by Pamela Clare
McManus grinned. “What a pity it is that Lilibet knows so little about it.”
Shields went on. “In the early eighties, the government of Myanmar rewrote its citizenship laws and specifically excluded the Rohingya. There have been repeated attempts to drive them out, acts of ethnic cleansing. Two years ago, a Rohingya militia attacked a police station, setting off this latest wave of brutality. Over the past few years, Naing’s men have torched Rohingya villages, killing the men and children and raping and killing the women. The number of refugees in Bangladesh is now around a million. The UN calls the Rohingya the ‘most persecuted minority in the world.’”
Jones glared at the screen. “Why hasn’t anyone gone after this fucker?”
Tower took over. “Ms. Lahiri is going after him—legally speaking—and it’s our job to keep her safe. Two British journalists were recently abducted from one of the camps and taken across the border into Myanmar, where they were accused of spying and thrown in jail. They’d been asking questions about Naing in the camps.”
Everyone at the table understood. This operation wasn’t just about making sure Ms. Lahiri wasn’t mugged. It was about protecting her life from a man who would risk almost anything to stop her from doing her job.
“Shields, I need an intel report by noon. O’Neal, you’ll be in command of this operation. You are wheels up at sixteen-hundred hours for The Hague. Shields, Segal, Isaksen—you head straight to Bangladesh with a geek team to set things up. Everyone be sure to check with Doc about vaccines and malaria meds.”
Connor’s spirits lifted. “All right, guys. Take some aspirin. Coffee up. Get your heads back in the game.”
He was relieved to be heading out again.
Being home, pretending to fit in—it was too damned much work.
2
Shanti followed Bram down the maze of hallways, her heels clicking on the dark tile floor. When she’d first come to work at the ICC two years ago, it had taken her almost three months to learn her way around the building. She would have left trails of bread crumbs or paper clips if she hadn’t been afraid it would get her fired.
She was glad finally to be leaving for Bangladesh, but she still wasn’t happy about the idea of traveling with a security team. “What do you know about the company? Have there been any criminal prosecutions against them?”
The last thing she wanted was an escort made up of men like the one she was trying to bring to justice—men who had butchered innocent people and were little better than war criminals themselves. That would compromise her principles.
“Relax. They’re squeaky clean. I’ve been told they’re the best.” Bram opened the conference room door and held it for her.
She stepped into what looked like a photoshoot for GQ. Several tall, handsome men stood around the conference table, all of them impeccably dressed in tailored suits.
“Not the Rambos you were expecting, are they?” Bram whispered as he took his seat on her left. “Gentlemen, welcome to The Hague and the International Criminal Court. I’m Bram Meijer with the Office of the Prosecutor, and this is Shanti Lahiri, one of our shining stars.”
Shanti willed a smile onto her face, lifted her gaze—and found herself looking into a pair of deep blue eyes. “Thank you for meeting with us.”
The words came out without conscious effort, her mind blank, her gaze fixed on the man across from her. He had thick, dark brown hair, his face rugged but somehow also … beautiful. Full lips and long lashes softened the impact of his chiseled jawline and a nose that looked like it had once been broken. There were hollows beneath his cheekbones. One cheek bore a small white scar.
She willed herself to look away as the men introduced themselves.
“Derek Tower, one of the owners of Cobra International Security.” Mr. Tower was hard-edged, his face tanned from years outdoors, his hair a sandy blond.
“Malik Jones.” Mr. Jones, a visibly ripped black man, could easily have made it as a model or actor. “I served with the US Army Rangers.”
“Dylan Cruz.” He looked either Cuban or Puerto Rican with a warm smile that reached his brown eyes. “I worked with the Teams at DEVGRU.”
“Ah, yes. SEAL Team Six.” Bram chuckled. “You’re famous.”
“In his own mind,” Mr. Jones muttered, making the other men grin.
“Connor O’Neal,” said the man with blue eyes, his gaze still focused on Shanti. “I served with US Army special forces.”
“McManus, ma’am,” said a redhaired mountain of a man, a Scotsman by his accent. “British Secret Air Service.”
“O’Neal will command your escort,” Mr. Tower said. “We’ve asked the Bangladesh government for permission to get drones overhead while you’re in the camps. We’ll also have a helicopter at the nearest airport.”
Drones? A helicopter?
Shanti gaped at him. “Is all of that necessary?”
“As I’m sure you’re aware, the situation in the camps is far from safe. If Naing’s men were willing to cross the border to abduct British journalists, imagine what they’d be willing to do to stop a criminal investigation.”
A shiver slid down Shanti’s spine.
Connor saw the shadow of fear in Ms. Lahiri’s amber eyes, her pupils going wide. She was right to be afraid.
“You’re paying us to be prepared for any contingency,” Tower said. “We would rather have assets available and not use them than be caught with our pants down.”
Connor wished Tower had used a different metaphor. The physical reaction he’d had when Ms. Lahiri had walked through the door made any mention of pants awkward. The photo he’d seen during their briefing yesterday morning hadn’t done her justice.
Or maybe you were hungover.
She wasn’t just pretty. She was … hot.
Dark hair that hung, thick and straight, down her back. Wide amber eyes framed by dark lashes. A delicate nose. Soft brown skin. That full lower lip. Curves in all the right places, curves her tailored skirt suit couldn’t hide.
Damn.
“The organization appreciates your thoroughness, Mr. Tower,” said Meijer.
Ms. Lahiri’s gaze dropped to her notepad. “Before we get started, I have some concerns I’d like to discuss.”
Tower nodded. “Please, go ahead.”
In a blink, the fear he’d seen disappeared from her eyes. In its place, Connor saw the confidence of a successful, Harvard-educated attorney.
“The people I’ll be interviewing are victims of terrible violence—arson, rape, murder. I’d like to do my job without adding to their trauma. That means no camo or visible military garb and, if at all possible, no guns.”
Connor blinked.
What had she just said?
No guns?
Connor fought the impulse to laugh, exchanging glances with Jones and Cruz, who were just as surprised as he was.
Seriously. No guns?
Connor had to give Tower credit. The man kept his game face, seeming to consider Ms. Lahiri’s ridiculous request.
“Obviously, we want you to be able to complete your mission. We’ll wear street clothes. That’s not a problem. Most protection details wear regionally appropriate street clothes over body armor, not camo. But I won’t send my men into the camps without firearms. That would be a dereliction of duty. I won’t risk your life—or theirs.”
Damn straight.
Ms. Lahiri’s chin went up. “Surely, there must be other options—nonlethal weapons like Tasers or pepper spray.”
Connor’s gaze met Tower’s.
Yeah, what the fuck, man?
Mr. Meijer cut in. “Shanti is concerned that people, particularly women, will be afraid to speak with her if she’s accompanied by armed men. Also—I think you should know—she is uncomfortable around soldiers and firearms due to family history.”
She didn’t deny it. “I know what they can do.”
Yeah, so did Connor. He’d been on the receiving end of bullets. Still, most people felt safer wit
h a Cobra team around specifically because they were armed.
Tower nodded. “That’s good to know. I understand your concerns, Ms. Lahiri. Here’s the problem: If anything goes sideways at the camp, the enemy won’t be packing Tasers or pepper spray or baseball bats. They’ll carry rifles. Of course, you could always decline our services and search for another team.”
Whoa. Way to lay it on the line, Tower.
Mr. Meijer shook his head. “No, no. We respect your judgment.”
Ms. Lahiri looked anything but satisfied.
Did she expect them to protect her from men with automatic weapons without being able to return fire?
“Ms. Lahiri?” Tower waited, his gaze fixed on her.
“Can you conceal your weapons? The Secret Service doesn’t walk around carrying openly, and they protect our presidents.”
Tower looked like he was considering this.
Oh, come on, man. No way.
“We might be able to accommodate you on that, depending on how the situation seems on the ground,” Tower said after a moment. “However, the point of carrying a weapon is to be ready to use it. They won’t do you any good otherwise. We will, of course, do all we can not to impede your work or intimidate anyone.”
“Thank you. I would appreciate that.”
Tower handed Meijer and Ms. Lahiri each a folder. “Inside, you’ll find information about Cobra—who we are, how we operate—as well as a list of precautions we expect Ms. Lahiri to take while we’re in the field. I want to go through those now.”
It was basic stuff. No unaccompanied excursions. No sharing of travel plans with anyone outside the ICC, UN officials, or Cobra, not even family. No using her personal cell phone while in Bangladesh. No arguing with the Cobra team if they believed a situation was unsafe.
“If we find ourselves in an emergency, we expect you to do exactly as you’re told without question. The lives of my men, as well as yours, could be on the line.”
Ms. Lahiri nodded. “I understand.”
“How do you plan to dress while in Bangladesh?”
The question seemed to catch her off-guard. “How do I plan to dress?”
“Your father is Bengali. You have relatives there. Your social media has photos of you wearing traditional Bengali clothing. We advise against that.”
“I want to make the women in the camp feel safe. Dressing like them might make them feel more comfortable and help me blend in.”
Connor didn’t think Ms. Lahiri would blend in no matter where she was or how she dressed—not with that face and body.
“It’s that last part that worries us. If you look like everyone else, it might confuse the sex traffickers and gangs that prey on young women in these camps.”
Her gaze dropped. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Mr. Meijer chuckled. “That’s their job—to think of everything.”
It was an almost twelve-hour flight from The Hague to the Cox’s Bazar International Airport—not a hardship on Cobra’s luxurious private jet. Shanti had never seen anything like it. Bar. Television. Refrigerator. Comfortable seats. Coffee tables.
While the members of her security team played video games, read books, or napped in their seats, Shanti put on noise-canceling headphones and re-read the report prepared by the UN investigator, her sense of rage rising at descriptions of unspeakable cruelty. This was textbook ethnic cleansing with a side of mass rape and genocide.
The government of Myanmar denied the allegations, claiming that the Arakan Rohingya Salvation Army—a Rohingya militia group—had attacked villages that refused to provide them with volunteers. But the government’s photographic “proof” of this had been exposed as false. More than that, their version of the story contradicted every statement given by Rohingya refugees UN investigators had interviewed.
She was so focused on her work that she didn’t see or hear the team leader until he tapped on her shoulder. She pulled off the earphones, looked up—and felt a jolt of attraction.
Mr. O’Neal stood beside her, looking lethally sexy in butter-soft jeans and a T-shirt that stretched over the muscles of his chest, his blue eyes warm. “I asked whether you were hungry. There’s food in the fridge—sandwiches, fruit, sliced veggies, cheese, yogurt, those little sausage things.”
“Thanks.” She glanced at her watch to see that it was past noon then looked up to find him grinning. “What?”
“You look at your watch to decide whether you’re hungry?”
“I just didn’t realize four hours had gone by.” She unbuckled her safety belt and followed him back to the refrigerator, her new pumps pinching her toes.
He opened the brushed steel door. “Take whatever you want. There’s soda, too, and juice. I think Cruz just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
“Fresh-ground Puerto Rican beans, man,” Mr. Cruz called from a plush chair where he sat with a video game controller in his hands. “Ah, fuck. I’m dead again.”
“Give me a good brew,” said the big Scotsman without opening his eyes. Shanti had thought he was asleep. “I’ll take a cuppa any day over hot bean water.”
Mr. O’Neal chuckled. “McManus here has been known to break out a little stove and brew a cup of tea on the battlefield.”
“Really?” Shanti couldn’t imagine that.
She found herself smiling at their good-natured banter. She had to admit, at least to herself, that these guys weren’t what she’d expected. There was no macho bluster, no swagger, no chest-thumping. The way they joked with one another reminded her of her younger brother, Taj, and his friends.
She reached into the refrigerator and chose a turkey sandwich and a bottle of Perrier. She’d just turned to go back to her seat when the plane hit turbulence, throwing her off balance.
Strong arms caught her, steadied her, kept her from falling.
“Careful. The ride always gets a little bumpy over Turkey.”
Shanti found herself looking into those blue eyes, awareness burning through her, making her pulse trip. “Thanks, Mr. O’Neal.”
He held her for just a heartbeat longer than was necessary, his gaze locked with hers, his body hard and muscular. “Connor—or just call me O’Neal like these jokers do.”
“You can call me Shanti.”
“Okay, Shanti.” He released her, leaving her to make her way back to her seat.
She sat, drew a breath, her pulse still skipping.
What had just happened?
The turbulence had taken her by surprise, and she’d almost fallen.
It was just adrenaline.
Of course. Right. And all those muscles and those blue eyes had nothing to do with the way her heart was beating. Nothing at all.
It was just after eight at night when they landed in Cox’s Bazar, an area in southeastern Bangladesh named after an officer with the East India Company. The men put body armor over their T-shirts, clipped on their radios, and disappeared into a back room for a moment only to emerge armed.
Cruz popped in his earpiece. “Longest unbroken sand beach in the world, but do I get to chill and hit the water? Hell, no.”
“Says the whiner who left the SEALs because he was sick of getting sand in his underwear.” Jones chuckled and followed him through the spacious cabin toward the exit.
“What about our luggage?” Shanti asked.
“It will meet us at the hotel.”
Connor did a radio check and then led Shanti down the stairs toward a waiting Land Rover, he, McManus Cruz, and Jones clustered protectively around her. There was no joking now, the four men silent, their gazes searching the area as they moved.
The air was humid, the familiar scents striking a soft place inside Shanti, stirring childhood memories—trying on her grandmother’s beautiful silk saris, eating ice cream at the lake next to the Houses of Parliament with her parents, visiting the Dhakeshwari Temple with her grandfather. Monsoons. Humidity. Spicy food.
When they reached the Land Rover, Connor opened the door and helped Shanti
inside. He followed, the other men climbing in and taking their seats. He reached for his handset. “The asset is safely off the plane and in the vehicle.”
Asset?
Was that what she was in private security slang?
Then it came to her. “Who are you talking to? Your radio set can’t reach the United States, can it?”
Connor grinned, a smile that made her belly flutter. “The rest of our team flew straight here to vet the hotel staff and get our operation set up.”
“Oh.” Shanti had never traveled with a security detail before. She’d had no idea of the scale of such an operation. She had expected a couple of bodyguards. Then again, Bram had told her that Cobra was the best.
Guilt needled her. Had she truly dismissed them as Rambos?
She did her best to make up for that. “Thanks—to all of you. I really appreciate everything you’re doing to keep me safe.”
But the men’s attention was fixed on the world outside their vehicle, and they didn’t seem to hear her.
3
Connor escorted Shanti inside the hotel and into the elevator, Jones, McManus, and Cruz piling in behind him. “Cobra has the entire top floor. You’ve got the suite. I’ll be staying in the adjoining room.”
The room was intended for an assistant or servant, so it was small. Still, it more than met Connor’s needs for this mission.
“Thank you.”
“It’s what we do.”
The elevator stopped, and the doors opened with a ding.
Shields was waiting for them. “Welcome to the Longest Beach Hotel, Ms. Lahiri. I’m Elizabeth Shields, part of Cobra’s support team. Did you have a good flight?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Shields handed Shanti and Connor their keycards. “ETA on your gear is about five minutes.”