Firestorm

by Rachel Grant

  He might as well be back at Camp Citron, where he shared a CLU with Pax and had only the shared latrine and shower that served all enlisted with dry CLUs.

  He listened to her steady breathing in the dark, quiet room. He’d forgiven her in his mind some time after she’d plunged that shard in Evers’s neck. But even before that, he’d understood she’d been in an impossible situation. Cal had been her best hope and the right choice.

  She’d be dead if Cal hadn’t come with her. If she’d been partnered with Evers, he would have killed her at some point when she slept, like she was now with her warm body soft against Cal’s side.

  He pulled her tighter against him, and his lips found her neck. Jesus. She’d be gone. He didn’t want to live in a world without Freya Lange, a woman he had yet to really get to know.

  He drifted back to sleep, waking when sunlight hit his skin about an hour after dawn. Freya was still in his arms, but she was awake this time, and his morning erection was more than evident. He came fully awake and slowly pulled back from her. Much as he wanted to bury himself inside her right now, this wasn’t a good idea.

  She rolled to her side and held his gaze. Her hands rested on the mattress between them. One moved, as if she intended to run a hand along his bare pecs. He loved having her hands on him. He wanted her touch. He wanted her to explore his body. He wanted to watch as she took his hard prick into the circle of her palm and fingers and stroked him. He wanted her mouth on him. He wanted the wet heat of her slick vagina. He wanted to possess her, to make her come.

  And her eyes said she wanted all that too.

  But that would seriously mess with his ability to walk away from her when this mission was over. And he didn’t want Freya Lange in his life. They’d never work as a couple.

  It had nothing to do with race—hell, he was biracial, with a white father and black mother. His parents, his community, would welcome her with open arms. Except for the CIA thing. His parents weren’t fans of the Agency after they’d screwed with his mom all those years ago. Not to mention the way the CIA had fucked up Congo. But his parents probably wouldn’t hold her employer against her as much as Cal had.

  There was no way to know where Congo would be now if the CIA hadn’t conspired with Belgium to assassinate Lumumba, but there was a good chance the country wouldn’t have had thirty-two years of Mobutu.

  Of course, none of this was Freya’s fault. It had all happened before she was born. But her dedication to the Agency and her methods had always alarmed him. She mirrored the CIA’s attitude of “I know what’s best for everyone” added with the willingness to sacrifice others upon the altar of her smug infallibility to shape the world in the way she believed it should be.

  At least, that was what he’d believed back at Camp Citron. And then…she’d been right about Drugov.

  The CIA did vital work; he wasn’t blind to that. Hell, they’d found bin Laden. And Freya had proven to be one of the good ones, the sort of operator they needed. The kind who copied the computer files before the assassination.

  But still, that didn’t make her girlfriend material. He wanted someone who didn’t risk everything for the job. Someone who didn’t lie and manipulate. Someone who wouldn’t sacrifice him.

  Someone who wouldn’t sacrifice herself.

  He scooted back, putting even more space between them. Honor was everything to him. He wouldn’t lie to her about where this was going. “I want to have sex with you, but there is no future for us when this is over, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Her eyes dimmed, showing the hurt he didn’t want to inflict. But what did he expect? He was rejecting her. Pain was inevitable.

  She cleared her throat. “I know you won’t ever be able to forgive me, and I understand that. I was terrible for not telling you. I just thought, maybe now that you know what Harry was, you’d at least understand.”

  “I do understand. And I do forgive you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?” Tears pooled. This was the real Freya, because there was no way Savannah James would show him tears.

  “Yeah. Really. I one hundred percent forgive you. But that doesn’t mean we can resume being lovers.” He was in full retreat. They both knew what they’d shared in Dar had been more than sex. That was the problem. “There is so much between us—we’re past the point of just being lovers. But that’s all I want from you. A screw and nothing more.”

  She rose from the bed and walked to the window, staring out across their view of grass and ruins.

  The pane was cracked but clean, and the light shone through. Everything about this place was run-down, disheveled. But clean. The caretakers of the hotel took pride in their work, maintaining a few rooms for the rare guest.

  Morning sun brought out pale streaks in her dark hair. Her skin glowed, but the bruise on her cheek remained in shadow, invisible as he took in her silhouette. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said, her gaze fixed outside.

  He would always remember this moment, how achingly beautiful she was, standing in the window, giving him words he didn’t deserve. He wanted to launch himself from the bed and take her in his arms, make love to her against the wall. But instead, he curled his hand into a fist and did the right thing. “That’s why I won’t have sex with you. Not when you want more than I’m willing to give.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  He rose from the bed and headed for the door. “I’m going to take a shower.” He needed to give her space and to get rid of his damned erection before he did something stupid.

  18

  They started as any tourist would and hired a driver to take them to the ruins of Mobutu’s palace. Freya packed the most important of their belongings—computer, backup batteries, mobile hotspot, burner cell, and satellite phone—into a backpack that was designed to carry and conceal the precious electronics.

  Cal packed their cash and other goodies into his own pack, leaving the camping gear behind. They planned to return to this hotel, and it would be odd if they set out with everything they owned on their backs. From here on out, they would keep the most important of their supplies with them at all times, within reason.

  Their driver offered to be their guide through the city. They accepted his offer to drive them around for the day, but passed on his offer of accompanying them into the various attractions they would visit to act as translator. Cal gave this response in Lingala, and the driver lit up, surprised and happy to have found a long-lost son of Congo, as he put it.

  The two men spoke in Lingala for the fifteen-minute drive to the ruins in Kawele, their voices cheerful, as if they were old friends. Watching Cal and the driver interact was utterly charming. He smiled and laughed, and she knew that even though he had a fake name and fake career, this was the real man. This was congenial, easygoing Sergeant First Class Cassius Callahan. At Camp Citron, he was everyone’s best friend.

  Even when Pax and Bastian were at odds, Cal remained close to both without prejudice. That was the man she’d been attracted to upon their first meeting, and the man he’d never been with her, much to her disappointment.

  Everyone viewed her as cold and remote, while Cal was the exact opposite. She’d been warm and outgoing before her parents died. After that, it was her drive that got her through day after day. Freya, the girl who’d had dreams of being a wildlife biologist, had faded as a new, harder, colder woman emerged.

  Somehow, Cal managed to be the driven soldier and hard, cool operator without losing his warm nature. After hours, he could laugh and joke with his team, but in the field, he was the quiet professional who got shit done.

  Cal might be who she wished she could be, but she knew it was too late for her. She didn’t know how to drop her guard.

  Well, except with him.

  She felt no shame or regret in admitting she was falling in love with him. It was the first time in her life she’d ever used those words, and she was glad she’d had the courage to say them, even though it just gave him ano
ther reason to push her away. They could die on this mission. She wouldn’t die regretting the things she hadn’t said.

  She also knew he cared about her. It might not be love, but he cared enough to be honest about the fact that sex between them was more than he could handle, an emotional bond he didn’t want. That eased the sting of rejection. A little. He didn’t push her away because he didn’t care; it was the opposite.

  She respected his honesty even as she ached with the loneliness of being with him, but not having him.

  They reached the palace, and the driver said in English, “It is a shame you can’t see the larger palace, but the military is using it to house soldiers. We don’t get many tourists in Kawele and Gbadolite. I think we would get more if people could see both of the palaces.”

  Freya figured it wasn’t the lack of sightseeing that was the problem so much as access, but the man did have a point. She viewed the overgrown driveway, hardly able to believe it had only been twenty years since Mobutu’s fall. These weren’t ancient ruins. This was lavish excess, enjoyed at the expense of the masses, dwindling into decay.

  She might be here on a covert mission, but she was just as eager as the next tourist to see the jungle reclaiming this monument to greed and kleptocracy.

  She opened the door to the ancient, battered car and studied the decaying brown-and-gold gate with a diamond motif both in the metal and the framing structure. Beyond the gate was a long, overgrown driveway. Their driver introduced a man waiting by the gate as the head of the village of Kawele.

  The village head smiled. “Admission is twenty dollars,” he said in English.

  As tempting as it was to pay more—these people had so little—it was unwise to draw attention as big spenders. She and Cal had discussed this before setting out, and he agreed to only pay the basic rate. Exchange complete, Cal then paid their driver to wait with the car for their return.

  The village head unlocked the gate and pushed it open. The hinges creaked, lending ambiance to the crumbling walls. They passed through the opening and entered the grounds. They weren’t alone as they walked down the long driveway. Children and adults dotted the ruins. Some, Freya presumed, were caretakers, while others were there to offer their service as guides.

  They reached a tunnel lined with rough red bricks, and on the other side could see the once-grand fountain that had greeted visitors in Mobutu’s heyday. The tiered fountain, styled after Versailles, had once played music. Now the giant basin was bone dry and home to a garden of weeds.

  An archway beckoned beyond the fountain, and it was there they were greeted by what must’ve been another fountain. Two lion statues stood sentry, but it was obvious two other lions were missing from their posts. The stonework and marble was cracked and chipped, with green shoots growing in the crevices.

  “Is it weird that I love this?” she said softly. She’d read enough articles about the place during their long drive to know most of the residents of Gbadolite and Kawele were upset with the decay. In this small pocket of Congo, they had lived well under Mobutu.

  But Mobutu had been a blight on this country, on his people. The list of his sins against the people of Congo was vast, and during it all, he lived in luxury in his Versailles, paid for with money that should have gone into education, health care, roads, telephones—even the most basic infrastructure would have saved and changed lives.

  “Not at all,” Cal said. “He gutted and robbed this country so he could build this monument to himself, and it didn’t survive him even a month after he was gone. This is his legacy, this decrepit waste. Not the grandeur.” He also spoke in low tones to avoid offending the locals.

  They walked down the corridor that led to what had once been Mobutu’s bedroom. Freya had read that he would show off his room by flicking a switch that triggered panels to slide apart and reveal his bed, which rose from the floor.

  While his people starved and children labored.

  They found the alcove where his bed had been, and she smiled to see nothing but green slime. Fitting.

  The palace was roofless. Gone were the paintings, chandeliers, stained glass, and Louis XIV furniture. The marble had been shattered or taken. There was now graffiti on the walls. Words in Lingala and French, which Cal translated. Drawings of people and animals. Symbols she didn’t understand.

  They explored the roofless rooms even as the sky opened up and rain began to fall. They left the interior to explore the no longer lavish pool that was built into many terraces. It must’ve been stunning once upon a time.

  As they explored the ground, she searched for a door or cellar entrance. Anything that could be an entrance to the tunnels beneath. Information online had been scant as to the extent of the tunnels, but Mobutu had bragged about his nuclear bunker and there was speculation that one tunnel crossed under the border into the Central African Republic, which was only about ten miles north.

  They’d agreed they wouldn’t ask about the tunnels right away—they’d wait to see if a tour was offered—but it appeared the bunker wasn’t part of the regular tour package.

  There were fewer people on the grounds now that the rain was picking up. If they wanted to question locals, they might need to come back later after the rain stopped.

  But there was one local who’d been shadowing them from the beginning who wasn’t deterred by rain: a young girl—she couldn’t be more than seven or eight—with big, beautiful eyes and gorgeous, springy curls.

  Freya offered her a smile and asked in English if she knew of a place they could get out of the rain.

  The girl frowned. “Lingala? Français?”

  Before Freya could repeat the question in French, Cal knelt down and spoke to her in Lingala. The girl lit up and nodded, then said something in response. She then looked around and smiled again, and spoke again.

  To Freya, Cal said, “I decided to be direct and asked if she knows how to get to the tunnels. You want to get out of the rain, and I heard there was a cool bunker. She said tourists aren’t really supposed to go underground, but since no one’s around, she’ll take us for ten dollars.

  Freya smiled. She’d forgotten they could be direct with a child—they weren’t likely to be suspicious at the question in the way adults would. She was so used to playing roles, she was overcomplicating something that was really quite simple.

  Cal paid the girl, who lit up at the ten-dollar bill. She led the way to a staircase to a lower terrace, and from there, they followed her down a path to a door that looked like it led into a lower level of the house that was cut into the hillside. If they’d circled this far, they’d have seen it for themselves. But it was better to have a guide. Especially when they learned the door was locked. The girl gave rapid instructions and then zipped around the side of the house, out of sight.

  “She said to wait here. There’s a small window she can crawl through, and she’ll unlock the door from the inside.”

  A moment later, the door opened, and there was the girl, all grins. They followed her into the dim vestibule. A long dark tunnel extended in one direction. On the opposite side was a short hall. Daylight filtered through, indicating it probably led to the window the girl had used. The girl led them into the hallway.

  The tourist in Freya wanted to explore for the fun of it. The operator was on full alert. They were in the basement that had to lead to the tunnels, thanks to this adorable little girl.

  The girl said something that made Cal smile.

  “What did she say?” Freya asked.

  “Your hair got flat in the rain.”

  Freya smiled. Her hair had gone from frizzy in the humidity to drowned rat when the skies opened up. She should have braided it this morning to keep it out of her face. She pulled back the damp strands as she knelt down to speak to the girl at eye level. “We can’t all be so lucky as to have curls that hold up in the rain.”

  The girl’s hair was absolutely beautiful. She wore it longer than many of the children Freya had seen in in the last few days, s
he’d noticed many trimmed closer to the scalp. This girl’s dark curls stood in vibrant clusters.

  “What is your name?” Freya asked in French.

  “Amelie.”

  Freya offered her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Amelie, I’m Sandy. Thank you for getting us out of the rain, even if it was too late to save my hair.”

  Amelie shook Freya’s hand and responded in French. “Would you like to see more of the tunnels?”

  “Very much,” Freya said. She nodded to Cal.

  He pulled out a twenty and offered it to Amelie. “In case you get in trouble for taking us down here,” he said in French for Freya’s benefit.

  The girl smiled and started to reach for the bill then stopped. “We don’t have light. The tunnels are very dark.”

  Freya pulled out her cell phone as Cal tucked the bill in Amelie’s hand and pulled out another phone. “Lead the way.”

  They followed the girl down the passage, the ground gently sloping downward as they went deeper into the earth. When they came to intersections, Freya noticed graffiti symbols above or next to different passages marked the way. Amelie led them down the corridors that were marked with a spiral and what looked like a number or hash sign, maybe. Tic-tac-toe? But the grid was a bit taller on the vertical. As they went deeper, a diamond shape with a cross through it—like a kite without a tail—appeared next to a few passages.

  Freya asked Amelie what the symbols meant.

  “Those are new,” she said, pointing to the kitelike symbol. “Mama says not to explore those passages without an adult.” She smiled. “But today I am with adults.” They walked farther down the corridor and came to another archway, where she pointed to a circular spiral and the hash sign. “Those are our friends. You never get lost if you follow the friendly circle.”