Covert Christmas

by Marilyn Pappao

  But how?

  With a trembling hand Cass wiped blood and dirt off her mouth. Then she sweated to maneuver Sam’s massive frame out from the driver’s seat, stilling every few seconds to listen to the jungle, to the sounds of gunfire, to see if the men were coming.

  She finally managed to pull him into the passenger seat, and she climbed into the bloodied driver’s seat. Fighting exhaustion, Cass realized suddenly that she had no idea how to get back to the compound, other than along that blockaded road.

  She had her sat phone in her backpack. But who was she going call—911? She laughed harshly out loud. Needing to hear the sound of her own voice, to validate herself. Yeah right. You wanted this—you wanted to push the limits.

  But she did not want a kid in it all. Not a little boy, vulnerable, dependent on her. A boy the same age as Jacob had been.

  As she leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition, she heard truck engines approaching. Adrenaline kicked—the only place she could think to hide until it was light was Gillian’s house. Cass headed down a side road and reconnected with the main road several miles further east. Retracing her route she drove slowly, watchful of the flickering fires, praying it was still quiet in Gillian’s village.

  She’d hide with Christmas in the cellar until daybreak.

  And then she’d have to figure out what to do next. Because no way was she going to get help from the embassy now.

  They’d all be gone by dawn. Jack, too. Probably damning her to die for her story. She deserved it.

  She was on her own. Always had been, even when they were together.

  But this innocent boy called Christmas did not deserve this.

  She had to get him out of this dark and burning nightmare. Come hell or high water.

  And she had to do it alone.

  Monday, December 23, 0612

  Cass creaked open the cellar door and peered out into the small living room. A hazy orange dawn filtered through the drawn curtains. It was hot, muggy, the scent of the death pungent. She crept out, her stomach clenching as she bypassed Gillian’s shrouded form on the sofa.

  Carefully, Cass lifted the edge of the curtain with the backs of her fingers. Her muscles went rigid—there was a group of men down the road, looting a house. It wouldn’t be long before they reached this one.

  Hurriedly she moved to the kitchen. In the fridge she found fruit, bottles of water. She took these to Christmas in the cellar. Then she grabbed her backpack and stuffed what other food she could find into it. Hastily she cobbled together a first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet, and exchanged her blouse and skirt for a pair of pants and a T-shirt from Gillian’s closet. She rinsed Sam’s blood from her face and arms.

  But before she was done, she heard the men yelling outside. She bolted back down into the cellar, leaving her pack and sat phone on the kitchen table.

  She held Christmas tight, praying they’d leave, that if they entered the house, the shrouded body might spook them off.

  Then she heard the Jeep’s engine starting outside to the sound of cheers and random gunshots.

  She cursed, tears of frustration burning into her eyes as she heard them driving it away. She wondered what they’d done with Sam’s body—she’d left him in the passenger seat.

  Now she didn’t even have transport.

  Despair, fatigue, heat crowded out logic for a moment.

  How on earth was she going to get this little boy out of this country in crisis? She didn’t speak the language, she stuck out like a sore thumb, didn’t know the way…she’d relied on Sam for so much.

  Her thoughts were broken by a sound somewhere in the house. Cass tensed, listening, her heart jackhammering.

  She heard it again.

  Her sat phone! In her bag upstairs.

  With shaking hands she crawled out. Hunkering down on the floor behind the table so no one would glimpse her through the kitchen window, she reached for the phone.

  “Hello?” she said quietly. Nervous.

  “Cass. It’s Jack. Where are you?”

  Emotion surged through her, lodging hard in her throat. Nothing, not one thing in this entire world was more welcome than hearing his voice, and for a moment she was unable to speak.

  “Cass, are you all right?” The deep, measured calm of his voice steeled her. Cass cleared her throat, not wanting to come across as weak or uncertain to him. Or afraid. “I…I’m fine.” But her voice clearly belied her words.

  “Cass, speak to me—what’s going on?”

  “Jack. I’m in deep trouble.”

  Jack watched the rotors of the chopper speeding up as he spoke, the pilot making a motion for him to come. The DCM was finally on board. She had received another call from Washington, which had delayed their departure for over an hour. Jack had tried to delayed it further. At war within himself, he’d capitulated and called Cass, trying her phone several times, growing increasingly worried when there was no answer.

  Now his stomach knotted at the sound of her voice. And he knew Cass would not ask for his help unless something was very seriously amiss. He closed his eyes for a moment, torn, seconds ticking away, the sound of the rotors increasing.

  “My cameraman is dead, Jack. I’ve been hiding at a colleague’s house, in the cellar. She’s been shot dead, too and her village is being looted. The roads are blocked. Our vehicle is gone.”

  The rotors roared to full speed, downdraft whipping palm fronds into a frenzy. This was it, last chopper out. The rebels had breached the army blockade on the highway. It was just a matter of hours, maybe even minutes, before they reached the compound.

  “Cass—” he said.

  “I need you, Jack.”

  His heart swelled, his fist tightening on the phone. This was what he wanted—wasn’t it? For her to need him, for one last chance to get it right, to atone for his own role in messing up their marriage?

  He glanced at chopper.

  Once that bird left…

  Chapter 6

  Monday, December 23, 0637 Zulu

  Jack swore.

  He argued with himself he would be quick. He’d try and call for an evac once he returned with her to the compound. But at least he’d be trying—he’d never live with himself if he didn’t.

  “Hold on, Cass,” he said into the sat phone as he made a flicking motion with his hand, telling the pilot to take off. He keyed his radio. “U.S. civilian is stranded behind enemy lines,” he barked. “I’m going in to assist.”

  He killed the transmission before the pilot could respond, or remind him that the compound itself could come under siege within hours. He switched back to the sat phone. “Where’s your friend’s house?” He strode swiftly toward one of the military jeeps on site as he spoke. Jack told himself he was not abandoning the chargés d’affaires, his mission, his country, by going to look for Cass in hostile territory. He was doing his duty.

  As a husband.

  And it was about bloody time. He’d lost enough to know how much he wanted now, and what deep compromises he was prepared to make for a second chance.

  “I’m not sure, Jack. It was dark. We headed out on the eastbound route, but then Sam took several back road detours to avoid blockades. He…he was shot in the neck…when we tried to run one of the roadblocks.”

  Jack fired the jeep’s ignition. “Does your phone have GPS?” He barreled out of the compound gates as he spoke. They were now unguarded, the crowds of asylum-seekers milling about, restless, some angry at the Americans for pulling out and leaving them to uncertain fate in their own country. One threw a rock at Jack’s vehicle as he passed.

  “It does—” She gave him the coordinates. Jack punched them into the military vehicle’s GPS mapping system. Then he laid on the gas, racing eastward. The sound of artillery shelling rattled to the west.

  “Why did you leave the compound, Cass?” he said, fists tight on the wheel. He wanted to keep her talking. And he needed to know.

  “I…my friend needed help.”
/>   He was silent for a second. “It wasn’t for a story?”

  There was another beat of silence, a shift in her tone. “No,” she said quietly.

  He sucked in air, fists tightening even further on wheel. “Don’t move from where you are, understand? Keep your phone on, and make sure it has a clear line with no obstruction to the sky. It’s not going to work if you take it down into the cellar. It’s probably why I couldn’t get through earlier.”

  “You tried earlier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jack?”

  He inhaled. “I’m still here.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Ambushed by a fierce surge of emotion, he signed off. Above, in the western sky, the Black Hawk carrying Swift grew smaller, metal glimmering in the first violent rays of the morning sun.

  Daylight revealed a post-apocalyptic nightmare. Black smoke snaked from burning villages and vultures circled above dull green trees. Scavenger dogs and baboons scampered between bodies, and the gutted wrecks of burned-out vehicles were strewn along the road. But the sound of shelling had ceased and an eerie lull pressed down with the heat of the new day—perhaps a hangover from the night of violence. Jack wondered how long the lull might last before the next wave.

  Sweat slid down his brow as he saw blackened oil drums and a coil of razor wire across the road ahead, soldiers with red bandannas and armbands passed out against trucks. This must be the barricade that Cass and her cameraman had run into earlier. He swallowed at the thought of how close he’d come to losing her, to never getting a chance to make things right.

  Quietly, Jack swung the wheel, ducking off the tarred road. He followed a rutted dirt track into dense trees. If he played it calm, using the GPS mapping software in his military vehicle, he could keep moving toward Cass via a series of off-road routes through the old rubber and cacao plantations that covered the foothills in this area.

  The flashing GPS dots grew closer and closer. He was almost there.

  He neared a small cluster of houses with tin roofs. The stench of carrion was powerful here. He saw more bodies, an abandoned tricycle. A kid’s bloodied shoe. His mouth turned bitter.

  So this is Christmas…and look what you’ve done…

  Inhaling deeply, he pulled up outside the plain square house registering on the GPS.

  The cameraman’s large body lay crumpled on the packed red dirt outside, like tossed-aside garbage, tire tracks at his side. Rage mushroomed in Jack. His gaze flicked left and right as he reached for his assault weapon and clicked off the safety. Gun leading, he crept round the side of house, peered in the window. Through a small gap in the drapes he saw a body on the sofa, covered in a sheet drenched with blood. His mouth turned dry.

  Once he’d circled the perimeter, Jack tried the front door. It was locked. He kicked it open. Weapon leading, he entered the home. A wall of humidity slammed into him, thick with the overpowering stench of death. He scanned the small living room, saw Cass’s pack and sat phone on the kitchen table.

  Cellar, she said cellar.

  He spun around, saw the cellar door, but before he could move toward it, the door creaked slowly ajar. Jack raised his weapon, pulse quickening. The door opened farther and Cass emerged, her eyes dazed from the darkness underground.

  Raw emotion slammed so hard and fast through Jack he didn’t think about what he did next. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he pulled her tight against his body, and he just held. And for a nanosecond time stood still, the years between them slipping away. Just as quickly, Jack felt awkward, and pulled away.

  But he saw that her eyes shimmered with tears.

  Swallowing, he turned away, disguising his own overwhelming feelings with action. “Come,” he said grabbing her pack and sat phone from the table. “We don’t have one second to spare, not if we’re going to make it back to the compound and get a flight out of this hellhole before—”

  “Jack, wait.”

  Something in the firmness of her tone stopped him, and he looked into her eyes.

  Her gaze flicked nervously to the cellar door. A sense of uneasiness curled into him. “Cass—” He stepped up to her. “Why did you come here? What happened to your colleague, exactly?”

  She ran her tongue over her teeth—he knew the gesture well. She was cooking up some story. Irritation flared. “Look here, Cass, Liberian jets have started making low flyovers—civil war could erupt into a full Liberian invasion at any moment. For all we know the new Liberian government initiated this instability. No one understands what is going down yet, or who is behind what faction. It’s—”

  “Jack,” she said quietly. “There’s a small boy in the cellar. We have to take him with us.”

  He stared at her, precious seconds leaking by. “A U.S. citizen?”

  Her lids flickered. And he knew, he just knew her too well—she was going to lie to him.

  Irritation segued into a burst of frustration—he and Cass had such a way of bringing out the worst in each other, butting heads all the way. He was kidding himself, it would never work between them. “We’re running out time. And my orders are clear—only U.S. citizens. If he’s local, we leave him!”

  More precious seconds slid by as Cass battled with her next choice. She knew how stubborn Jack could be and how much a true soldier he was. If he had orders to leave behind Kigali locals, he would. His crack infiltration team would not have survived their missions without clear and sometimes harsh guidelines. If she told him the Kigali royal family had been slaughtered, and that the little five-year-old orphan hiding in the cellar was now technically king of a country in chaos, Jack would be compelled to inform the DCM immediately.

  She didn’t want to put him in that position. She did not want to cost him his career.

  But she’d made a promise to Sam and a vow to the boy.

  She could not allow Sam and Gillian to have sacrificed their lives in vain.

  Cass steeled herself, meeting Jack’s eyes directly, a little quiver shooting through her chest at the intensity in his gaze, and what it did her body. “The boy is the son of an African-American employee of the U.S. embassy,” she said. “The child was visiting Kigali friends and got separated from his family during the attack.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed, his blue stare crackling. The temperature under the tin roof increased as the sun grew more fierce outside, and humidity inside grew thicker. Perspiration gleamed on Jack’s skin.

  “Don’t do this, Cass,” he growled, low, angry. “Do not lie to me! I’ve seen the manifest. I know who worked at the embassy and no one said a child was missing. Tell me who the child is!” he demanded.

  Cass swallowed, her cheeks going hot, sweat pearling between her breasts. The image of Christmas, his big, frightened eyes, the feeling of his little hand in hers, washed through her.

  “It shouldn’t matter whose child it is,” she said very quietly, sensing the time running away, the last window of hope closing. Panic tightened her chest. “He’s just a five-year-old orphan, Jack. He’s got no one—” Her voice caught on a sudden lump of emotion. She took Jack’s large hands in her own. “Please…this is a child we can still save.”

  Jack stared at Cass, memories, pain, suddenly thick, visceral, lacing into the damp, hot air. More precious seconds ticked by, and he allowed them to slip, unable to do otherwise as he looked into his estranged wife’s eyes, the window into her torment no matter how much she tried to hide—or run—from it.

  Because suddenly Jack understood what was going on with Cass.

  She was thinking of Jacob.

  And now so was he.

  “Jack,” she urged softly. “I know I’ve crossed a line. But now that I’m here, now that you’re here…we have to take this boy with us. We cannot leave him.”

  Jack raked his hand through his dust-thickened hair, his body damp with sweat as the equatorial heat pressed down. “Cass, I have orders. They do not include evacuating locals.”

  “Fine.” Her mouth flattened and
her eyes turned cold. “Then give me one of your guns, and a knife, anything you can spare. I’ll do this on my own.”

  “You’ll die.”

  “At least I’ll die trying! At least I won’t have to live the rest of my life trying to hide from the memory of…” Shock registered on her face as she realized what she was saying. The rest of her words stuck in her throat and hung, unspoken, quivering between them. Tears pooled in her eyes.

  “Oh, Cass—” Jack whispered, reaching up and cupping the side of her jaw. She leaned into him slightly, needing him, the human connection in this living nightmare. Jack’s heart swelled with compassion. “Cass, I know what this child symbolizes to you, but—”

  Before he could finish, a silent, frightened boy stepped out from behind the cellar door, his luminous dark eyes focused intently, solely, on Jack.

  Jack froze.

  The boy was the same size and age as his son had been when he died, and for an insane, head-over-heels, crazy about-face moment, Jack saw Jacob standing there.

  He cursed, lifting his face to the ceiling, as if the sheer force of gravity might hold back the brutal surge of emotion churning inside him. How could this be? It was like some freaking sign—seeing Cass on their wedding anniversary, being confronted by a five-year-old boy that he could still save, together. With Cass.

  Like they hadn’t been together for their son. At Christmastime. When they’d lost him.

  Cass touched his arm. A powerful current of connection jolted through him. And he just knew why he must help her.

  It was for Jacob.

  For his memory.

  It was a way to give some meaning to their son’s death.

  It was the way to a second chance.

  Chapter 7

  Monday, December 23, 0655 Zulu

  Jack crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet as placed his hands on the boy’s small shoulders. “Don’t worry, big guy,” he said gently in Kigali. “We’re going to look after you. My name’s Jack. Can you tell me your name, son?”