Firestorm

by Rachel Grant

  Her eyes were lit with a warm light. “You did it.”

  He pulled her to his chest again. “We did it.”

  “So I want you to know, I lied about one thing when I asked you to do this op with me.”

  He raised a brow. “What’s that?”

  “You were absolutely my first choice.”

  36

  Five days later, Freya sat at her desk in SOCOM headquarters, feeling a little dazed as she stared at her computer screen. There’d been so much to sort through to figure out who was really to blame and who was guilty. This was a job she usually reveled in, but now she had no patience for it. Writing her account of the event with citations had been exhausting.

  They’d fished Seth out of the river, and his body had returned to Camp Citron on the Navy Osprey with the rest of the team. Lubanga’s body had been dragged off by his soldiers. The official story in Congo was that Jean Paul Lubanga had been raising an army for a coup but had been assassinated by one of his soldiers, a man who was really a spy for the FDLR.

  The assault on the village was left unmentioned. Not a single villager had been injured, and arrangements had been made to replace the supplies that had been used in their protection. The Congolese military had sent in several trucks to remove bodies and debris from the jungle across the river, erasing all evidence of the assembled army.

  The men who had joined Lubanga’s forces were on the run, wanted for treason, the situation in Congo contained.

  Freya’s situation was also contained…for the most part. The CIA had initially wanted to haul her in to one of their secret prisons for interrogation, but Major Haverfeld—bless the man—went to bat for her and said SOCOM had suspected Olsen of dirty dealing for some time and had asked her to trace the leads found in Drugov’s files to look for Olsen’s fingerprints.

  It wasn’t exactly how it happened, but close enough, and it was a springboard for the truth to come out. With SOCOM behind her and the evidence in video, bitcoin, and uranium—which had been recovered from the Central African Republic three days ago—she had been cleared for the most part. A few loose ends remained that would take months to tie at this point, but she wouldn’t spend that time in jail as it was sorted out.

  She’d learned, to her great relief, that Seth had been operating on his own. The CIA had explored the possibility of supporting Lubanga’s bid for power—thanks to intel provided by Seth—but had rejected the Congolese minister as being too volatile. No kill order had been issued. As far as those higher up in the Directorate of Operations knew, Freya’s mission was to copy Lubanga’s hard drive, which she’d done.

  Seth Olsen and Harrison Evers had their own side deal going on, and the answers to why were in Drugov’s files. Seth had been owned by Russia for some time. In the midnineties, he’d screwed up an op and revealed the identities of two Americans working undercover in Moscow. The operators had been killed, and that was all the leverage Nikolai Drugov needed to blackmail him.

  As far as they’d been able to piece together from Seth’s communications, when Drugov died, JJ Prime went running to Radimir Gorev—and brought with him files he’d swiped from Drugov—files that included proof of Drugov’s blackmail of Seth. When that happened, Seth gained a new Russian master.

  When Freya proposed going after Lubanga’s computer, it offered a perfect opportunity for Seth to deliver a payment to his new master while also getting rid of Freya before she uncovered his treason.

  The Reverend Abel Fitzsimmons was facing intense questioning by the FBI back home. The day after the showdown by the river—before word could leak that Lubanga was dead—a team of SEALs had descended on the uranium mine and freed the children.

  Fitzsimmons was clinging to his story that the money he sent to Drugov and Lubanga had been charitable donations, but given that the former had been attempting genocide and the latter had funded uranium mining, and Freya had copied communications between Fitzsimmons and Lubanga, he wasn’t likely to escape justice.

  There was still a lot left to sort out, but the picture was becoming clear. The best and brightest at the CIA would do a deep dive into the files she’d gotten from Lubanga and Drugov, along with Seth’s communications. The FBI would scrutinize Fitzsimmons. The FBI would also examine Lubanga’s intention to dump money into accounts for the US attorney general and a US senator. Freya had managed to find evidence in Drugov’s files that he’d actively pursued compromising the attorney general because his Justice Department was aggressively prosecuting Bratva along with investigating Drugov and Prime Energy’s oil price fixing. She had already spoken with AG Dominick on the phone and would likely meet him in person in the coming months.

  She’d done all she could from here. At this point, she was out. Done. She’d contributed to the takedown of Drugov, Lubanga, and Olsen. Hell, she’d even found dirt on JJ Prime, who was currently being held in Tanzania and awaiting extradition to the US.

  She was proud of her work for the CIA and greatly relieved to know they hadn’t supported Lubanga, as Seth had claimed, but at the same time, she was done. Burned out. After what she’d gone through as Seth’s protégé, she couldn’t see going back to the job.

  Much as she knew it wasn’t the CIA’s fault, the fact that he’d been unchecked in his manipulation for so long was disturbing. How could she trust anyone there—except Kaylea—again? How many other women had been victimized by Seth and Harry? So far, one other woman had come forward. Freya suspected there would be more.

  She sat at the desk and stared at her computer. A person’s life could change in a moment. She’d experienced it at seventeen, when a bomb went off in a market in Greece, and she’d lost her brother, father, and mother. People lost families to car accidents, house fires. Illness. Mass shootings.

  She looked up at the picture of the CIA memorial wall and thought of her Uncle James.

  There were a million ways to die.

  But now it was time for Freya to live. For herself, not for a cause.

  She took a deep breath and typed the words she’d been fighting since she’d been assaulted in a motel room in Savannah, Georgia.

  Dear Director of the Directorate of Operations,

  I quit.

  Sincerely,

  Freya Lange

  She hit Send, not giving herself a moment to dither over wording. To question the wisdom of this action. She had money in savings. She could last a few months.

  And Cal and his team were scheduled to fly home at the end of the week. Their deployment was over. Camp Citron wouldn’t be the same without the Green Beret who’d caught her attention in her first days on this job.

  There was nothing for her here. Not anymore.

  She closed her laptop and stood. She snatched the picture of the memorial wall on her way out the door.

  Epilogue

  Kentucky

  One month later

  Girls’ night out. Freya had enjoyed a few of those in college, but even then, she’d been an outsider. Morgan and Brie, on the other hand, had both perfected the art of girlfriend bonding and were determined to teach her the nuances of female friendship.

  It was interesting because the women were so different. Morgan was open and friendly. A blonde bombshell comfortable in her own skin. She didn’t view other women as a threat, although Freya could tell she’d been stung in the past by women who took one look at her and cast her as a villain. Or dumb bimbo. But Dr. Morgan Adler was neither of those, and past experience hadn’t closed her off to friendship.

  Brie was different. A different kind of pretty. A different kind of friendly. Slightly more reserved—but then, Freya knew well why she held herself back from others—but she was skilled at superficial friendship. She knew how to hang with the girls and have fun. She was learning to open up more. Be herself with people.

  Freya didn’t fit with either of them, but they’d reached out to her in friendship when she’d chosen to move to Kentucky to be with Cassius, and one thing Freya needed in this world was friends
.

  Tonight, they were at a bar for girls’ night, and Freya was enjoying every moment. She’d been this girl once, before her family died. She’d had friends. She’d crushed on boys and dreamed of being Jane Goodall.

  She wasn’t sure about the Jane Goodall part, but the rest… She could be that girl again. Woman now, but the headspace was similar.

  Their waiter delivered their second round of drinks—soda for Brie, beer for Morgan, vodka martini for Freya—when Ripley’s wife, Amira, arrived. “Sorry I’m late. The sitter had the wrong date on her calendar and I had to scramble to find another one because damn but I need a night out tonight.”

  The team was off on a multiday overnight training thing, which had been the inspiration for girls’ night out, and it had been natural to include Amira, who’d spent the months the team had been deployed as a single mother to her and Ripley’s three children. Their son was eight, and they had two daughters, five and three. The eight-year-old was prone to night terrors—especially when his dad was deployed—and if anyone needed a night out, it was Amira Ripley.

  Amira was gorgeous with long, thick dark hair, big brown eyes, ample curves, and warm brown skin. She had a big laugh that made every room feel a little brighter.

  The waiter delivered Amira’s drink and announced that some guy at the bar had picked up their tab. They declined as a group. They were not here to play a pickup game, but the waiter said it had already been paid.

  Freya felt a tingle in the back of her neck. “The guys are here,” she said, standing and scanning the room.

  “They can’t be. They’re off playing commando or something,” Brie said.

  “No. They’re definitely here.”

  The song changed, and Freya recognized the opening drums to the song “Africa” by Toto. She smiled and waited. With the same uncanny ability they had of being invisible in the jungle, the men somehow materialized, stepping from behind and between patrons of the packed nightclub. It was as if they’d been vapor, but now they’d taken human form.

  “Wow,” Morgan said as Pax stepped up behind her and kissed her neck. “How do you do that?”

  “It’s a skill,” he answered.

  “Not you. Freya. She knew you all were here.”

  Freya laughed at Pax’s disappointment that Morgan hadn’t been impressed by his trick, but she gave an honest answer. “I can always feel when Cal’s near. Plus…” She nodded to the speaker in the ceiling. “The song.”

  “Told you the song would give us away,” Bastian said.

  “You knew before the song,” Brie pointed out at the same time.

  Cal grinned down at her, and her heart did that fluttery thing. “Will you dance with me?”

  She nodded. They’d never danced before. It was fitting that this song should be the first.

  The others followed. They were the only four couples on the dance floor. It wasn’t really a dancing sort of place when there wasn’t live music playing. But she didn’t care. She was in Cal’s arms. And it was sweet seeing how Amira glowed as she looked up at her husband of ten years.

  Freya returned her attention to the man holding her and knew she was emitting a similar glow. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you would be gone for another day at least.”

  “We finished up early. Decided it would be fun to surprise you. But if you want your ladies’ night, we can go. I just wanted this one dance.”

  “Stay. I’m sure the others feel the same.” There were plenty of girls’ nights in the future, when the men would be deployed again. Now that they were all back from Djibouti, none of them wanted to waste a moment of their time together.

  She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of being pressed against him. The beat rose, and the chorus swelled, and she was in Cassius’s arms, and she still had no idea what she was going to do with her life, but right now, she was in the only place she wanted to be.

  The song ended, but they stayed on the dance floor. She held him close and breathed him in. A song by George Michael came on, and Cal said, “Bastian picked that one.”

  She smiled. “Brie said he got the dates cleared for their wedding. Is the whole team going to get the week off?”

  “Yes. Just got it approved today.”

  “Good.” Bastian’s grandmother—an Elder in his tribe—was ill and had requested that Bastian and Brie have their wedding early. Initially, they’d intended to get married next spring, but with his grandmother’s request, they’d been scrambling to arrange for the wedding to take place in one month. Once they’d decided to marry, when didn’t matter.

  Most of Brie’s friends lived in the Seattle area, and the reservation where the ceremony would be held was on the Olympic Peninsula, so travel wasn’t a problem for most of the guests. The main problem had been making sure the team could be there. Bastian had asked Cal to be his best man.

  “I can’t wait to see you in your dress uniform.” She grinned.

  “And I can’t wait to dance with you at the wedding.” He pulled her closer. “When you’re ready, I’m going to ask you to marry me.”

  “I know. And when that happens, I’ll say yes.” They’d agreed to put off talk of marriage until after she figured out what came next. She had months of sorting through issues with the CIA after more than a decade of classified work. She wanted to be free of all the legal complications before binding him to her.

  The song ended, and all four couples returned to their table.

  Morgan was practically bouncing with excitement now that Pax was here. She’d been crushed when the multiday training had been announced just as they were settling in at home.

  “So…since we’re all here,” Morgan said, “there’s something I wanted to talk to you all about.” Morgan had been hinting there was something big in the works. This must be it.

  “My dad…he’s doing his usual meddling and sent me a request for proposal he happened to notice.”

  “No,” Pax said before she could continue, but he laughed, showing it was a joke.

  Everyone knew Morgan had issues with her father. Things were better, but it was a long road to true reconciliation. It would take years and a lot of work to rebuild their relationship.

  “Yeah,” Morgan said. “You aren’t going to like it.”

  “Then no. For real this time.”

  She covered his hand with hers and squeezed. “So you know how during World War II, the Army sent out a group of guys to track down and recover art and artifacts stolen by Nazis?”

  “No,” Pax repeated. “I mean, yes, I know. And no, I don’t like where this is going.”

  “Syria,” she continued, “as you all know, has a big problem with antiquities theft. Smuggling. It’s all funding terrorism, and the Army—”

  “Yeah. Definitely not. You aren’t an operator.”

  Morgan smiled. “But Freya is.”

  Beside Freya, Cal stiffened, but he didn’t voice objections like Pax. Pax’s objections were valid. Cal’s objections, if he had any, would not be.

  Morgan shrugged. “Basically, the Army put out a request for proposal for some analysis of what’s been stolen, what’s been destroyed, who’s buying and who’s selling. It’s similar to the work I’ve been doing with the professor at William & Mary. My dad thinks I should submit a proposal. They might send some experts in with a team of Delta operators or something as protection, to track the trafficking, identify the dealers. Find the buyers. The sale of antiquities is funding terrorism. If they can stop the money flow, it will weaken the organizations.” She looked at Freya. “Isn’t that what you were doing in Congo? Interrupting the money flow?”

  “You want to go to Syria?” Pax asked, his face lit with horror.

  “No. Not me. I’m too noticeable. But my company could do the training necessary for the person who does go. And it’s more likely to be Turkey and Iraq.” She mumbled both country names, probably knowing Pax wouldn’t find it that comforting.

  “I’d probably work the Europ
ean end,” she continued. “Many of the artifacts are ending up in the hands of wealthy European collectors. Anyway, I’m thinking of submitting a proposal, but Freya, I’d need you on my team. And Brie, your experience with USAID would be helpful too. They’re infiltrating aid organizations. And…the foundation you’re starting is likely to be a target of terrorism. Your cause is education for girls…and that’s exactly the type of thing ISIS and similar groups wish to stop.” She turned to Amira. “I’ve got a job for you too.”

  “No,” Ripley said, “One of us in a hot zone is enough. The kids—”

  “It’s right here in Kentucky. I need you for translation work and your mad computer skills.”

  Amira was fluent in Arabic—her parents were Syrian immigrants—and she worked from home as a software engineer. Freya didn’t know when the woman slept with three small kids, a thirty-hour-a-week job, and a husband who’d been deployed for months. Amira leaned forward. “Sounds interesting. How many hours per week?”

  “If I get the contract, only a few at the start.”

  Morgan glanced around the table. “It’ll take months for the Army to award the contract, and if I do get it, it could take months more before it really gets going.” She looked at Pax. “I have no plans, ever, to go into a war zone. But I can’t make the same promise about Freya.” She met Freya’s gaze. “I need to know if you’re interested or if I should find someone else with your unique set of skills. There’s no need to answer tonight. I just want you to think about it.”

  “You want to form a team of Monuments Women?” she asked.

  Morgan smiled. “In a sense, yes.”

  Freya sat back and looked at Cal. She knew her work for the CIA had terrified him. This wouldn’t be much better. Worse, actually, because it could involve going undercover in Syria, Turkey, Iraq, Yemen, and who knows where else.

  But it wasn’t CIA, and it was still work to stop terrorism.