by Rachel Grant
After a moment, she gasped.
She stepped back from the screen and slapped a hand over her mouth. Her face had gone pale. Her eyes were wide with shock. “I’m so sorry, Cal. So sorry.”
He frowned and moved closer to the computer. “What’s going on?”
“So fucking sorry.”
He took another step toward the computer, dread prickling up his spine. He tilted the screen back to read from above. “Oh my God.”
“I’m sorry. Seth, he insisted on reading your service file. He must’ve seen your dad’s name, and it rang a bell. My guess is…the CIA had files on your mom from before she moved to the US. In the eighties, they must’ve visited the village where she grew up and tracked her siblings.”
Cal stumbled backward as horror settled in. After everything his aunts and uncles had been through during the Second Congo War, now they had to face this.
He read the text on the screen again. It was, essentially, a ransom demand. Presumably from Lubanga.
At noon, two days from now, Freya Lange and Sergeant Cassius Callahan were to deliver the USB drive containing three hundred and fifty million dollars to Cal’s mother’s childhood village. If they didn’t show up, FDLR rebels would kill every man, woman, and child in the village. Starting with Cal’s Aunt Patrice and her ten-year-old son, Samuel.
31
“How the fuck did Lubanga get this email address?” Cal’s question was more of a shout.
Freya paced the small hotel room, her mind racing. “My confession that I killed Harry was a wild card. Seth must’ve been brought into the loop. He saw the email, got the address, and gave it to Lubanga.”
It had to be Lubanga who’d sent the email. The man wanted his money back, and he’d found the perfect set of hostages in CIA files. Cal’s family.
It was all her fault. She’d brought him into this.
They couldn’t give a would-be dictator three hundred and fifty million dollars so he could fund his army and seize Congo, but she also couldn’t let an entire village of men, women, and children die.
She didn’t doubt for a minute that Lubanga would follow through. He threatened to use génocidaires. Terrorists. Killing children was in the name.
“I’m so sorry, Cal.” She whispered the words this time. They didn’t help. She knew that. But they were how she felt.
“It’s not your fault, Freya.”
“But it is. I’m the one who dragged you into this mission. None of this would have happened if I’d just gone with Harry like Seth wanted.”
“You’d probably be dead in that scenario.”
She shrugged. “Your cousins would be safe.”
“Yeah, but no one would have found the yellowcake. Or the kids and the mine. Those kids will be saved. Thanks to us. Because we came here together.”
He was trying to absolve her, but it wouldn’t work. A tear rolled down her cheek. She swiped it away. “How many people live in the village?”
“What are we doing, ranking to decide who it’s better to save? The kids or the village?”
“How many?” she repeated.
“I don’t know. Two hundred? Maybe more. We can save them.”
“We can’t! We’re only two people. For all we know, Lubanga has an entire army.”
“Yeah, but he can’t pay them,” he said.
“They won’t know that until after they slaughter everyone in the town. This is a no-win situation. We can’t save the village, we can’t give Lubanga the money.”
“It’s a trap. We know it’s a trap. Lubanga knows it’s a trap. We will step into it anyway.”
“You said to me in Lisala, ‘Running headfirst into a trap is suicide, no matter how much you think you can beat it.’ You feel differently now?”
“We won’t run headfirst. We’ll plan carefully and escape before the jaws snap shut.” He pulled her into her arms. “Listen, I’m going to call my XO and give him this latest development. You’re going to start tracing that email and see if you can prove it originated with Lubanga.”
She nodded, because what else could she do? One foot in front of the other, even when you were walking toward a trap. She pulled Cal’s head down and kissed him, sliding her tongue inside. She needed this intimacy with him.
After all, in two days, they were going to die.
Cal hung up the call. Freya had forwarded the email, and they’d taken turns on the phone with Major Haverfeld and Captain Oswald, coming up with a plan. The village was to the south, between Mbandaka and Kinshasa. North of the Kwa River, it was situated on the edge of an unnamed jungle and fed by a tributary of the Kwa.
Remote and isolated, it had been a mining town until the collapse that had killed Cal’s grandfather. Nearly two decades later, mining resumed, and two of his aunts and one of his uncles returned to their childhood village, escaping Kinshasa at the same time the population was mushrooming in the decline of Mobutu’s reign. They lived there still with their families. Twelve first cousins and three first cousins once removed plus his aunts, uncle, and their spouses all lived in the village, along with over two hundred more men, women, and children he wasn’t related to by blood or marriage.
He stared at the map, trying to figure out the best way to protect the village. The original mine, the one that collapsed, had been hard rock. The modern mining operation was an open pit mine. SOCOM was working on getting updated satellite images.
It was obvious why they’d been given two days to get there. This was Congo, and there would be no flying in. Plus Lubanga had no idea where they were, how far they’d have to travel. He’d probably gambled that they were close enough to get there in two days, knowing that if they were in Kisangani or somewhere farther, they’d do whatever it took to get a flight to Kinshasa to reach the village in time.
The man needed the physical USB disk, and once he attacked the village, he’d shot his wad. So he’d given Cal and Freya time to get there—but not so much they’d have backup support from Camp Citron. Those two days also meant Lubanga had time to amass an army to contain the hostages.
It would be impossible for Cal and Freya to arrive more than a few hours early. Not without a helicopter. SOCOM couldn’t get that sort of authorization without going up the line, and the CIA was in the way. They couldn’t show their hand to the enemy within.
Basically, they were fucked. They had a few hours to plan and prepare and would set out just before dawn.
He thought about his mother, imagined her waking up in her home in Arlington, Virginia. The house where Cal had grown up, the oldest of three rambunctious boys. She would make her coffee, filling a mug his brother had painted when he was eight years old. She’d read the latest headlines on the iPad Cal had given her for Christmas years ago so they could FaceTime from anywhere when he was deployed.
She’d go about her day as if it were the same as any other, unaware her siblings and their children were in danger. Not knowing her oldest son was the cause.
He’d seen the worry lines on her face deepen during the First and Second Congo Wars. He knew the fear she’d felt for her mother and siblings. For their children. For a country she loved. He’d seen her cry when his cousins had been conscripted. He’d been ten and hadn’t known then about the rapes, the nightmare his aunt and other cousins had survived.
His mom worried about Cal when he was deployed. All mothers did. He didn’t want to think about what she’d go through if Cal failed her now.
He closed the computer and stood. He never considered failing, and now wasn’t the time to start.
Freya was cleaning one of the AKs.
Cal picked up a second AK and did the same. He was a weapons sergeant. He knew the ins and outs of weapons better than anyone on his team. “Three AKs aren’t enough.”
“We have our pistols. Knives. Five blow darts. Two gas pellets,” she said. The items were laid out on the coffee table in a neat row.
He studied the pathetic arsenal. “To take on an army.”
She shrug
ged. “We don’t know how many we’ll face.”
He wished they’d stolen guns from the camp last night, but that would have been noticed.
He and Freya discussed their approach. Cal had visited the village with his mother. He knew the layout. They weren’t without advantage there. She reminded him of this and channeled his focus, asking questions, pulling memories from his mind with just the right questions.
They came up with a plan to protect the children. It was far from ideal, but better than nothing.
They could do this. He and Freya made a formidable team.
He watched her as she prepped their packs for the coming journey. They had most of a night before they’d set out. Everything needed to finish recharging, and they could go faster if they traveled during the day. They had to take the road—there wasn’t enough time to bushwhack their way through the jungle on the bike—and at least during the day, they would blend with other travelers.
They had a few hours.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, something he’d watched her do a thousand times at Camp Citron, and each time, he’d imagined running his fingers through her hair, rubbing a lock between his fingers to see if it was as soft as it looked.
Now he’d had the chance to find out. Her hair was even finer than he’d realized. His fingers had slid through the soft straight strands easily. Like silk.
They had a few hours.
He took a deep breath, then words that had been on the edge of his consciousness for days slipped from his lips. “I love you.”
A frisson ran through Freya as she met his gaze. She had no trouble reading him now, and her heart squeezed to see that he meant it. She looked down, taking a deep breath. She’d accepted what she needed to do. He wasn’t making this easy.
He scooted across the floor toward her, took the pistol she’d been cleaning from her hand, and set it on the coffee table. He cupped her cheek and lifted her face, making her look at him. “I love you,” he repeated.
She smiled and kissed him, repeating his words back to him in her mind. Her kiss was urgent; his was slow and seductive.
She knew exactly what he was thinking. After all, she could read him now. They had time. A few hours at least. Then they would take off on a suicide mission. He planned a night to remember—except they wouldn’t live long enough to remember.
But she could make a different choice. One that didn’t include him or his family being sacrificed. One in which he would have decades more to live and remember this one night.
She wanted to sink into the seductive softness of his mouth, his touch, but her mind was on a different track, where she wanted to give him all the passion and fire she felt at once. Hard, fast. The intensity of a flash flood.
A month’s worth of rain in thirty minutes.
A lifetime’s worth of passion in one night.
Her tongue slid against his as her fingers slipped beneath his waistband. She wrapped her hand around his thick erection and stroked. His body quaked at her touch, and he let out a soft groan.
She didn’t waste a minute. She unzipped his fly and freed him from his boxer briefs. She scooted down his body and took him in her mouth. As she had in Dar, she lifted her gaze to his, watching him watch her go down on him.
He groaned as she took him deep. His eyes were soft and hot and beautiful brown orbs that she could stare into for hours. His cock was so hard, she let out a soft groan at the feel against her tongue, imagining how good he would feel inside her.
He ran his hand down her belly and under her waistband, into her panties. His fingers found her slick center and he groaned again. “You’re so wet for me.”
She ran her tongue over his cock and took him deep into her throat as he slid a finger inside her, then withdrew to stroke her clit with a wet fingertip.
She let out her own groan. He felt so good in her mouth while he touched her so intimately. It wouldn’t take much for her to come, but this memory needed to last him a lifetime.
She scooted back, moving out of his reach as she continued to go down on him. Then she released him and stood. “Strip,” she said as she began to undress herself.
He just lay there, watching, and she smiled, letting him enjoy the show. Naked, she stood before him, then she squeezed a breast, pinching the already erect nipple.
“Mine,” he said.
She nodded and squeezed the other one. Then she moved her fingers between her thighs and teased herself there as well.
“Also mine,” he said, sitting up and grabbing her ass, bringing her to his mouth.
She really loved this possessive side of him.
His tongue found her clitoris, and she bucked against him at the sharp jolt of pleasure. He slid two fingers inside as he licked her clit. She was so damn close to coming. She stepped back, moving out of his reach. “Strip,” she repeated.
This time he obeyed, and a moment later, his beautiful body was bared to her gaze. She drank in the view. All that dark skin and hard muscle. She remembered the hours she’d spent ogling him in the gym on base. “Mine,” she said with satisfaction.
He took his cock into his hand and stroked the shaft. “Yours,” he said.
She licked her lips. She wanted him in her mouth. She wanted him in her vagina. She just wanted, with an urgency that couldn’t be contained.
Cal took control. Rising to his feet, he scooped her up and made a beeline for the wall. His thickness slid deep inside her at the same moment her back pressed against the cool wall. She clenched around him at the raw pleasure of his invasion.
“I can’t count how many times I’ve fantasized about fucking you against a wall.” His words were hot and breathy. “In my CLU. In the gym. In your office. Hell, even in SOCOM headquarters.”
She’d had the same fantasies. “One time, you gave me a look during a meeting”—she gasped as he thrust deep—“and I completely forgot what your commander was talking about. He asked me a question, and I was fucking blank. I was so embarrassed.”
He didn’t let up on the thrusting even as he laughed. “I felt that way more than once. I had to stop looking at you at meetings.”
He gripped her ass and pulled out, then slid deep. His rhythm changed, and she lost the ability to think or speak. She kissed him as he nailed her against the wall. Her eyes were closed when her orgasm pulsed through her, but she forced them open, wanting to see Cal’s face as he came with the same intensity.
Hers. He was hers.
His orgasm ended, and he slumped against her, breathing heavily. She kissed his neck, memorizing the feel of his skin against her face. His hard body pressed to hers.
“I love you,” he said again, his breath now ragged.
His grip on her tightened as he straightened and then turned, carrying her to the couch. They both stretched out, and she lay drowsily against him. His hand stroked her back, then moved lower to cup her ass. She closed her eyes, letting herself have this one moment. She kissed his neck, rubbing her cheek against the coarse hair of his beard.
She tilted her head back and opened her eyes. Everything she’d ever wanted to see in his gaze was there before her. She kissed him again as she reached behind her to their supplies on the coffee table. Her fingers found what she was looking for, and she released his mouth.
“I love you too,” she said, then jabbed him with a tranq dart.
32
Cal’s head throbbed, and his eyelids were heavy. He was disoriented and a little nauseated. His tongue felt thick. Was he sick? He wanted to ask his CLUmate, Pax, if they’d bypassed the two-drink limit at Barely North, except he didn’t think he’d been at the club in days. Maybe weeks? He tried to open his eyes.
Tried. And failed.
Opening eyes shouldn’t take this much effort. He focused on it. Wanted to use a finger to push the lid up. But he couldn’t move his arms.
Sleep paralysis? No. He could move his fingers. Wiggle his toes. He could move his legs, but not separately.
Adrenaline
pumped into his system, and he managed to open his eyes. The room was pitch-black. But he could tell from the feel of the space, the quality of the light, he wasn’t in his CLU. He took a deep breath, and with the smell of the air—the scent of sex and tropical heat—it all came rushing back.
The hotel in Mbandaka. The threat to his family. Making love to Freya. Her last words before he’d gone lights out.
She must’ve tranquilized him with one of the fucking darts. He lay on his side, tucked into the couch. He shifted. He needed to go after her.
Fuck. She’d tied him up. His hands were bound in front of him and cinched with rope, elbows to waist. Legs were bound together. And shit, she’d tied his hands to his legs.
Dammit! She’d said, “I love you,” drugged him, and then trussed him like a pig.
She had to be heading south to deal with Lubanga on her own. Even through the haze of anger, his heart twisted. She was sacrificing herself to protect him. To protect his family.
Motherfucker. She was walking right into the trap with no intention of saving herself.
And tied up as he was, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
He rolled from the couch. She’d meant to delay him, not kill him. He’d be able to get free. Then he’d hunt her down and make her pay for this stunt.
Freya’s love affair with Congo was officially over. She was sick of the motorbike. Sick of the rutted, muddy track that passed for a road. Sick of the insects. Sick of the heat.
She would be content to never see another vine or leaf again.
And more than anything, she was sick of the rain, which had destroyed the road, fed the insects, made the heat somehow thicker—more cloying—and the motorbike impossible to maneuver.
A storm rolled in just hours after she’d set out, and the already impossible road turned to soup. She understood why so many rode the barges down the river, when this was the best going by land had to offer.
She had to marvel that Cal had never complained once about driving the bike in similar conditions—with her on the back to boot. She’d think the man was a saint except she knew for a fact he was all too human.