Catalyst: Flashpoint #2

by Grant, Rachel

  Bastian caught her by the shoulder, preventing her fall. His gaze met hers, and for a brief moment, his guard slipped. Her eyes widened in silent communication.

  Fuck. If anyone caught the exchange, they were screwed.

  He shut down his reaction and grunted. “Clumsy bitch.” To the guard, he said in Arabic, “You got any other women? I like bigger tits.”

  The man reached out and grabbed her breasts, lifting them and squeezing. “There’s enough here.”

  Brie swung out with her right fist, knocking the man’s head toward her, then she jerked her head as if she intended to head-butt him, but checked herself, muting the blow. Clearly, she wasn’t trained in fighting.

  The slaver dropped back, hurt, but not as badly as he could have been. He lashed out with the whip.

  She screamed, and blood sprouted on her chest; a thin line of liquid red crossed her right breast and curled over her shoulder.

  In a flash, Bastian had the man pinned to the dirt floor with his knife at his throat. “You’re damaging my property,” he said in a low voice.

  “She’s mine! You haven’t paid.”

  “You will sell her to me, or you will die.” He shaved a chunk of beard from the man’s throat.

  “You will pay—and pay well—or you will die.”

  Bastian lifted the man from the floor, keeping his knife at his throat. He kicked open his duffel bag, revealing the stacks of hundred dollar bills. “That enough for you?”

  The man nodded.

  Bastian needed to seal this deal while the man was afraid and before he remembered his special buyer. “But you only get this if you give her to me now. No auction.” If this failed, he’d take out the slaver and make a break with Brie. “No one else will pay you this much.”

  The man stared into the duffel. He hesitated a moment, then reached into the pouch on his hip and pulled out a key and handed it to Bastian.

  “Take her.”

  7

  Brie could hardly breathe from the moment she’d recognized Bastian. He was here to save her, making him the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

  At least, she hoped he was here to rescue her. He was a little too convincing in his role of buyer.

  He looked different. Scruffy and mean. Fierce. Dark. Hostile. But then, weren’t Green Berets trained to blend, to fit in with the locals? If she hadn’t recognized him, she’d be utterly terrified.

  Frankly, she was still terrified.

  Bastian sheathed his knife and quickly unlocked her chain from the floor bolt. The key didn’t work on the collar. He looked to the slaver, who was busy counting his money. “Unlock the collar.”

  The man waved him off. “They’ll do that when you leave the market.”

  His eyes darkened, and she wondered if this screwed with his plans. “Unlock her now.” His stance was threatening, but all he had was his sheathed knife.

  She braced herself for walking through the market nude with a metal collar around her neck. As far as degradations go, it was the least of what she’d expected but was a humiliation just the same. She crossed her arms over her chest, unable to help herself. Some reactions were instinctual.

  Bastian’s nostrils flared, and a moment later, he used his knife to cut the cloth from the doorway and presented her with the covering in an indifferent manner. Master to slave. “Cover yourself.”

  He frowned when she took the item gratefully. A reminder that she was supposed to fear him. Or at least be angry.

  “Master has given Dobby clothes!” she said in her French accent, adding bitterness to the tone.

  His expression didn’t change, but his eyes…something happened there. He read her loud and clear.

  The cloth was dirty and thin, but she was grateful for it just the same. Twisting the cloth at her throat like a sarong, she tied it around her neck. The fabric cradled her breasts, but at least she was covered. Tears came to her eyes. She’d tried to ignore the horror of being stripped and on display, but it had bothered her on a deeper level than she could process in the moment.

  Covered, she straightened her spine and walked through the opening into the bright sunlight. Bastian leaned close and whispered, “Fight me.”

  She jerked away from him. He yanked her back to his side. He said something she didn’t understand in Arabic, and the men who’d gathered around the hut—the ones who’d been waiting for the auction that now wouldn’t happen—laughed.

  A few angry eyes pierced her and Bastian, probably for being denied the chance to bid. She glared at them as she yanked her chain from Bastian’s grip, swinging the end so it hit him on the shoulder.

  Bastian reacted accordingly, taking back the chain and yanking her toward him. His eyes glittered, his expression fierce. True fear shot through her, tempering the relief that had yet to fully register in her system.

  “I like them feisty,” he said, his tone all hard edges, “because then they scream more when they break.” He slipped a hand between the split in her sarong and pinched her breast.

  She yelped and jumped back, her nipple aching at the assault. Her attempt to escape wasn’t faked.

  She wasn’t just scared. She was terrified.

  Weeks ago, he’d made it clear he didn’t like her. What if he wasn’t here for a rescue? What if he was involved in some dirty deals and now he was here to make sure she didn’t get away?

  After all, he was one of only two people who knew exactly who she was. He could be responsible for her abduction.

  She bolted for the market entrance, only to be brought up short by the chain. She choked like she’d been clotheslined and fell back against Bastian’s hard chest. He let out a mean laugh even as he whispered into her ear. “Perfect. Sorry. Fight me.”

  She believed him and she didn’t.

  The world was too surreal, too cruel to make absolute sense.

  He then scooped her up and flung her over his shoulder. The cut from the whip burned as she brushed against him before settling into place with his shoulder at her diaphragm.

  He slapped her ass and marched for the exit. She pounded on his back.

  “Scream,” he murmured.

  She let out a shriek that put her previous cries to shame.

  They reached the perimeter of the market, and he set her down. She pushed at his chest, but he held her in place. His eyes were lit with an unholy light. “Hold still, hellcat, unless you want to remain leashed.”

  She stiffened. He was too damn convincing in this role. He could take his game to Hollywood and make a fortune.

  The same guard who’d collared her before now unlocked the metal band. She yanked it off and tossed it down. It landed with a thunk, and she took what seemed like her first deep breath in days.

  She lifted her gaze to Bastian’s. His eyes held an intensity that was different. He grabbed her arm and leaned down and whispered, “Run,” then released her.

  She was barefoot on uneven ground, but she did her best, terrified and confused at the same time. Why wasn’t he running too? Where was she supposed to go?

  Did he have no plan beyond releasing her from the market?

  A moment later, he tackled her and rolled with her across the hard, sharp pebbles that filled the muddy track that passed for a road.

  He pinned her beneath him and shouted to the market guards. “This bitch tried to escape.”

  Two guards came running as Bastian got to his feet.

  The guards reached them and yanked her arms, as if they would drag her back to the market. She kicked and screamed.

  Behind them—back in the market—an explosion sounded.

  Before she could take in what was happening, Bastian’s blade flashed, and one guard dropped to the ground. The second reached for his gun, but Bastian was faster.

  Blood spurted from his neck, and he flopped down onto Brie.

  She pushed at him, scrambling to get out from under the dead man. Bastian shoved the fallen guard aside and pulled her to her feet.

  “Go for the
trees,” he said, propelling her forward.

  She dove for the thick vegetation that crowded the road. He remained at her heels.

  “This way,” he said in a low, urgent voice, pushing a branch aside.

  She stepped on something sharp and recoiled.

  “Keep going,” he said. “If you can’t, I’ll carry you.”

  She shook her head. Her brain scrambled for purchase with the same frenetic urgency as her feet sought a path through the thick vegetation. Both brain and feet failed, and she tripped, pitching forward into tangled vines.

  Before she could let out a yelp, Bastian’s hand slapped over her mouth. He pulled her to his chest, his large hand muzzling her.

  She was trapped against his body and silenced by his hand. No longer bound by chains, but still a prisoner.

  Tears did fall now. There was nothing she could do about them.

  He removed his hand and cradled her head to his chest. His touch transformed from harsh to tender. “Shhhh. I need to hear what’s going on in the market.”

  She ceased struggling and strained to hear over her racing heart. She should have realized he wasn’t restraining her. He’d killed two guards—slavers. That put them on the same team.

  She took a slow, silent breath and listened. Shouts. High-pitched children’s voices. Men cursing in Arabic.

  “She’s hurt. Whipped by the slaver and battered by our escape,” Bastian said. “I’m going to grab my pack and make for the truck. Over.”

  She looked at him in confusion, then realized he must be speaking into a hidden radio. She canted her head and saw a flesh-toned object tucked into his ear canal. The receiver.

  “I killed the two at the south entrance. They had guns. Shoot the other guards with the dead guards’ AKs. Give the weapons to the oldest children if they want them—but only if they’re old enough to understand what they’re doing.”

  He paused, and she wished she could hear the other end of the conversation when his eyes hardened even as his lips curved in a chilling smile. “Good.”

  Another pause followed by, “After we get the truck, we’ll go north to the rendezvous point. Check in at thirty. And thanks.” His gaze met hers. “She’s free and her injuries look minor. Over.”

  “Your team?” she whispered.

  He nodded.

  She leaned toward him and directed her voice to his collar, where the microphone must be hidden. “Thank you.”

  She had no clue if they heard her, or even who they were. But her words were inadequate to the emotion that flooded her.

  “We need to get moving. There’s always a chance the guy who sold you had guards ready to follow us to bring you back. Slavers aren’t the most honorable of men, and selling you twice would double his take. My team is going to lead the kids east, to the river, so we need to go the other way.”

  “They’re saving the children?”

  “As many as they can.”

  She threw her arms around Bastian and squeezed. “Thank you.” If being stripped naked and whipped meant even a few children were saved from slavery, it was worth it. Every horrific moment. Every painful, shredded nerve ending.

  His arms closed around her for just a moment, then he released her. “I’ve got a truck hidden about a mile from here.”

  She followed, moving as fast as her sore foot and the vegetation would allow, finding it hard to believe this was really happening, that she’d been rescued.

  “Sorry about tackling you,” he said. “We needed a distraction to draw the guards away so Espi could move the kids away from the hut before the explosion. It’s why I needed you to fight me when we left the hut. So all eyes would be on us.”

  “I figured that when you said they’re saving the kids.”

  “There was no way I could tell you.”

  “I know. I’m just grateful it worked.”

  “We hope,” Bastian said. “They still need to get the kids to the river, without anyone knowing we helped them.”

  “The Army didn’t authorize this?”

  “They sent us in to get you. Only you.”

  She understood, but still, it triggered an ache. “Thank you for disregarding orders.”

  “None of us would have been able to live with ourselves if we’d let those kids be sold.”

  He stopped and scanned the woods. He must’ve spotted what he was looking for, because his mouth curved in a wide smile and he made a beeline for a downed tree. There, he moved aside some broadleaves and pulled out a large pack. He plucked a protein bar from a side pocket and handed it to her. “I would imagine you’re starving.”

  After working in South Sudan for seven months, she’d long since stopped using words like “starving” lightly. But now wasn’t the time to say that to the man who’d just killed on her behalf. Instead, she gratefully accepted the food and said, “Thanks.”

  And she was intensely hungry. The last thing she’d eaten had been the beef jerky she’d had the day before. Her abductor had claimed all the food in her pack and hadn’t shared the trail mix he’d had for breakfast.

  She downed the bar so quickly, she risked choking. Bastian handed her a water bottle when she was done. She wanted to rinse the mud from her face and blood from her chest, but water was too precious to waste in that way.

  While she ate and drank, he donned his pack and retrieved his rifle. She’d never been so happy to see a gun in her life. She wasn’t home free yet, but their odds were improving by the moment.

  They set out again, the vegetation thickening and offering no clear path. He came to an abrupt stop and raised his arm, his hand in a fist. She’d been taught that and a few other military hand signals. That one meant freeze. So she did.

  She didn’t know his next hand signal but guessed he wanted her to drop and hide, which she also did.

  A second later, he fired his rifle, then dropped down beside her.

  “Got one,” he whispered. At least she thought it was a whisper. Her ears rang from the report of the bullet.

  “How many are there?” she asked.

  “Three.” His gaze darted to the right. “I’m going to circle around. Get behind them. Stay here.”

  She nodded, even though she hated the plan. She wanted to stay with Bastian and his big gun, and that wasn’t a euphemism.

  He crawled around her like he was some sort of cat—quick and nimble, a creature of the forest.

  Several big cats had habitat in South Sudan, including lions and cheetahs, but they would be found on the savannah, not here. No, here they faced more dangerous creatures.

  Sweat pooled between her breasts as she sat in a dank hole in the flooded grasslands and listened for movement. Bastian was quiet like a cat too. Her heart beat louder than he moved through the damp leaves. Brie pulled herself into a tight ball and held her breath so she wouldn’t make a noise.

  She closed her eyes and again saw the guard’s face, right before Bastian slit his throat.

  The image had been assaulting her brain from the moment it happened. Not surprising, given the gruesome nature and that she could still smell the man’s blood on the cloth she wore.

  But with sudden clarity, she realized that wasn’t the reason she couldn’t let the image go. She’d seen him before.

  Three shots broke the silence. What if the shots were fired at Bastian? Was he injured? Dead? If anything happened to him, it would be her fault.

  She was the reason he wasn’t with his team. She was the reason he’d come to South Sudan. Everything was her fault.

  Was it simple happenstance that she ended up at the slave market? Or was it possible the USAID facility had been attacked because of her?

  8

  Bastian waited in silence until he was certain the remaining two men were dead. One had been a headshot—no question there—but the other had been hit in the chest. He’d made low noises as the blood drained from his body. When no sounds issued for a full ten minutes, Bastian inched forward silently.

  The long wait had
to be excruciating to Brie, but he gave her props for holding silent. He searched the bodies of all three men, snapped a photo of the one whose face wasn’t destroyed, tucked his phone away, then traced their footsteps through the vegetation, making certain there weren’t more who’d retreated.

  The dead men were white and their clothing generic camo that could be purchased in any military surplus store. Their weapons were AKs, which told him nothing. Kalashnikovs were the most available weapon in Africa.

  Odds were they were mercenaries. Market security. Did they have orders to bring Brie back to the market for a second sale? It was telling that they went after her even after the explosion. They could have gone after the escaping children, who represented lost revenue.

  Who bankrolled market security? Russians? Could these mercs be representatives of the special buyer?

  One thing he was certain of: the market had been far too organized—right down to the collars and keys—to be a no-man’s-land. Someone controlled it.

  Bastian returned to Brie’s side, where he found her curled in a ball. She gazed up at him, not speaking, her eyes wide with pain and fear. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to be certain they were dead and no others were hiding in wait.” He pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “I’ve got a truck this way.” Rain started to fall. Fat drops filtered through the leafy canopy. The road had been slippery coming in, and he’d parked the truck well off the narrow trail that twisted through the grassland. “We better hurry if we’re going to get out of here before the road becomes impassible—we’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

  “Are we heading to Juba?”

  “No. We’ve got a rendezvous point where a Blackhawk will pick us up. By oh-two-hundred tonight, you’ll be headed home.”

  Brie said the first thing that came to mind. “Home? Where is that supposed to be?” She glanced around the thicket of woods that surrounded the market, effectively hiding it in the swath of flooded grasslands. South Sudan was the only home she had right now.