wouldn’t help PE’s bid for the pipeline, so there was no strategic reason for the US military to get involved in a minor thing like child trafficking in South Sudan.

  Nothing to see here. Move along.

  It was that heartless attitude she’d had to tolerate while working for Prime Energy that had led her to self-medicate in the first place. It was a stain on her soul that she’d ever averted her gaze from the truth of the damage her family did to the world in a quest for power and ever more wealth.

  The rumble of an engine in the distance warned her of an approaching vehicle, and she jumped off the road and waded into the swamp just as fat drops of rain began to fall again. If it was a friend, she could be wasting an opportunity to hitch a ride. But waiting by the road to find out was a risk she couldn’t afford to take.

  The rain would be good for hiding her tracks, but if it turned into a real storm, she’d be in trouble. As it was, she couldn’t cross the wetland—it was too deep and boggy. Even if she could, she’d find herself in the middle of a wide, flowing river that would be even harder to cross.

  Still, she considered it, because if she could cross the river, she’d lose anyone who was hunting her, plus, after hiking a few more miles, she’d reach the border with Ethiopia.

  She took a step into the deeper muck, and promptly slipped.

  Nope.

  She considered all the wildlife that likely made this wetland home as she swatted at mosquitoes.

  Nope. Nope. Nope.

  She regained her footing and continued to walk just inside the edge of the marsh, hoping the showers wouldn’t turn into a storm. At least the muck swallowed her footsteps. When she ventured up to the road, there was no disguising her tracks.

  She’d been told that during the height of the rainy season, sometimes the Sudd—the vast swamp that was one of the major geographical features of South Sudan—extended this far east. Roads would vanish. It was one of the reasons USAID had selected this area for food storage. At least by foot, the location served areas cut off when the roads flooded.

  The rumble of yet another engine had her stepping deep into the vegetation that protruded from the swamp. She wouldn’t think about swamp-dwelling critters, wouldn’t imagine water snakes residing in the muck.

  She tucked herself into the greenery of a shrub that thrived in the wetland. Between the mud on her face and dirty clothes, she was camouflaged.

  She held still, careful not to rustle branches or splash. Even her breathing was shallow, but that was due to fear.

  A car door slammed, then she heard two men arguing in Arabic. They were looking for her. They must be from different tribes with their common language being Arabic, because they both had local accents.

  Had they been sent by the rebels? The government? Why were they after her? They’d already destroyed the food and they had her coworkers.

  She didn’t dare move. Breathing was no longer an involuntary act.

  Minutes ticked by. Birds chirped. A warm breeze filtered through the stiflingly hot day. Eight degrees above the equator, every day was hot, the air always thick, even when it rained.

  Eventually she heard the sound of retreating footsteps, followed by car doors slamming.

  Tires kicked up rocks on the muddy track.

  She took a shallow, silent breath.

  They’d moved on.

  She waited five minutes, debating if she was safer heading back the way she’d already come—after all, they’d already searched there—or if she should continue south.

  But help wouldn’t be found behind her. There was only forward, even if she had to walk all two hundred and fifty miles to Juba.

  Slowly, she emerged from her hiding place. She scrambled up the low bank and tucked herself behind a tree so she could peek down the narrow road, to see how far ahead the searchers had gone. No sooner had she settled in than she heard the sound of a shotgun being cocked behind her.

  3

  The pickup truck bounced along the dirt track, bruising Brie, who lay in the open back, with every pothole and rut they hit. She still didn’t know who had taken her, or why, but beyond binding her hands and feet and taking her pack, the man hadn’t touched her, which was a relief.

  Her abductor bore the six parallel lines across his forehead—ritual scarring that indicated he was Nuer. The vice president of South Sudan, who was the leader of the rebels, was Nuer. The president was Dinka. The country had dozens of ethnic groups, and Dinka and Nuer were the two largest. Combined, they equaled only about twenty-five percent of the population.

  Was this Nuer man aligned with the rebels? The only thing she was certain of, he wasn’t one of the two men who’d been searching for her. This man spoke one of the many local languages, but didn’t speak much Arabic. While English was the official working language of the Republic of South Sudan, Arabic had once shared that title, a
nd it remained the lingua franca of the country. Her Arabic was passable—better than her captor’s.

  The rain had stopped before he took her, and she’d done her best to leave as many footprints by the side of the road as she could.

  If Ezra’s call had gone through, then surely the US military would send a team to liberate her colleagues. If so, hopefully they’d search for her and see those footprints—if another rain didn’t wash them away.

  The truck hit a particularly deep pothole. Brie’s body floated in the air before slamming down on the truck bed. With her hands bound to a tie-down, she couldn’t protect her head. Her temple hit the uneven surface with enough force to see stars.

  Nausea rose. Eyes closed against the bright sun, she breathed slowly and managed to keep the bile down.

  Would the US send a team from Camp Citron? That would be the logical choice.

  She thought about the implausible kiss and wondered if Bastian knew of the attack on the USAID facility. And if he did, would he think the pampered princess had gotten what she deserved?

  Less than an hour after they arrived in South Sudan, seven scouts had been quietly dispatched from their positions in the marsh by Bastian’s team, ensuring they didn’t tip off the hostage guards. The signal was given, and the SEALs moved in. Shots sounded.

  Bastian waited from his position in the marsh, ready to move, wishing he’d been in on the raid to free the hostages. Minutes later, a SEAL announced the hostages were safe and that four of the five guards had been killed. The remaining man could look forward to a long, uncomfortable interrogation back at Camp Citron.

  For now, they could be satisfied that all twelve tangos were accounted for. These men had been no match for the combined training of a Special Forces A-Team and a SEAL team.

  Boko Haram or the government or rebel fighters had to know the US military would crush them when they’d attacked a US government aid organization. So why destroy the USAID facility? What had they expected to gain?

  Unease slid down Bastian’s spine. Maybe they did know who Brie was.

  “How many hostages?” he asked over the radio.

  “Three. Brie Stewart isn’t here.”

  He made a beeline for the hut where the SEALs remained with the freed hostages. Several of his teammates followed.

  Inside, Bastian scanned the three USAID employees. “Where’s Brie Stewart?”

  Ezra Johnson, an American aid worker with skin so dark he could pass for South Sudanese if it weren’t for the lack of tribal scarring, studied him, his gaze landing on Bastian’s name tape. “You’re the asshole from Camp Citron.”

  Interesting. What had Brie told the man? Savannah James said Brie’s coworkers didn’t know who she was.

  “He’s an asshole who just helped save your life,” one of the SEALs said.

  “Yes, but I’m still an asshole.” Bastian turned to Ezra. “Where. The fuck. Is Brie?”

  “We don’t know,” Ezra said.

  “She escaped before the fire,” said the other American hostage, Alan. “We stayed behind so she could get away.” He cleared his throat. “It doesn’t go well for the women.”

  He was talking about rape. These men had sacrificed themselves so Brie could escape. Bastian gave a nod of respect.

  “The men were looking for her,” the South Sudanese aid worker, Jaali, added. “They spoke of it, in a local dialect on their radios. I listened. They were searching, but not finding.”

  “Where would she go?” Bastian asked all three men.

  “There aren’t a lot of people she could turn to.” Alan’s face darkened. “She had three choices. Go to the Kemet Oil operation that’s about twenty miles to the north, the UN camp to the northwest, or follow the road south toward Juba.”

  “What do you think she’d do?” Bastian asked.

  “She’d choose Juba over Kemet Oil,” Ezra said firmly. “The company uses child labor and aren’t likely to help us.”

  “Why wouldn’t she go to the UN camp?” Pax asked. “It’s closer than the capital.”

  “She might, but it’s still pretty far, and the road will disappear in rain in the coming days,” Jaali said. “The main road to Juba is her best bet. The road is higher ground and lasts the longest when all the others flood.”

  Bastian turned to his detachment commander, Captain Durant, who’d entered the hut along with the rest of their A-Team. “Permission to split the team in two and go after Brie Stewart, sir.”

  The captain nodded for the team to step outside the hut where they could speak without being overheard by the USAID employees. Bastian followed the tall African American commander who’d been at the top spot on their team since the Yemen mission over a year ago. Outside, Captain Durant said, “Given who she is, we should consider using the full team in addition to several SEALs.”

  “Too many people on this and we risk exposing her secret,” Bastian said. “Send half the team to check out Kemet Oil and the UN camp, while six of us search the route to Juba. Two teams of six can keep a lower profile. Any more than that, and whoever took her might start to wonder just how valuable she is.”

  “They may already know,” Lieutenant Fallon said.

  Bastian tipped his head in a slight nod. “But if they don’t, why make it obvious?” A-Teams were designed for this type of operation; splitting into two teams was a common practice. The only unusual aspect was that Bastian was determined to be the one leading the team that searched the Juba road.

  Durant studied him for a long moment. “You didn’t disclose to SOCOM you know the woman.”

  “We met briefly when she was at Camp Citron a month ago.”

  “Long enough for her to know you’re an asshole,” Fallon said.

  Bastian shrugged. “What can I say? My charm comes naturally.”

  The captain held his gaze. “Did you fuck her?”

  “No, sir.” He’d never quite figured out if he regretted that or not.

  Durant gave a sharp nod. “Take Blanchard, Callahan, Ripley, Goldberg, and Espinosa.”

  “We’ll search in the south, along the Juba road.” He held his breath, hoping the captain wouldn’t argue and send him to the UN camp.

  Durant nodded. “Two days, Chief Ford.” He looked over Bastian’s shoulder and addressed the team assembled there who would accompany Bastian on this mission. “You need to find her within forty-eight hours. If you don’t, the US military will have no choice but to go all in. Gabriella Prime cannot become a reason for the US to become embroiled in South Sudan’s civil war. Be discreet. And fast.”

  The members of his team nodded, and Bastian felt a surge of pride. His men were the best. Just weeks ago, he and Pax had been at odds, but after his encounter with Brie, he’d pulled his head out of his ass and salvaged what had once been an important friendship. And he had Brie to thank, in a roundabout way, for his mental extraction.

  Back inside the hut, Bastian pulled out a map and spread it on the table. He grilled the three USAID workers on the route she was likely to attempt and the risks she’d face along the way.

  Alan cleared his throat as Bastian rolled up the map. “Mr. Ford, you need to know about the market. If someone found her, they might have taken her there.”

  “Market?” Bastian asked, spreading the map again.

  “I’m not sure where it is—no one is, exactly. It’s not a place any of us could go and expect to return from. Somewhere deep in the marsh to the west, there’s a slave market. We think it formed sometime in the last few months, or at least, that’s when there was an uptick in children disappearing—more than usual. They sell other things at the market too—weapons, drugs, artifacts, anything that supports war and terror—but mostly they sell children.”

  “And you think they’d take her there?”

  He nodded. “It’s one of the reasons we made sure she escaped. Months ago, we noticed a decrease in the number of women and children who’d been raped and released. The slaughtering stopped too—we thought the war was wind
ing down—but then we started hearing rumors of the market, and it became clear the economy had shifted and slavers were taking women and children who were returning home after taking refuge in the camps—for a while, no one realized they were missing, because no one knew they were coming home.”

  “Why hasn’t this been reported?” Captain Durant demanded.

  “It was. It’s why Brie went to Camp Citron a month ago. She told some woman there everything she knew about the market.”

  Sonofabitch. Savvy knew all along, and she didn’t say a fucking word.

  Need-to-know my ass.

  They had needed to know. This might have nothing to do with USAID, nothing to do with the fact that Brie was a Prime. It could be about the market.

  The rain clouds had dissipated, leaving a celestial canopy visible through the branches of the tree Brie was tied to. Something tickled the back of her neck. She squirmed against the rope that secured her hands to her waist. It must be an insect of some sort.

  She should be sleeping, but that was impossible, trussed up as she was. She closed her eyes. And a different sky came to mind…

  She sank back into the moment when she’d been trying to regain her composure and Bastian had found her staring at the stars.

  It was too much to hope his or another Special Forces team would be sent to South Sudan to find her. But hope she did, because she had to hold on to something.

  Not far away, her captor snored loudly as he slept on the hard ground. She still had no idea who he was or if he was associated with the men who’d invaded the USAID facility.

  Nothing about working in South Sudan had been comfortable, but this was a new lesson in how good she’d had it in her aluminum-walled living quarters. For starters, she’d had a cot, and when the generator had fuel, they’d had electricity.

  Tonight she lay on rocky ground, bound to a tree. No pillow, no blanket, no water, no food. Tied at wrists and ankles.

  And she was utterly terrified.