“Necessary or expedient?” Lelia was finally able to ask. “When have I ever failed to do what was necessary? You haven't had so much as a hangnail on my watch.” Even as the words left her mouth, Lelia realized that his actions had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with flexing his muscles. Laritrea had only briefly emerged from colonialism before it was plunged into a lengthy civil war. It was already a wealthy country due to its oil reserves, and she realized that the rumors about the minerals must be true as well. In this part of the world, being known as a strong man was crucial, especially when you ruled a wealthy country. There were always others who would take it from you if you showed the least bit of weakness. He'd wanted to demonstrate his power, and it had cost her the lives of five of her soldiers.
“Tell me, Colonel.” Lelia struggled to keep her voice even. “Why didn't you insist that I take all my soldiers with me?”
“I was going to, but once I realized you were only leaving green recruits, I changed my mind. They were not a danger to my operation. Besides, their deaths would substantiate my story. Everyone knows how much I like my Guard. No one would believe I would deliberately risk their lives.” He shrugged again. “You're a professional, Sergeant. Surely you understand collateral damage.”
It took every bit of military training she possessed to resist the urge to strangle him with her bare hands. Collateral damage? One of her soldiers had been only fifteen years old. She forced her hands to relax from the clenched position they had assumed in anticipation of crushing the life right out of his throat. She turned to leave the room while she could still maintain her self-control. Colonel al-Fariq immediately rose to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
Lelia rubbed her forehead. Despite several hours' sleep, she was still exhausted, and the effort it took to restrain herself had drained her scant reserves of energy. More than anything she wanted to go back to her room and call the one person who would understand: Patrick. Still keeping her back to al-Fariq, she responded.
“Back to the barracks, sir.” She sighed. “My resignation will be on your desk in the morning.”
“Come now, Assad. You know I cannot allow you to leave. If word of any of this gets out, I'll have an uprising on my hands.”
Lelia almost commented on the irony of his statement but decided it wasn't worth the bother. Instead, she turned to face him. “You know I'll never reveal what was discussed here. Despite my own feelings, this country still needs you. I will not see it plunged back into civil war.” While this was the proper thing to say, Lelia also knew it was the literal truth. Of course, his proclivity for eliminating any political rival left the country without any alternatives. There was no one else to take his place. The country would devolve again into factions over petty squabbles. Resources that should be directed toward health care and education would be squandered on weapons and death. Another generation would be lost like her parents'. She doubted the country could survive another such cataclysm; it had nearly perished in the last one. And back then it hadn't possessed the material wealth she suspected it had now. Laritrea, which was gradually becoming a powerful nation, would be just another failed postcolonial African republic. Another victim of the resource curse.
She held her arms out as his soldiers entered the room. Pride kept her from flinching when the cold metal of the handcuffs bit into her wrists. She never lowered her eyes, refusing to break eye contact with him as the soldiers led her away.
Chapter Eight
“What the fuck do you mean she's disappeared?” Patrick sat up on the edge of his bunk. Since Lelia's return to Laritrea, they'd managed to speak only a few times. Text messaging had been more consistent, but now, after not hearing from her for nearly a week, he'd finally succumbed to gut-wrenching fear and called Astaria.
“We're all fairly certain that the Colonel had her arrested, but he hasn't announced it,” Astaria said. “No one's seen her since she went to brief him about the coup attempt.”
“I don't get it. I thought y'all put the coup down. Why would he have her arrested?” Patrick asked.
For a moment all he heard was Astaria's long exhalation through the phone. “I don't know how secure this line is.”
“Right now I don't give a shit.”
“Understood, but presumably you do give a shit about Lelia's life.”
Patrick didn't bother to respond to such an absurd statement. “Tell me what you can tell me then.” He listened as she gave him what he suspected was a very sanitized version of what had occurred. “Goddamnit! Why did you let her meet with him alone?” he roared.
“Have you ever tried to stop Lelia from doing something she wants to do? I've seen less stubborn mountain goats that were definitely more charming,” Astaria snapped back.
Patrick nodded as though she could see him, forced to acknowledge she did have a good point. After all, they wouldn't even be having this conversation if Lelia weren't so determined to do the right thing. He could say one thing about that girl: she didn't push worth a damn. It was one of her more lovable traits. He listened as Astaria continued with barely concealed impatience.
“She insisted on talking to him about it. Said it was a matter of honor. I didn't find out until later that he'd sent his regular Guard contingent back to the barracks. I probably would've gone over to the palace anyway had I known that.”
Patrick closed his eyes, struggling against the fear that had sunk deep into his gut. “Do you think she's…?” He shook his head, refusing to even contemplate the unthinkable. “Does he have her locked up somewhere?”
“That's what we think. Lelia's too high profile to just disappear. He's got to account for it somehow.”
“What do you think he plans to do?”
“I'm not sure speculation would help, especially on an unsecured line,” Astaria hedged.
“Best guess, Astaria. You know this guy. What's he going to do?” Why was it that talking to this woman made him wanted to bang his head on something hard? Most members of the Guard made him feel that way. They must have learned that particular trait from their leader. He took a deep breath as he waited for Astaria's answer. When it finally came, he almost wished she'd maintained her silence.
“I think he'll try her for treason. Pin the coup on her.”
Patrick closed his eyes. Treason was never a good charge, and in a country run by a strong man like al-Fariq… He knew for sure he didn't want the answer to his next question. “And the penalty?”
“Capital punishment was banned years ago, but she wouldn't be the first to lose her head since then.”
“Jesus.”
“Precisely,” Astaria replied.
“I'll be there in twenty-four hours.”
“To do what? You don't even know where she's being held.”
“Do you?”
“We have our suspicions, but I won't discuss that on an open line. It's been unusually hard to gather intelligence. That was our first clue that he plans to kill her and not just lock her up for a while to teach her a lesson.”
“Wait for me, Astaria,” Patrick said.
“We don't have much time. Besides, what can you do that we can't?”
“I can bring the Marines.”
* * *
Lelia lay on the hard bunk of her sparsely furnished cell. She'd been there for a week and already knew every crack in the concrete ceiling that complemented the concrete floor that was accented by the concrete walls. The desert heat radiated in the six- by-six-foot enclosure like a brick oven, which probably explained why she felt as though she was being braised in her own perspiration.
Accustomed as she was to being busy almost every moment of the day, the long, endless hours of nothingness were probably the worst aspect of imprisonment. Memories of her all-too-brief time with Patrick replayed in her mind in a continuous loop, leaving her aching and bereft of his touch. She feared his response after not hearing from her for several days. She just hoped the Marines wouldn't be storming the beache
s anytime soon. All they needed was an American national mixed up in this, and they'd have an international incident of epic proportions.
How the hell did this happen? Pure rage surged over her entire body as she recalled the night the Colonel had her arrested. She wondered—not for the first time—if she should have resisted. Even with four soldiers, her chances had still been pretty good. They didn't train as diligently as the Amazonian Guard did. At the time, though, she'd been so angry, she refused to give al-Fariq the satisfaction of seeing her struggle and possibly lose. Now she was grateful that she hadn't fought. More than anything she'd feared her Guard getting involved, which would only have given him an excuse to incarcerate them as well. Five deaths were already more than her conscience could bear.
Despite the results, she knew she wouldn't have done anything differently. Astaria had begged her to simply ignore what al-Fariq had done, but try as she might, she couldn't bring herself to do it. He'd murdered her soldiers. Bitter tears seared her eyes as she repeated the mantra she'd been reciting for years. There's no one else. There's no one else. The prospect of a return to the horrors of a never-ending civil war still loomed over the country.
Al-Fariq was a past master of political intrigue, but she suspected he'd miscalculated this time. He should have killed her the night he had her arrested. Then he could've claimed it had happened as a result of the coup. He had a habit of making his enemies disappear, but he'd missed that window of opportunity. Now there had to be a trial, and even a show trial was risky in this political climate. With deadly certainty, she knew that as long as there was breath in her body, every soldier she had would come for her. She'd trained them to be relentless, and they exceeded her expectations at every turn.
She knew just as well that Patrick would be with them. Astaria would understand why having him here was such a bad idea, but she knew her friend was pragmatic to a fault. If having his assistance would help liberate Lelia, Astaria wouldn't care if the whole country went up in flames. Lelia shuddered at that visual.
She banged her head back on the hard bunk in frustration. Al-Fariq had committed himself to this course and couldn't change now without losing face. Lelia shuddered at the apocalyptic vision. That would mean nothing less than all-out war.
* * *
“They're not going to help, McBride.”
Patrick stopped pacing, turning to face the woman who had been his puppet master for most of his military career. She'd culled him early for her special details, operations that could never be acknowledged publicly, and his ambition had allowed him to become her favorite go-to guy. “What do you mean they're not going to help?”
“I've called in every marker I have.” Colonel Brown quoted her State Department contact, “It's not in the United States' interests to interfere in the internal matters of a sovereign nation.” She pursed her lips, then muttered under her breath, “Especially when that sovereign nation has oil and strategic minerals out the ass.”
“They're going to cut her fucking head off!”
“I understand that, McBride.” Colonel Brown leaned back in her oversize office chair. With her petite frame, she should've looked absurd against its massive dimensions. Instead, it merely enhanced her majestic presence. “This is a personal matter, Marine,” she said, not unkindly. “No one is willing to create an international incident over it”—she shrugged—“and frankly, I agree with them.” She held her hands up in supplication when Patrick turned toward her with a ferocious snarl. “If we do anything official, we have to own it. On the other hand, who can be held accountable for the actions of a love-struck marine?”
Patrick stared down at her for a long moment as understanding dawned slowly in his sleep-deprived mind. Plausible deniability could be crucial in these critical times and might even help his situation. After all, if the government denied something had happened, he could hardly be prosecuted for it. Getting into Laritrea and leaving with Lelia would probably mean violating a half dozen laws and at least one international treaty. And those were only the ones he could think of off the top of his head. The State Department could probably recite a few dozen more, which was why it was best not to have them involved. Their hands-off policy, though designed to cover their own asses, was actually quite liberating. He began pacing again. “I'll need Stark.”
“I assumed as much.”
“I'll need transport there, matériel, and the floor plans to all his palaces and anywhere else he might imprison someone.” He gave her a pointed look. “I assume we have intelligence.” He paused in his pacing.
She nodded. In the morning sunlight streaming through her office window, her closely cropped Afro radiated around her well-shaped head like a crown. “I don't know how reliable it is, but I got the best we have.”
He stared at her for a long moment, struck by her regal pose. No wonder she acts like a queen. She certainly looked the part. “It'll have to do.” She didn't respond, so he started pacing again, ticking crucial points off on his fingers. “I'll need a passport and visa, plus a green card. I don't want any shit from INS and DHS when I come back here with an Arab national.”
Colonel Brown's eyes widened. “You're bringing her here?”
“What did you think I planned to do? Drop her off in the ocean?”
She sighed. “You don't ask for much, do you? INS shouldn't be a problem, but you know what those dickheads over at Homeland Security are going to say.”
Patrick's expression made it clear that he didn't give a damn about her logistical problems. “I've done your dirt for years, Colonel. This is the first time I've ever asked for anything in return.”
Colonel Brown pursed her lips. “True. It'll take some work, but she'll have the necessary clearances.” She gave him a pointed look. “This is going to cost. A lot.”
Patrick nodded. “I never thought otherwise,” he said, knowing that he'd just sold his soul to Satan herself. “Now, I know you have a plan. Why don't you share it with me?” Colonel Brown loved nothing more than strategy, and he knew this operation could benefit from her expertise.
Her grin lit up her golden brown face. “Thought you'd never ask, gunny. Thought you'd never ask.”
* * *
Patrick dumped the last shovelful of ice into the hold, then shuddered at the screeching sound the door made as he slammed it shut. Stark, leaning on his shovel, shook his head at his friend. “Man, I can't believe we actually paid money to do this.”
Patrick inclined his head in the direction of the boat's captain. “His boat, his rules.” He took a similar pose as his friend. “Besides, I'd rather be busy. Makes the time go faster.” Getting into Laritrea without a passport or visa could've been quite difficult. Fortunately, Colonel Brown had low friends in high places—or at least the US government did. The alleged fishing vessel had picked them up off the coast of Italy. They would make the trip over the Mediterranean disguised as crew.
Stark gave him a sympathetic look. “I'm sure your girl is okay. If he was going to kill her, he would've done it by now.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Patrick said. “I'm sure there's some comfort somewhere in that statement.”
“You know what I mean, Trick. Old girl is an expert in kicking ass and taking names. If I was going to put money on anyone surviving this whacked-out situation, it would be her.”
Patrick didn't bother to point out how difficult kicking ass could be when you're locked up in an undisclosed location surrounded by armed guards. Besides, Stark was only trying to make him feel better, something well out of his area of expertise. “Let's find another subject, okay? I'd really rather not think about Lelia's situation if I can help it.” Apparently he'd been working for Colonel Brown for too long. He'd barely blinked while telling that blatant lie.
“Well, since you asked, couldn't you have gotten us a ride in something other than this bucket? I've pulled refugees off tire rafts that were a damned sight more seaworthy.” He gestured toward the rusting confines of the fishing boat.
; “Sorry, man, but when you're being smuggled into a country, you have to take what you can get. Apparently luxury accommodations weren't available for this cruise.” He shrugged. “Maybe next time.”
“Luxury accommodations, hell. I'd just appreciate a boat that was a little more likely to actually make it to our destination.”
“Never fear,” said the captain, walking over to join them. “I've not lost a shipment yet, and I've been doing this for forty years. I thought you might want to join me in enjoying some of my latest cargo.” He handed them each a small glass.
Patrick took a tentative sip of the beverage, then closed his eyes briefly as the salty tang of the most incredible single-malt scotch he'd ever tasted rolled over his tongue. He'd never imbibed a single malt while at sea before, and the briny flavor was deeply accentuated by the salty air of the Mediterranean. It was a pleasure he hoped to enjoy again. Soon.
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