Firestorm

by Rachel Grant

  Afterward, she pulled on her clothes—they needed to sleep dressed and ready to run—and he pulled her back to his chest, spooning with her as they both dropped quickly into exhausted slumber.

  An hour after dawn, the barge set off downriver, heading toward Kinshasa. The vessel was overloaded with people—at least two hundred—most of whom had been on the boat from the outset in Kisangani. Near the back was a space for several goats and a few monkeys. Goods were crated and covered in tarps across the center of the deck. Items being shipped downriver included palm oil, grain, used clothing, and it looked like…two SUVs. Their own motorbike was among the cargo tucked under colorful tarps.

  The full voyage from Kisangani to Kinshasa often took three weeks or more. From where they’d joined, it could take ten to fourteen days to reach Kinshasa. Their plan, unless they learned something new on their days en route, was to disembark in Mbandaka. From there they would fly to Kinshasa or Brazzaville. The captain estimated they’d reach Mbandaka in five days.

  While it was a relief to be setting out from Lisala, that didn’t mean they were out of danger of being found. They’d be in constant contact with people from villages that dotted the river. Any pirogue that paddled up alongside the boat could be filled with Lubanga’s men, looking for a white American woman and her black American companion.

  But still, in spite of the concern, her heart beat with a sense of…adventure. A feeling far different from the adrenaline and fear that came from covert ops.

  This was the Congo of lore, the very heart of darkness written about nearly a hundred and twenty years ago by Joseph Conrad. Heart of Darkness had shown the wild river and the exploitation and cruelty inflicted upon the Congolese by Europeans wanting rubber and copper, at the time Congo’s most valuable resources. The river was largely unchanged in spite of all the technology that had come in the intervening years, and the exploitation and cruelty continued as well. Some was perpetrated by DRC’s own leaders, but behind it all lurked foreign businesses, having moved on from rubber to diamonds, cobalt, coltan, and so many other commodities.

  Yet the river remained unchanged. Untamed. The Inga dams were found between Kinshasa and the Atlantic. This part of the river flowed as freely as it had in Conrad’s day. As it had a hundred years before that, before Europeans invaded, colonized, took, and killed.

  A buzz of excitement coursed through her—similar to the buzz she felt being near Cal. But this was a different sort of attraction. This buzz was about being alive in this moment on an overloaded, noisy, crowded, smelly barge that was being pushed by a tugboat down the vast river of dreams.

  This was romance and adventure, in all its tarnished, dirty glory. There was one toilet on the barge—essentially a wooden box with a hole that dumped right into the river—and no beds or berths or anything resembling comfort. And yet she felt this vessel was the most magnificent thing she’d ever encountered.

  Burdened with cargo and teeming with people, the barge somehow managed to stay afloat. Some passengers made their home in the stacked goods, while the rest took up every square inch of open deck. She and Cal had been lucky to squeeze in. In Lingala, he’d sweet-talked a few passengers into scooting over to make room—although the money he slipped them probably won them over more than his words.

  They didn’t need to worry about food for the journey, as other passengers set up grills to cook fish and sell during the voyage, in addition to locals who would paddle up in pirogues to sell their wares.

  Painted in weathered letters on the side of the boat were the words “No Passengers” in French, but an entire economy had built up around this river journey, and the barge captains made much of their living from hauling people in addition to moving cargo.

  This was Congo. The real deal. Not the faded glory of Gbadolite. This was how the majority of Congolese lived, lives entwined with the river that gave them food, transportation, and commerce. Congo had mountains, a volcano, rainforests, jungles, and a small stretch of Atlantic coast, but arguably the most defining feature was the vast river that ran through it all. Nearly three thousand miles long, stretching almost all the way across the thousand-mile expanse of the country.

  The Congo River was a story of twos and second place. The river crossed the equator twice. It was the second-longest river in Africa—the Nile was the longest—and had the second-highest water flow of any river in the world, edged out by the Amazon in South America. Two national capitals were situated on the river—Kinshasa and Brazzaville. It had two names: the Congo River and the Zaire River. And it flowed through the Congo rainforest, the second largest rainforest area in the world—the largest being the Amazon rainforest.

  She’d read all these facts back at Camp Citron in preparation for the journey. But she’d never really expected to catch a ride on the river. She hadn’t even expected they’d enter DRC.

  “You like this,” Cal said with a grin.

  “I freaking love it,” she said, grinning back.

  “Me too. My mom told me so many stories about the river when I was growing up, and still, the first time I saw the rapids—the crazy ones near Kinshasa—I was stunned. And out here, the way the river has a gazillion tributaries and islands… From above, it looks like a tangled mass of yarn—it’s beautiful. Powerful. Wild.” His mouth curved. “Like you.”

  His fingers entwined with hers, the only public display of affection they could share on this very public barge. “Although I have a feeling the novelty will wear off when we’re trying to sleep tonight if we can’t camp on shore. Or waiting in line to use the toilet when someone has dysentery.”

  “True.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, wishing she could kiss him. “But right now, this is the only place in the world I want to be.”

  He leaned against the stacked bags of grain that would be their backrests for the next several days. “Me too,” he repeated.

  Later, she’d get on the computer and continue combing through the files she’d gotten from Lubanga and the new ones she’d grabbed during their raid in Gbadolite, but for now, she wanted to take in this experience. The conversations of their fellow passengers, the smell of fish being grilled on braziers, the gentle flow of the river and the various channels that were divided up by dozens of islands.

  Loud, stinky, crammed, dilapidated, and sweltering in the morning sun, the barge was utterly glorious. Cal struck up a conversation with a fellow passenger in French, learning the man was heading to Kinshasa in hopes of finding work. Other travelers were hauling grain or other goods to Mbandaka to sell. They’d catch another barge going upriver to Kisangani.

  Some would sell their wares to the pirogues that rode up to the boat each day, traveling for only a short period before returning home. Selling from barges was their job. They weren’t going to a destination; they were on a floating market.

  Cal purchased fish for breakfast. They ate while walking down the barge, meeting other travelers, looking at the various items for sale. A diamond with a cross through it—the kite symbol they’d seen in the tunnels in Gbadolite—caught Freya’s eye. She nudged Cal and indicated the crate marked with the symbol.

  He lifted the tarp to reveal more of the crate, but there were no other markings. He turned to a passenger and asked about the symbol in French. “I’ve seen that before. Do you know what it is?”

  A young man of about twenty shrugged, but a woman who traveled with a small child answered. “It’s the symbol for the Mission School. It’s probably supplies for the students.”

  The symbol they’d seen in the tunnels were for Fitzsimmons’s school? He was more involved with Lubanga than they’d realized. “The Mission School?” Freya asked.

  “It’s a boarding school near Mbandaka,” the woman said. “Funded by some big American preacher. They have electricity. Computers for every child.”

  Cal studied the woman’s toddler. “You want your daughter to go there?”

  She beamed, touching the little girl’s pretty, kinky hair. “Yes. She
will be a doctor. Or she can be a teacher and come back to our village and teach us all. I will read. Taught by my own daughter.”

  Freya’s eyes teared at the fierceness in the woman’s voice. So few had a chance at an education here. And Abel Fitzsimmons was exploiting that need, probably to mine fucking diamonds.

  “I haven’t heard of this school. How long has it been operating?”

  “A year. Maybe more? We just learned of it in our village about six months ago, when missionaries came through to recruit children. Two kids were the right age and passed the tests, so they were chosen.”

  “How old were they?”

  “Nine and ten.”

  Freya felt bile rise. Nine years old. Was that the prime age for placer mining? Old enough to work, too young to fight? Fitzsimmons was preying upon people’s dreams for their children.

  They returned to their spot on the barge, and she pulled out her computer. Her excitement over the voyage was gone as the reality of why she was here had settled in. Break time was over. It was time to take these motherfuckers down.

  25

  If it was near Mbandaka, Cal’s best guess was the school was southeast, maybe near the Ruki River, which flowed into the Congo at Mbandaka. It was still a large area to cover, but they had a starting point. Cal stared at the map Freya showed him on the computer. Situated on the equator, there weren’t a lot of roads in the area. Just a lot of jungle and swamp forests.

  They might not be able to find it, because sure as hell if what they suspected was true, no one was going to offer up tours to visit the “school.”

  “Is there anyone at the CIA you can reach out to?” he asked. “Get your side of the story out? You need to tell someone about the money.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that too. There are a few analysts who might listen. And maybe the case officer in Djibouti, but they might be too removed from Langley to be able to help.”

  “You mean Kaylea Halpert,” Cal said. He knew he was right about Kaylea.

  Freya laughed. “I really can’t say.”

  “It’s totally Kaylea. I saw her with you at Barely North that one time. You’re comfortable with her in a way you aren’t with most people. I’m guessing some of those nights you aren’t on base, you’re hanging with her in Djibouti City.”

  She smiled. “I like Kaylea. She doesn’t take crap from anyone.”

  “Probably because she’s CIA.”

  Freya rolled her eyes.

  “Email your contacts and Kaylea,” Cal said. “Tell them about the drums. Give them the URL for the tracker. Tell them about the money. Harry. Everything.”

  She nodded. “I need to write up a report first. Organize my thoughts. We’ll only have one shot at this. It could compromise our location.”

  “It’s a risk we have to take.”

  “They could just as well think I’ve gone off the deep end. Seth will probably say the money I recovered is to cover my tracks. A hundred and fifty million remains lost.”

  “But the”—he glanced up, again ensuring none of the other passengers were paying attention to them—“cake we found should count for something.”

  “Only if Lubanga’s men recover it, and it moves, giving them something to track.”

  “I need to call SOCOM.” They hadn’t discussed this, but it was long past time he checked in. He braced for argument.

  She surprised him by nodding. “Pax or Bastian, though. Not Major Haverfeld or Captain Oswald.”

  “I can’t ask Pax or Bastian to withhold information from command. It would be a shitty thing to do to them.”

  “I know. They won’t withhold anything, you just won’t make direct contact until we know your status with SOCOM.”

  That was fair. Cal needed to know if he was a wanted man. He also needed to inform them Freya had recovered most of the money she’d been accused of stealing.

  He grabbed the satellite phone from his pack. She eyed the phone, and he handed it to her. She inspected it, then popped open the back, finding the empty battery slot. She grinned and said, “God, I love how in tune we are.”

  His heart had kicked up a beat, but then settled in as she finished her sentence. Had he hoped she’d say something else?

  He couldn’t deny he had feelings for her. He just didn’t know what they were and really didn’t want to analyze them. This was a wild adventure in Congo. A separate reality.

  He cared about Freya Lange. Probably more than he wanted to admit. But he didn’t exactly see a future for them. He had to ask himself, would he feel this way about her in the real world, when the adrenaline faded? Or was this all about the rush and energy of the mission?

  Were either of them even capable of stability when confronted with mundane home life? He reached into his pack for the battery. It was a problem for another day. “I figured they planned to track us with the phone.”

  “I’m sure they did.” She frowned. “You might want to ask if Seth suggested it.”

  He nodded, handing her the battery. “It’s possible. I was issued the phone just an hour before we departed. I think Olsen met with my XO that morning.”

  “He did.” She ran a hand over her face, wincing. “He insisted I give him your service file.” She wrinkled her nose. She really had a perfect nose, even red from the sun. And the scrapes on her face from their bushwhacking yesterday didn’t diminish her appeal any either. “Seth knows everything about you.”

  This wasn’t news—he’d suspected as much—but the full meaning sank in, kicking away flowery thoughts of noses and lips and other tangents best ignored. Freya wasn’t the only target here. He was in just as deep.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  He shrugged. This was exactly where he wanted—and needed—to be. He might not like every step of the journey, but he was still grateful to be here. “We’ll fix this.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Sure it is. Seth Olsen might’ve fucked with my reputation, but sure as shit I’m going to destroy him.”

  “God, you’re hot when you talk that way.”

  He smiled, wishing they weren’t on a barge surrounded by a couple hundred people. “And you’re hot when you breathe.” This morning, she’d washed with powdered soap and a bucket of rainwater. Her skin smelled of soap and rain and river and sultry heat.

  He’d always preferred the seasons in Northern Virginia over the thick, seasonless air of central Africa. But the way the heat embraced everything, the way she looked with a fine sheen of sweat on her flushed skin, he was revising his opinion.

  His gaze landed on the phone again. “Camp Citron will get our location when I call. Are you prepared for that? They could tell the CIA.”

  Cal got along well with the brass, which could help them both here. He was a good soldier who did his job well and without complaint. When Pax and Bastian had been at each other’s throats, he’d been the buffer that kept the team running smoothly, and his XO knew it.

  But it was still a chain of command, and higher-ups didn’t know him as well, nor were they likely to give a shit if there was even a whisper that Cal was on the take. And this was damn well more than a whisper.

  “Write your report for the CIA,” he said. “Let me read it, then I’ll figure out exactly what I’m going to say to Pax. We want to make sure the truth is out there before we reveal our location, in case SOCOM doesn’t believe me and they contact Olsen.”

  “Good plan.”

  Rain started to fall, and they set up a tarp to shade the computer from the drops while she worked. The patter on the tarp reminded him of the week he’d spent in South Sudan last month, when a deluge had destroyed the roads in a matter of hours. Savannah James had never been far from his mind during the South Sudan mission—partly because he’d sought her help in rescuing a few kids, but there’d been more to it even then.

  Now he’d had a taste of her, and the last thing he wanted was to eject her from his mind. But the underlying fear of just who and what she was rem
ained. Freya Lange would risk anything—and anyone—for the mission. He used to fear that meant she’d sacrifice him, but now that was the least of his concerns. The person who needed the most protection from Freya was Freya herself.

  The barge hit a sandbar six hours after leaving Lisala. Some passengers groaned and griped, but most simply shrugged it off. Delay when traveling was part of life here. After two hours of the tugboat attempting to work the barge free, the captain announced they would stay for the night. Another tugboat was on its way downriver and would help free them the following day.

  Freya was low on battery power, and the captain agreed to let her recharge. Fortunately, she had a separate charger and battery and didn’t need to leave her computer in the wheelhouse.

  They decided to sleep on the shore and paid a local to take them ashore in her pirogue. The dugout canoe was narrow and long, and in the heat of the day, the splash of the water over the sides was welcome.

  A third of the passengers opted to sleep on land, and a mini-village sprang up in the tall grasses that lined the river. The rain had stopped, and Freya and Cal chose where to pitch their tent, picking a place that was close enough to the others to feel safe, but far enough to offer privacy.

  It didn’t take long before braziers were set up on the bank and fresh-caught fish was sizzling over coals. Food wasn’t a problem, and Freya had already found a favorite donut maker, having enjoyed one for lunch earlier in the day.

  She let Cal set up the tent on his own as she walked through the makeshift village. Several goats were grazing in the grass, but the monkeys remained caged on the barge.

  She scanned the bags, tents, and tarps for the kite symbol, wondering if anyone traveling with them was headed for what they believed to be a school, or if any travelers worked for the ministry.

  She didn’t see the symbol on anyone’s belongings. She bought grilled fish and more donuts and returned to Cal and their tent.