Firestorm

by Rachel Grant

He’d stripped off his shirt in the heat, and she paused to look at his muscular back, her belly doing that fluttery thing it had done from the first time she’d seen him shirtless in the gym. She knew plenty of buff guys in the military and CIA. Cal was more muscular than some, less than others. She’d reacted to the other men too, but Cal was the only one who continued to trigger the flutter months after their first meeting.

  With most men, the attraction went away as she got to know them. Not that she didn’t like them. Pax, Bastian, and Lieutenant Randall Fallon—a particularly handsome Navy SEAL—were all fine men inside and out. But Fallon didn’t make her belly twist. And she’d lost interest in Pax and Bastian long before Morgan and Brie came along. There were a few Delta Force operators she’d worked with who she’d been initially attracted to, and at least one who’d been interested in her, but she’d built a working relationship with them based on respect. The attraction couldn’t be acted upon and had quickly faded.

  Not so with Cal. Never with Cal. It had always been front and center, no matter how inconvenient. No matter how much he disliked her.

  But then, that might be why it hadn’t faded. He’d been a challenge. Except that didn’t make sense, because there were plenty who didn’t like her on Camp Citron, including handsome SEALs and Delta Force operators.

  “Your husband is a handsome man,” a woman said in French-accented English.

  Freya turned to her with a smile. “I am very lucky.”

  The woman frowned. “He is not…” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “FDLR?”

  The woman referred to one of the last factions of Rwandan génocidaires still active in the Congo, Forces démocratiques de libération du Rwanda, or the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda, in English. While she’d known Cal’s military bearing could raise questions, this one was alarming. “Oh no. He’s not a rebel. He’s American. We’re here on vacation.”

  “But he is a soldier. Yes?”

  She nodded. “Former military. Again, American, not Rwandan. We’ve never been to Rwanda.”

  “Some Americans have joined the fighting. Especially men like him, who have family from here.”

  “His family is from Congo. Not Rwanda. He’s not a militant. He’s showing me his mother’s country. That’s all.” Knowing people would see how much she worked on the computer and they’d note they had satellite phones and other expensive technology, yet traveled on a barge, she added, “I’m a travel writer, writing about Congo for an American magazine. We’ve always wanted to take this trip, so I pitched it to my boss. And here we are.” She cocked her head at the woman, who looked to be in her midthirties. “Would you be willing to be interviewed for the article?”

  The woman took a step back, giving her a suspicious, but not hostile, look. “What do you want to know?”

  Freya didn’t quite recognize her accent, but given the woman’s concerns, she took a guess. “Are you from Rwanda? Were you a refugee?”

  The woman’s eyes darkened, and she nodded. “Yes. When I was a child.”

  So this woman had survived the Rwandan genocide only to find herself in Congo for the First and Second Congo Wars. No wonder she feared Cal was part of a group intent on continuing a war that had officially ended in 2003.

  Freya knew the stats. Nine African countries had fought in the Second Congo War. The war and its aftermath caused over five million deaths—most due to famine and disease—making it the deadliest conflict worldwide since World War II.

  Some considered the Second Congo War to be the Third World War, given the scale and loss of life.

  “I promise you, my husband isn’t with FDLR. He loves this country.” She glanced toward the woman’s family, who had set up camp nearby. “Are your children missing school while you’re traveling?”

  “That’s why we’re on the river. We’re going to Kinshasa, so the children can go to school. Our village has no school.”

  “I heard there’s a Mission School near Mbandaka. They have computers for all the students.” She hated saying this. The last thing in the world she wanted was for anyone to send their children to this “school,” but she needed information.

  The woman made a face. “Rubbish. Kids go to that school, but they don’t come back.”

  It was a relief to know word of mouth was protecting some children, at least. And by the time she left Congo, the school would be shut down for all time, preventing more children from being sent into slavery by hopeful families who wanted nothing more than an education for their children.

  Freya thanked the woman and asked if she could interview her the following day. The woman nodded with another suspicious look in Cal’s direction, but she seemed to have accepted he wasn’t a génocidaire.

  Freya approached Cal, holding out the fresh grilled fish and donuts she’d purchased. “I got us dinner,” she said.

  He took the fish, and she dropped down on a square of tarp he’d set out to protect them from the wet ground. He joined her on the mat. “What were you talking about?” he asked quietly.

  “She’s concerned you might be FDLR.” She relayed everything she’d learned between bites of fish. She had a feeling by the time this journey was over, she’d be less enthused about eating fish. But she’d never get tired of donuts.

  “I wonder how many kids have been sent to the school,” Cal said.

  “I doubt we’ll ever know. It’s not like families will be able to step forward and be counted when there is no news, no radio, no decent flow of information into some villages.”

  “One of my mother’s sisters moved to Kisangani in the nineties. Two of my cousins were conscripted during the Second Congo War,” Cal said. “My aunt doesn’t know what happened to them. They were boys. Close to my age.” He looked down at the ground. “My aunt and her daughters were raped when the men came and took her boys. Gang raped. One soldier after another.”

  The eastern part of Congo had been named the rape capital of the world. Stories like this were why.

  “My cousins,” Cal continued, “could still be alive. They could be part of the same rebel group that took them. They could have committed similar atrocities on other families. My aunt doesn’t know what she would prefer—that her beautiful boys are still alive but have become monsters, or that they died in battle before their minds were warped.” He lifted his head and met Freya’s gaze. “What a horrible choice—to wish your children were dead so they aren’t living monsters.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” she said. And she couldn’t. It was too much. A turmoil that went so far beyond the losses she’d faced. And what they were doing here, it had nothing to do with Cal’s aunt or the Second Congo War. But they were looking to stop a dictator who was trafficking in yellowcake that could well start the Third Congo or Third World War.

  There was that.

  They finished eating and then retreated into the tent. They needed to go over her write-up for the CIA analysts, and he needed to plan his call to Pax. The tent gave them a thin layer of privacy, but it was hot inside. Hotter than being on the barge in the midday sun.

  Cal was shirtless, and Freya considered going topless as well, but that would feel weird. She didn’t sit around and do work half-naked, unless it was an op like on Gorev’s boat, and then she was too focused on her role to give a crap how dressed or undressed she was.

  But still, she appreciated Cal’s bare chest. “I keep thinking I must’ve imagined how sculpted you are, but then I see you again, and I practically swallow my tongue. You have an amazing body, Cassius.”

  His eyes flared with heat. They’d been professional all day, keeping their distance as required by custom in Congo, but now they had walls, even if they were paper-thin.

  He leaned over and dropped a kiss on her neck. “I love it when you use my real name. No one outside of my family calls me Cassius anymore.” He spoke softly. His deep voice sounded like her favorite dark chocolate tasted, smooth, sweet, with a hint of tang. “It feels intimate. Different.”

>   It surprised her that he wasn’t steering the conversation away from intimacy, but rather toward it. “Why did your parents name you Cassius?”

  “Not long after my mom moved to Kinshasa, Muhammad Ali and George Foreman fought the Rumble in the Jungle there. It was a pivotal event in her life, coming right after losing her dad in a mining accident, and it was pivotal for Kinshasa and Zaire.” Cal looked down. “She was thirteen and grieving, and largely responsible for her eight younger siblings while her mother worked. She says she idolized Ali, even before he won the fight—both men trained in Kinshasa for months in preparation, and Ali’s bluster played well with the locals.” He smiled. “She doesn’t even like boxing. But she loved Muhammad Ali. Anyway, when I was born, she wanted to name me after him for his triumph over adversity. For the activist and pacifist who’d refused the draft and had to literally fight his way back to the top.

  “But she was raised a Christian, so naming me Muhammad wouldn’t work. My father suggested Cassius, his original name. Ali called Cassius Clay his slave name, but they both figured that was more the surname Clay than his given name, Cassius, so it wouldn’t be disrespectful to honor him that way.” He shrugged. “Plus they both liked the name.”

  “Do you like the name Cassius?”

  “I do. As a kid, teachers called me Cassius and friends called me Cash. But the military only uses last names, and Cal was a natural, easy shortening, so Cassius and Cash faded away. I don’t mind being called Cal, but I like hearing my real name from you, because then there’s no mistaking that we’re playing roles. It’s not part of the op. It’s Freya and Cassius.” He ran a finger over her lips. “When I’m inside you, I’m Cassius, not Mani or Charlie or whatever name I’m supposed to be using. And you’re Freya. Only Freya.”

  Her heart pounded at his touch. Was he saying this was more than a fling for him? Had they entered relationship territory?

  She hadn’t attempted a relationship since being hired by the CIA when she graduated college. Relationships were near impossible in her line of work. Not to mention the security clearance needed for the men she dated to pass muster. Of course, Cal already had that clearance, and he knew exactly what she was. There would be no hurdles but the job—a job she probably wouldn’t have once this op was over.

  That brought up another question: who would she be without the CIA?

  She had scant few friends and only distant relatives for family.

  She tended to hold back from people, to maintain a protective reserve. It saved heartache when she had to manipulate them, like she had Brie Stewart.

  Brie was a good person. An aid worker devoted to helping people in dire need. But Brie would never have talked to Savannah James about her family like she would to Bastian. And the CIA had no other way of gathering intelligence on JJ Prime because he was an American citizen. So Savvy had used Bastian to get to Brie, and then she’d sent the woman on a mission that could well have gotten the aid worker killed. Brie wasn’t trained—not even in the way Morgan Adler had been. Sending Brie to Morocco had been a huge risk, and Savvy knew it.

  Deep down, she’d been sick about it. But she’d never dared show her feelings to anyone in SOCOM.

  And then there was Morgan. Savvy genuinely liked Morgan. She was brains, beauty, energy, and fire. She was fun and bold and genuine in a way Savannah James couldn’t be. It had been damn fascinating to watch the woman bring Master Sergeant Pax Blanchard to his knees. Freya had howled with laughter when she realized the tracker going off in the middle of the night meant Morgan had finally gotten Pax into her bed. Hell, she’d wanted to ask the woman how she did it, because the only attention Cal would give her was negative.

  Of course, she knew there hadn’t been any feminine sorcery on Morgan’s part in reeling Pax in—it had been a simple case of two people who were meant to be together. Pure chemistry.

  She’d held back from Morgan, not engaging in the girl talk she’d always longed for, but not because Morgan couldn’t help her with Cal. No, her reason was much more basic. Morgan was in danger, and Savvy couldn’t bear the thought of losing a friend.

  She’d walled off her heart on her eighteenth birthday because she didn’t know of any other way to cope. Her relatives had been relieved she was a legal adult with an inheritance large enough to afford college and a place to live. No one had to take her in. So no one did.

  She’d told herself she wanted it that way, and eventually, she came to believe it.

  Now here she was, sharing a tent and a mission with the man she feared she was falling in love with, and he was saying this crazy thing between them meant something to him too. But she was afraid to hope. Afraid to open up that last closed-off corner of her heart.

  Because if Cassius left her—by choice or by accident—she doubted she’d ever recover.

  She grabbed her computer from her pack. “We need to go over my write-up for the CIA.”

  He gave her a look. “What just happened there? Your face went through a whole series of expressions. Did I upset you?”

  She shook her head. “No.” She wanted to say more but couldn’t really find the words. He hadn’t said he wanted a relationship. He just said he liked being inside her. But she’d known that already. She’d gone off on a tangent in her mind that they didn’t have time for.

  Cal stared at her for a long moment, then reached for the computer. “Let me read your report.”

  “The money section is a little tricky. I was honest about everything, but damn, even I think I look guilty when I read it.” She rubbed her arms, feeling a chill in the sweltering tent. Just the memory of the shock she’d felt in the tunnel set her heart racing.

  Her mentor had pinned a mind-bogglingly massive theft on her, ensuring not only that Russian Mafia would be after her, but that no one in the CIA would ever trust her. Shoot to kill. And she was sending this information right back to the CIA. Reaching out could be her death warrant.

  “If only I’d known about the theft before we entered Congo. The fact that we ran after dumping Harry’s body… It only makes it all worse. Maybe if I’d contacted Langley then—”

  “How would that have changed anything?” There was an edge to his voice.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But maybe, if I didn’t immediately flee, they’d believe me about the money.” She met his gaze. Her belly rolled, this time not in a good way, not the fluttering of a few moments ago.

  Her superpower was reading people. She knew when the intel she was getting was solid and when it was bullshit. She knew how to connect dots.

  For all the wrong reasons, she’d been trying to read Cassius Callahan since the moment they met. Because of those wrong reasons, she hadn’t been able to decipher his body language. But over the course of this op, she’d finally cracked his code. Or so she’d thought. But now she realized in her haze after their fight in Dar, she’d missed something. She’d had a hint back at the Airbnb, after he returned with groceries, when he’d asked her what she’d done, but that tidbit had been buried in her mind after she’d killed Harry.

  But now she could read him like a bulleted list and froze as the truth washed through her. “You sonofabitch.” The words were a low whisper. She covered her mouth, holding in a moan of betrayal.

  His eyes widened. Guilt clouded his features. It might as well be a sign announcing his confession.

  “You knew. This whole time you knew about the theft of Drugov’s money.” Hurt kicked her in the gut, followed by rage. He’d known.

  “Not the whole time—”

  “Since Dar. Since the Airbnb. You fucking knew. And you didn’t say a goddamn word.”

  “I didn’t know if it was true at first—”

  “Convenient. And what is your excuse now?”

  “You were fragile, and we had a mission—”

  “Fragile? I’m fucking fragile?” She kept her voice quiet, even though she wanted to shriek. She was the goddamned queen of control. “Since when? Since I infiltrated an oligarch’s
cabal? Successfully fought off a rapist and would-be murderer? Since I hacked a system and stole back over three hundred million dollars?”

  She fixed her gaze on him, letting him see the fire in her eyes. “I have strength you can’t even begin to understand. Fighting Harry was horrible, but it didn’t break me. If anything, I’m stronger.”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “In one way, at least, Seth was right about making Savannah my name. Reliving the nightmare every time it was invoked did make me stronger. I’ve been forged from steel and honed by fire. As I said before, I can do everything you can do, backward and in high heels. So don’t give me your condescending bullshit to justify leaving me in the dark.”

  The grass-colored tent gave Cal’s dark skin a greenish cast. It was too bad it was just a trick of the light. She wanted him to feel as sick as she did.

  He’d known.

  “Was it revenge? Because I held back information from you, you had to do the same to me? What else haven’t you told me?”

  Something like guilt washed over his features. “Please, Freya. I’m not that petty or that much of an ass. I was honestly worried. About you. About what it would do to you to know that Seth’s betrayal went even further. I was going to tell you after our reconnaissance of the tunnels. But then you found out on your own.”

  “You’ve had plenty of opportunity to confess since we left the tunnel, but you didn’t have enough respect for me to speak up.”

  She’d thought it would hurt when he left her. She’d had no idea it could hurt even more to have him by her side and know he didn’t trust her.

  Had all his pretty words been a lie to keep her close? Maybe she didn’t know him at all.

  She wanted to flee their tent and set off on her own, but regardless of how he felt about her, at this point, there was no escape. They were stuck together.

  26

  Freya sat in the tiny tent, head high, spine ramrod straight. She was strength and beauty, and every word she’d said was true. Looking at her now, Cal had to wonder how he’d convinced himself she would break with the news of Seth’s never-ending betrayal.