by Rachel Grant
“They found their guy. The woman is screaming that her husband is not a Hutu. At least, I think that’s what she’s saying. It’s a Bantu language, probably a Ruanda-Rundi dialect.”
The camp settled down. The block party atmosphere that had filled the impromptu village was lost, those who had been chatting by the river quieted, likely going to sleep.
“It’s too quiet for me to call Pax now,” Cal said. “In a few hours, when everyone’s deep asleep, I’ll hike down the riverbank and call him.”
It was a solid plan. Pax would be sleeping too—they were two hours behind Djibouti—but that could work in their favor, as he’d be alone in the CLU he usually shared with Cal.
Freya was as scared about reaching out to SOCOM as she was about the CIA. But not for herself. Right now, Cal’s career was Schrödinger’s cat. Until they called SOCOM, they could believe everything was okay. But once they learned the truth, he might never be able to forgive her for roping him into this nightmare of a mission.
27
Pax Blanchard jolted awake the moment his cell phone buzzed. Morgan knew not to call in the middle of the night—not when he was waiting to hear from Cal. So the call was either SOCOM or his missing CLUmate.
Caller ID showed him what he’d been hoping to see, and he jabbed at the Answer button. “Wassup?” he said, in case the caller wasn’t Cal. If someone had nabbed Cal’s phone and dialed a previously called number, he wouldn’t give anything away.
“Pax.” Cal’s voice. Strong. Firm.
Relief flooded through him. He hadn’t been this worried about a teammate since Bastian had gotten lost on the way to the rendezvous in South Sudan a month ago. And Cal was in an even more volatile situation—something that shouldn’t be possible, but here they were.
Most of his teammates were like brothers, but Cal was Pax’s best friend. He’d helped Pax hold it together when Morgan went missing and he didn’t judge when Pax nearly broke. “Jesus, man, I’ve been worried.”
“Yeah. Uh…sorry about that. It hasn’t really been possible to check in. Things really went to shit after the last time we talked.”
“Yeah. I know. That CIA agent you punched went missing in Dar es Salaam.”
“Shit. I was hoping that was quiet still.”
“It’s all over the news.”
“Motherfucker. Any mention of F—Savvy or me in the stories?”
“No. The official story is an American businessman went missing in Dar. Suspected Russian Bratva action related to Drugov. We know it was the CIA guy because the BBC and CNN posted his picture. We all saw him in Barely North. Definitely your guy.”
“The CIA probably tipped off the media to put pressure on Savvy.”
“What’s going on, Cal? What happened to the CIA prick?”
“He’s dead. Freya killed him when he tried to rape and kill her.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“How is…Freya?” Freya must be Savvy’s real name. What did it mean that Cal was defaulting to her real name now?
“Shit. Forget I called her that. Savvy is fine. She had some bruises, and she’s going to need a shit ton of therapy when this is all over, but she’s holding up like a champ. Really amazing, actually.”
And that answered Pax’s unasked question: Cal and Savvy were involved. He’d be happy for them—hell, they’d been circling each other for months—but right now, Savvy was wanted for treason, theft, and probably two dozen more serious crimes.
Christ, she’d killed a fellow CIA agent. How could this possibly end well for her?
“Be careful there, man.” Shitty advice, but it was all he had.
“Too late,” was Cal’s reply.
Pax wanted to be supportive. Really, he did. But fuck, what if Savvy was guilty? His gut said no, but she was CIA; she was highly trained to present a false image. He cleared his throat. “She’s wanted for the missing money. Major Haverfeld is going to bat for you, but you’re being pulled in.”
“I figured as much.” Cal went on to tell him about the night raid and Savvy recovering a large chunk of the cash and converting it to bitcoin.
Pax let out a low whistle. “So now you’ve got mercs on your ass?”
“There’s been no sign of a tail, but probably.”
Pax didn’t say what he was thinking, that Cal could save himself—and possibly Savvy—if he returned to Camp Citron without her. “Where are you now?”
“Can’t say. We’re trying to track down the location of the Mission School. I was kinda hoping you could do some research for us there. We need more info on Fitzsimmons and his alliance with Lubanga. And there’s this, uh…other thing. We found three barrels of yellowcake in the tunnel under Gbadolite.”
“The fuck?”
“Yeah. We hid the drums in the jungle—but they’ll probably be found soon. Savvy tagged one with a GPS tracker. I’m going to give you the URL to download the data and see if it’s being moved. She checked this afternoon, and it hasn’t moved yet.”
“You’ve had a busy week.”
Cal let out a grunt that was probably supposed to be a laugh. “Is SOCOM going to track this call?”
“Probably.”
“Tell them Savvy isn’t the enemy.”
“I will. I don’t know if they’re buying it, though. Seth Olsen is crucifying her, and knowing she killed a fellow agent…”
“We’re running down all the leads we can to figure out the connection between Olsen and Congo,” Cal said. “They’ll have to believe her if we can expose Olsen.”
“You think Olsen has something to do with the school and diamond mining?”
“Either that or he’s connected to Gorev and Lubanga. Olsen told Savvy to assassinate Lubanga. That’s a fact. We believe he gave Lubanga the mission code name along with Drugov’s half billion. Someone sent Harry to take her out—and Olsen is the only logical choice. My guess is she was getting too close to finding proof Olsen is dirty as she combed through Drugov’s files, and Olsen had to sabotage her.”
“Has she sent any of this info to the CIA?”
“Yeah, to a few analysts she trusts. We don’t know if it will do any good, but she needed to get her version of the story out somehow. Obviously, I’m telling you shit that’s classified. Stuff she can’t say to anyone except fellow Agency people.”
Pax understood what Cal meant. Savvy was keeping her oath of secrecy to the CIA, even as Seth Olsen was systematically destroying her. He was glad Cal wasn’t too scrupulous to remain quiet—but then, Cal’s oath was to the Army and his team, not CIA. He could talk, especially when he was under suspicion right along with Savvy.
“’Kay. I’ll talk to SOCOM. See if we can buy you a few more days. For what it’s worth. Captain Oswald is on your side.”
“See if you can keep him there.”
“Will do.” Pax hung up and stared at the phone. He needed to report this call to SOCOM. He’d landed in shit when he didn’t report right away that Cal had contacted him before. But he was worried. Seth Olsen was more powerful than any of them had guessed. SOCOM had wondered why Savvy operated with autonomy, and the answer was her direct supervisor.
But now the man had turned on her, and he was using all his power and influence to destroy her. It was clear Cal wouldn’t abandon her, which meant he’d go down too. Unless his A-Team could find a way to save them both.
Cal returned to the tent where Freya waited. He’d hated even the small distance that had been between them—they needed to watch each other’s backs—but they’d agreed someone should stay behind in the tent. The scare with the soldiers searching for a rebel had also underscored that they needed to remain alert at all times, especially now that Freya had emailed people within the CIA.
She’d used a VPN to hide their location when sending her email, but knowing the Agency would use all their considerable resources to break the VPN, they couldn’t count on their location remaining secret. Once the Agency realized they were on the river, they�
�d start searching for the barge. With so many islands and channels and barges, it wouldn’t be easy, but the risk remained.
He updated her on what Pax had said and encouraged her to go back to sleep. His sleep shift would start in two hours. One thing he liked about working with a professional, she didn’t argue. She just rolled over and dropped into sleep.
Two hours later, he woke her and took his turn, grabbing five hours before it was time to pack up and return to the barge. Fortunately, the second tugboat arrived an hour after dawn, and they were free of the sandbar by nine in the morning.
They settled into their spot on deck and noted the mood of the other passengers was muted after the previous night’s raid. No one appeared angry that a man had been removed from the group; the anger was focused on the man himself and the idea he might’ve been FDLR.
The génocidaires of Rwanda had destroyed so many lives; even the whisper of affiliation was enough to presume guilt. This central part of DRC didn’t see as much of the fighting and terrorism that plagued the eastern portion of the country, and locals would do anything to keep it that way.
Had the woman Freya spoke with yesterday been searching the camp for potential génocidaires? Had she reported the man who’d been taken away? Or had he been a genuine threat?
It was one problem Cal didn’t have time to worry about, yet he did. The future of DRC remained bleak until the people could get a grip on the government and end once and for all the conflict that had begun with the Rwandan genocide in 1994.
Much easier said than done.
These thoughts swirled in his mind as they were pushed down the river at a speed of about ten miles per hour. The deck of the barge roasted in the June heat. They were getting ever closer to the equator. The day was hot, around eighty-five degrees, but the sweltering air and flat metal deck made it feel much hotter.
The captain announced they would sail through the nights to make up for lost time after being stuck. Apparently, they were several days behind before that disaster. But then, what was behind when the supposedly ten-day journey from Kisangani to Kinshasa regularly took a month?
Not that Cal would complain that they wouldn’t camp on shore that night. They needed to get to Mbandaka as soon as possible. He and Freya were sleeping in shifts anyway, so he could give her both their spots to stretch out on, while he found a seat in the cargo and watched over the sleeping passengers.
She returned after a trip to the barge’s one toilet, her eyes lit with excitement.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
She leaned close and spoke in a whisper that would be hard to hear over the general noise of the crowded vessel. “I found more crates marked with the kite symbol. They’re clustered with other goods destined for Mbandaka. If we put a tracker on one of the crates, we can follow it.”
His excitement matched hers, but they were still at least three days out from the city on the equator. “Best to wait to tag the crates until an hour before we reach port, keep the battery fresh and us hidden in case the CIA hacks the URL.”
Freya had explained to him that she’d set up the URLs for all the trackers back at Camp Citron, but none had been activated until she planted the tracker in the yellowcake. Once she’d sent her contacts in the Agency the URL for the yellowcake tracker, they could potentially figure out the URLs for the other trackers in her possession. It wasn’t a certainty, but it was a risk. Which meant it was best not to activate a tracker they would remain close to any earlier than necessary.
She nodded. “Then all we have to do is follow the breadcrumbs to get the proof we need that whatever Fitzsimmons is funding, it’s not a school.”
At last they had a plan.
Now, if they could just avoid getting captured before reaching Mbandaka, they’d be home free.
Three days after being freed from the sandbar, Freya was officially tired of eating fish. She was also tired of both sun and rain, but not tired of the river itself. She loved the rocky islands and multiple channels, the jungle that hugged the bank. The small villages they passed and the pirogues that rode up alongside. The glimpse into the way of life remained fascinating, even if the travel itself was wearying.
This journey would forever stand out in her mind as one of the most amazing things she’d ever done—yet this was everyday life for many of her fellow travelers. Their strength in hardship had her in awe, and she wished to hell they hadn’t been forced by necessity to develop that strength.
Colonialism had been devastating to all of Africa, but Congo, having been claimed as the personal property of Belgium’s King Leopold, had suffered more than most—if one were to put a scale on atrocities. The world these people lived in was fully shaped by Leopold’s nightmarish reign, followed by a century of corrupt leaders. Twenty-first-century DRC wasn’t much better off than the twentieth-century version, but they were trying, and if foreign governments and businesses would stop interfering and do more to help, the country had the resources to grow and become a world power.
Twenty-four trillion dollars could buy a lot of infrastructure.
She leaned back against the cargo that was her backrest and watched life on the barge. A man played guitar while another drummed, and together, they played a lively Congolese rumba. A few children danced. Several passengers washed clothing, wringing the items out over the side of the vessel and laying them to dry on the tarps that covered cargo.
Because they’d been going nearly nonstop since being freed from the sandbar, the barge was scheduled to make port in Mbandaka some time in the coming night. They would disembark in the morning with the other passengers. She would plant a tracker on a crate an hour before dawn.
It was possible that tomorrow night, they would locate the “school” and get the evidence they needed to show that the televangelist was no Christian. Even if she never cleared her name, she would take comfort in knowing her work had freed enslaved children and brought down a false prophet.
Cal dropped into the open seat beside her and handed her a canteen. The water had been filtered with charcoal, boiled, and purified with tablets. It still might not be enough, but at least they had their antimalarials and antibiotics if an infection took hold. Sickness was an issue for several travelers, and Cal and Freya were more susceptible than most given that their immune systems hadn’t been in regular contact with river parasites over the years.
She took a long drink from the canteen. She’d been sweating so much in the heat, she needed to replace the water, even if it was risky. “Thanks,” she said.
His fingers entwined with hers, the only type of physical contact they’d had since they’d kissed in the tent. She was reminded of when he’d taken her hand on the flight from Camp Citron. A simple touch that had conveyed so much.
She’d lost track of the days since that flight. The miles traveled. The horrors witnessed. But she could remember every moment of that touch. Of the unfolding it had triggered in her heart. Of the hope it signified. And now his hand entwined with hers meant even more. He was with her for the long haul. He’d risked everything for her, to be by her side now.
He hadn’t known what he was risking when he first signed on for the mission, but he’d certainly known by the time they entered Congo. But still, he was here. And that meant everything.
She wouldn’t let this job destroy him. If only one of them could escape the trap of this mission, it would be Sergeant First Class Cassius Callahan.
28
The jungle around Mbandaka was exactly like the other jungles they’d explored, except this time, they had a beacon to follow. And an actual plan. Not to mention that for once, they had a good idea of what they’d find when they got there.
After disembarking with their packs and motorbike, they purchased breakfast from a street vendor and sat on the riverbank, eating as they watched crates being unloaded from the barge. Upstream, rusted riverboats—remnants of the colonial era—sat on the bank, a dead fleet.
If Freya were here as a tourist, sh
e’d take photos, and so she did, but then she returned her attention to the barge and continued snapping photos of the lone man who claimed the crates with the kite symbol. He loaded them into the back of a pickup truck, which also entered her photo library.
She checked the signal for the tracker on her computer. It was transmitting perfectly. To save battery power on the tiny device, it was set to update the location every thirty minutes. With the frequent transmission rate, the battery would last a few days at most.
The one she’d planted in the yellowcake had been set to transmit once every twelve hours, extending battery life to ten days or more. Half of those days had been used up now, but yesterday, there’d been movement. The drum had traveled a mile north before the signal was lost—likely because it was now inside the tunnel, where the transmitter couldn’t connect with satellites.
Cal left her by the river to fill the tank of the bike and the empty jerry cans, while Freya watched the truck with the crates. When the driver left the parked truck to visit a small grocery store, she followed him. She and Cal would need food, and she had no idea how long their next journey would take.
She purchased smoked fish, beef jerky, and a precious block of cheese. She added bread to the basket, and canned beans and vegetables. They had enough to last a few days, at least.
It was noon by the time the truck left town. As much as she feared letting the vehicle out of sight, she had to trust that technology wouldn’t let it disappear. Waiting for the next transmission had her sweating even more in the equatorial sun.
Relief settled in when the data came and included the full route the tracker had followed. It recorded everything. In the minutes since the truck had left the riverfront, it had traveled south two and a half miles and was now exactly on the equator. They would wait another thirty minutes for the next transmission before setting out. The bike could go much faster than the laden truck on the pitted dirt roads. They had to give the truck a solid head start so they wouldn’t be spotted following it.