Sam said nothing, though a part of her liked the idea. Perhaps the most surprising thing about coming home was that it had been as easy as slipping into a warm bath. Working the steer, riding the pasture…being inside the home she’d grown up in. It wouldn’t be a tremendous hardship. Maybe she could do it again, be here without all the painful memories, find peace surrounded in the place and things she knew like the back of her hand…
Her aunt and uncle left it alone, seeing they’d planted the seed. Sam warmed at every pat and squeeze, feeling comfortable and safe in the heavily scented kitchen, eating a hearty, simple meal of spaghetti with sauce from scratch, a meal she’d loved as a child. She savored the hot, crusty garlic bread, corn on the cob, and salad from Aunt Hannah’s garden like a Michelin-rated meal in a top-tier city. They shared Irish coffee with a dollop of Chantilly cream while they waited for the apple pie to cool. At one point, “My Blue Heaven” came on, and Uncle Grant swung Aunt Hannah into his arms for a quick two step on his way to get more coffee.
“What on earth?” her Aunt cried, her laugh a sweet trill as he twirled her around the kitchen. “What has gotten into you?” She playfully smacked her husband’s arm.
“I’m just happy, Hannah. Our girl’s back home,” he smiled, winking at Sam over her shoulder as he maneuvered his wife over the terracotta tiles. A rush of emotion made Sam’s eyes well, and she ducked her head into her coffee cup, watching her aunt and her uncle dance around the kitchen over the rim. She blinked furiously, wondering where the hell all of this damn weepiness was coming from. In the space of twenty-four hours, she’d become an emotional Tilt-A-Whirl. Sam cleared her throat gruffly while her Uncle Grant dipped Aunt Hannah dramatically, making her laugh before she pushed away, shooing him off so she could cut slices of hot apple pie.
“More coffee, Sammy girl? Or more whisky?” her Uncle Grant offered, wagging his heavy brows in mischief.
“It’s a school night, Uncle Grant,” she chuckled. “Don’t we have to get up early tomorrow to check on the cattle after the storm?”
His face lit up in a pleased smile. “You helping me tomorrow?”
Sam nodded. “If you’ll have a stuck-up city girl,” she joked.
“Darlin’, you may be stuck-up, but you ain’t no city girl,” her uncle teased back, his eyes warm. “Eat your pie. It’ll be an early mornin’ and you’ll need the energy,” he assured her.
Sam tucked her smile in her shoulder. For the first time in years, she felt so indescribably happy to be home…
*
July 2006
Kabul, Afghanistan
S A M A N T H A
Night had descended over Kabul, the cooling desert air making the warehouse chillier than it already was. Sam could hear the faint, tinny sound of the evening prayers over loudspeakers in the distance. She nodded at Moon and Cartwright. It was time to finish this.
Arman sat in the chair, his head lolled onto his shoulder, passed out from the exhaustion and dehydration of withdrawal. She reached down, slapping him awake. He jerked, looking up at her with his sallow hazel eyes.
“I’ve told you. I’ve told you everything,” he whispered, his voice hollow. Broken.
“Known associates, locations of his productive yields, dealers: all interesting,” she murmured. “But not what I need to know. I want your father. Tell me everywhere you know you can find him.”
“I can’t,” Arman shook his head, his expression pathetic. “I don’t know this. He moves constantly.”
“But you know how to find him. You are his son. You know exactly how to reach him.”
“No, Poppy. I swear. I don’t. He finds me. He always finds me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And how do you think he’ll react once he finds his son, an addict, prostrate and begging like a parasite?” she asked, her voice dipping dangerously.
Pallor covered his now-gray skin. A thin sheen of sweat covered Arman from fear or withdrawal—perhaps both.
She knew where they found Arman to begin with, knew how his father would find him given enough time. They’d just have to set the trap and wait.
“Please, Poppy,” Arman whispered through cracked lips. “Please,” he looked up, eyes pleading for mercy.
She smiled. “I know exactly how to make you feel good again, Arman. I’m going to take you back to that brothel. And we’re going to give you all your father’s opium you can handle.”
Arman’s eyes lit, feverish with the idea of the high. He licked his dry lips.
“How long do you think it will take him to find you?” Sam asked idly, stepping back.
“A week. No more,” Arman whispered.
She knew with absolute certainty he wasn’t lying. In fact, she doubted if it would even take that long. Sam nodded at Cartwright and Moon. “We go tonight.”
Chapter 23
November—Tuesday Afternoon
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
W E S L E Y
“So is Jaime Roman a raving geek or an ironic, glasses-wearing hipster?” Wes asked Evan while they sat in the hotel bar, waiting for the famous app developer. “And what kind of guy develops locater software and technology anyway? You sure he isn’t government? I don’t know how I feel about being tagged and tracked like an endangered species,” Wes muttered, feeling restless.
“Believe it or not, he swears he developed it to keep track of his five-year-old.” Evan grinned. “He’s a good guy. Definitely no G-man. You’ll like him,” Evan assured him. “And you’ll have to take your civil rights up with the network. Landiss is the one who agreed to Sam and Carey’s request to have you and your team test it out.”
Wes’s skin tingled at the mention of Sam. He’d done a few searches since he found out that she was heading this operation and gotten basic, salient facts—she was based in Chicago, an attorney, a senior partner at Lennox, but it was all vague, and it only served to make him want more. Pictures were impossible to locate. A nice trick. Even her gender was rarely referenced. Wes had been subtly asking questions the past few days, garnering more information.
He knew from Talon that she was a helluva fighter and an excellent shot. He knew from Evan she was a card shark, and the kid Wes remembered as Carey was now her closest confidante and business partner. He knew from Michaelson she had great legs, but hell, no one knew that better than him. Wes wondered crassly if any of them had ever had her legs wrapped around them and then felt ridiculous and irrationally jealous for even thinking it. But each time he heard mention of her or Carey, he felt that familiar stomach clench.
The only thing Wes knew with absolute certainty was that he wanted to see her again and that the feeling wasn’t mutual. She’d had plenty of opportunities since she clearly knew who she was protecting on behalf of NBS. Wes had debated asking to meet her through her team or reaching out to her directly—at least until the locater chip they wanted him and the team to test out had come up.
At first he’d been resistant to testing the locater chip, mostly on principle. Wes had never been on anyone’s leash, and that’s how he liked it. But then he realized his obstinacy and her knowledge of him would make the perfect foil for forcing the issue. Sam would know he’d never agree to being tracked, even if it was supposedly for his own safety. She’d also realize he’d figured out who she was. He’d already told Evan and Simon he wanted to do a story on her and Carey. What if he made that a condition for testing the chip? Though NBS had okayed it at the practical level, each individual on the team had to agree to being tracked, considering the massive potential for violation of their civil liberties without their consent. Whether they were in Brazil or not, they were all American citizens. Maybe if Sam agreed to let him interview her for a story, he’d agree to being Jaime Roman’s guinea pig.
Simon Michaelson strode into the bar. “They’re ten to fifteen minutes out. He’s coming from a building on Avenida Almirante Barroso,” he told them, clearly agitated. “Fuck, I don’t like it.”
Evan watched him quizzically. “
What’s he doing there? That’s right in the heart of where the protestors are congregating.”
Simon dragged a frustrated hand over his hair. “He was in meetings over at the Brasil Telecom office there. Bollocks, had I known he was coming from there, I would have taken over the convoy.”
Evan stood. “Wes, you’ve got two cameramen out there videoing background footage, right? Kiefer and Smith? Let’s call them and see what they’re seeing.”
Wes nodded, tossing a few Brazilian reals onto the bar. Tensions had been high since last night, and the city felt electric with the release of pent-up emotion and fission of the political divide. But the turmoil had already begun to morph into random acts of violence with small lootings and other petty crimes.
“Last time Smith and Kiefer checked in, they thought the protestors had surged to over fifty thousand people,” Wes told them as they headed to the large conference room they’d reserved for the production crew and equipment.
The editor, Vicki, and some of the crew were huddled near a makeshift station reviewing last night’s footage and discussing the other interviews they had lined up for later in the afternoon.
“Anybody heard from Kiefer or Smith yet?” Wes asked, sidling up to the editor.
“Yeah, just checked in. Said armored police and military just rolled in,” Vicki told him. “We were getting ready to come and get you. I say we scrap the interviews and go straight to the action. Feels like all hell’s going to break loose if they’re bringing in the military.”
“Bloody hell,” Simon muttered, pulling out his phone.
Evan gestured to Wes for an aside. “Look, I know you want to go out, but give Simon and me a minute to get a bead on the situation. Okay?”
Wes nodded, but he already knew what the situation would likely be. He’d seen this play out before in other countries, under other regimes. If the government wasn’t able to tamp down on the dissent by nightfall, all hell would break loose. Evan had to know it would be virtually impossible to keep Wes, Vicki, and the crew cooped up in the hotel away from the action. Even now, Wes could just discern the sound of distant chanting over the usual sounds of the city.
Simon motioned to Evan. They engaged in a close conversation Wes couldn’t hear. He moved toward them, fiddling with his camera. Simon caught the approach and immediately lowered his voice before Evan nodded and Simon stepped away, leaving the conference room.
“What’s going on?” Wes asked, perplexed by the intense look replacing Evan’s generally congenial demeanor.
“Protests have gotten violent in two sectors. People are smashing windows, setting fires, and vandalizing the Council Chamber.” Evan paused, taking a breath. “Unfortunately, I’m worried about Jaime. The route his security team took him down has been overtaken by protesters trying to get to the sectors. He’s trapped in the vehicle with a couple members of our team. They’re trying to figure out how to get him out safely.”
“Wait—is he in one of the sectors where it’s heating up?” Wes asked.
“No, he wasn’t near that section of Pista Central. It’s not violent yet, but there are so many protesters overrunning the main street where the Brasil Telecom office is that we can’t move him. We’re sending Simon in.”
“Why?”
“He’s a specialist. He can get in and out of places faster,” Evan explained.
Wes grabbed his camera bag and a small HD recorder, heading for the doors.
“Where the hell are you going?” Evan’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“One of the world’s best-known developers is trapped in an internationally-covered protest. If you think I’m not filming that, you’re outta your mind,” Wes answered, over his shoulder. “You’re already uncomfortable that you can’t get in there and help. It’s all over your body language. He’s your friend, right?”
Evan grunted, stopping Wes again as he opened the doors. “I don’t need you adding chili to the sauce, Wes.”
“Evan, welcome to guarding a photojournalist. This is what we do,” Wes replied over his shoulder. “I’m getting the shots of the riots with or without you. You’ll want to tell your guys to watch out for the rest of the crew since Vicki looks like she’s ready to dive right in there with Kiefer and Smith.” Wes watched Evan glance back at her.
“You’re a giant pain in my ass, you know that?” Evan muttered, tapping his earpiece and speaking to Talon in a low voice while he followed Wes out. “Talon, have Henri cover Vicki. She’s heading out. Get the other men on the crew. Wes and I are going after Simon and Jaime.” He followed Wes out through the lobby and the front doors.
Wes, a lifelong runner, hit the cobblestone streets of Rua da Quitanda, hurling past beautiful colonial buildings and shop fronts, looking for the fastest way to cut across to Avenida Almirante Barroso, where Jaime’s car was trapped. The streets were clogged with people shouting, waving political flags, chanting slogans. Evan kept pace with him easily, eyes watchful.
“How’s Simon getting to them?” Wes shouted.
Evan tapped his earpiece. “Chariot, position?”
“Who’s Chariot?” Wes asked as they ran past a group of students in white and blue uniforms, supporting their professors and decrying the government. They didn’t blink at the two gringos pushing past them.
“Simon. He’s got a Ducati,” Evan answered.
“Where the fuck did he get that?” Wes asked, pushing past more protesters.
“May have borrowed it from the hotel parking lot. We’re going left.”
Wes swung into an alley as Evan took the lead.
“He’s a couple minutes away. If we keep running at this pace, we’re probably five minutes away from Jaime’s position,” Evan shouted over his shoulder.
They broke onto Avenida Almirante Barroso like they were shooting out of water. A human barricade of students, teachers, and trade unionists stood shoulder to shoulder on the roads in a cacophony of shouting, waving, and chanting. Wes had no idea how Simon was navigating through it on a motorcycle. He could barely see more than two feet in front of him, caught among the bodies, being dragged along the current. He felt Evan yank him back toward the edges.
“If you’re hell bound and determined to do this, then at least stay close,” Evan told him, his eyes deadly serious. Gone was the laidback good ole boy. Wes was looking into the eyes of an operative. He gave Evan a brief nod, holding up his camera and taking shots as he wove through the sidelines and stragglers behind Evan.
“We need a better vantage point,” Evan shouted as they struggled past people. He glanced around quickly before jerking his head toward an apartment in a building with a couple of open, latticed balconies. Evan slammed up the stairs of the building, Wes hot on his heels. Evan rounded the bannister and flew to one of the apartment doors. He began pounding on the door, speaking in rapid Portuguese.
The door opened a sliver, a scared boy behind it. Evan crouched, speaking softly to him, holding out money. The boy opened the door, allowing them in. Wes smiled at him. Evan said something gently to the boy, and the boy led them toward the balconies, clutching the cash. Wes leaned out. Visibility was good in both directions. He immediately began filming the scene with the handheld.
“There they are,” Evan told Wes, pointing down the road.
They could see the SUV. People were rocking it violently as they pushed through the road, shouting. Wes wondered if they were deliberately trying to turn it over or if there were just too many people for the space. Perhaps it was a bit of both. He could see Simon’s massive body pushing through the chaos toward the car. He stepped off the bike, but he didn’t open the door, glancing around as if in some kind of anticipation.
“What the fuck is he waiting for?” Wes asked.
“A sharpshooter to get into place. We need coverage just in case shit gets crazy.”
Wes watched the crowds chanting and flooding the streets. “I don’t know, man, it looks pretty fucking crazy already.”
“Uptown One, are you
in place?” Evan asked into his earpiece, listening. “Alright, one sharpshooter’s in place. That’s better than none,” Evan told him, his eyes serious. He touched his earpiece again. “Vicki’s out with two other cameramen, filming three blocks away. Henri’s with her.”
Wes nodded, a little relieved. “I know she can handle herself, but fuck, man, I’m glad you guys have our backs.”
Evan glanced over at him, his eyes amused. “Aren’t you supposed to be some war-hardened photographer like Robert Capa?”
Wes rolled his eyes, looking back through the camera lens as he zoomed in on Jaime’s car. He caught Simon wedging the bike perpendicular to the back door of the SUV so they could open the door. A man dressed similarly to Simon and Evan stepped out, ushering another taller, lankier dark-haired guy out behind him.
“Is that Jaime?” Wes asked.
“Yeah,” Evan confirmed.
Simon hustled Jaime toward the bike, shoving a helmet in his hands. As soon as they mounted the bike, Simon gunned it and took advantage of the people around them who were startled by the noise to maneuver down the street on the sidewalk.
A sudden commotion distracted Wes as several masked people dressed in black rounded the corner about a block down, closely followed by a phalanx of armed police. Simon stopped the bike as the police managed to completely blockade the road within a matter of seconds amid shouts and hysterical screaming from the peaceful demonstrators. Simon just managed to wheel the bike back around toward the opposite end of the street. He was moving remarkably quickly considering the size of the crowd he was maneuvering around when one of the demonstrators tossed a Molotov toward the police brigade. A shot was fired in return. Wes felt the tumult burst from the crowds in a ripple of violence as all hell broke loose. He filmed two tear gas cylinders thrown up into the air, raining down fumes on the bedlam choking that section of the Avenida. People went berserk, screams filling the air as people tried to scatter, pushing and clambering over each other.
“Uptown One, do you have a visual on the Chariot?” Evan shouted over the mayhem, scrambling to the farthest end of the balcony, trying to see Simon and Jaime through the mayhem.
Complicated Creatures: Part One Page 37