“Are you certain the Emersons or Kennedy aren’t involved?”
“It doesn’t matter. The relief goods will be protected and will get to their intended recipients. ERAF aid workers will be protected.” A bitter taste formed on Kade’s tongue. Something about this job bugged him. “They are innocent even if their employers are guilty.”
“You were always a Boy Scout when it came to collateral damage.”
He ignored the mocking in Max’s tone and stared straight ahead.
The brake lights of New York traffic blinked in front of them.
Kade and Max sighed in unison.
They were on their way back to New Jersey, the site of SSRR headquarters. It was a strategic location both for the square footage they needed to store equipment and run logistics and included a private hangar.
Max glanced at him again. “Yemen’s going to be interesting, isn’t it?”
“Yup.”
He was dreading it as well as looking forward to it.
Fat drops of rain fell on his skin.
Kade cursed. He pumped his arms harder, thinking doing so would help him escape the oncoming storm along with his demons. Lightning streaked above him and thunder boomed a split second later. He skipped onto the sidewalk beside a row of darkened buildings and continued his run. There was no shelter in sight, so when the heavens unleashed rain like a fractured dam, water soaked through his hair, shirt, and shoes.
Kade’s demons had an uncanny way of roaring back whenever he lowered his guard.
Another streak of lightning brought back memories of the trailer park, a place so vulnerable to nature’s wicked ways. During stormy nights, his stepfather would get drunk and beat Kade and his heroin-addicted mother. Kade couldn’t count the number of times he’d skipped school because of a black-and-blue face. Hell, he couldn’t remember the many times the asshole had broken his nose and ribs. Child Protective Services had visited more times than he could count, but Kade had feared if he left his mom, his stepfather would kill her.
His mom did it herself anyway—went and overdosed when Kade turned sixteen. Instead of grief, he had gotten angry. He felt betrayed. All his sacrifices shielding her from his stepfather’s blows had amounted to nothing.
Kade’s run and the unwanted emotions raging inside him finally stole his breath. He slowed his steps and realized he’d returned to the front of his warehouse home. The building stood gray and forbidding. It used to house a semiconductor laboratory—one of the now-defunct industries in New Jersey. Now, the building was surrounded by warehouses converted for e-commerce.
The SSRR offices were in a different warehouse, but Kade stored some of their stuff here as well. He walked to a reinforced steel portal and entered the code to unlock the door. There was a small receiving area with metal chairs and an office with wide windows on each side. One fronted the entrance of the building and the other gave a view of the warehouse space.
He walked around the office and along the wall of the structure toward the living area situated at the end of the path. A Hummer, crates, and other heavy equipment he used in the business sat on the floor, assets that were a testament to how far he’d come from the scrawny kid from that trailer park. At seventeen, his muscles began to fill out and, after high school, and with decent grades, he went straight to an Army recruiting office. Midway through boot camp, his instructors recommended he skip the three-year wait and go straight to the Special Forces Assessment and Selection course to qualify for the Green Berets. Kade passed the Q-course and was in Special Forces for three years before he caught the eye of the JSOC commander who recommended he try out for Delta.
The rest was history.
He reached the living quarters at the end of the warehouse. Stairs led up to the bedroom loft and a smaller office. Directly under it was his kitchen and another guest quarter. He eyed his cheap Mr. Coffee machine that brewed what he needed; for some reason, it reminded him of Yara’s fancy coffee station at her office. Funny to make comparisons between his lifestyle and hers.
Not that he gave a shit anyway.
They were worlds apart and she was just a job.
He trudged up the steel steps, the squishy noises of his shoes making him wince. It went against every instinct he had as an operator.
He stripped on his way to the bathroom and stepped straight into the shower. The rain had chilled his skin and a hot shower was what he needed. Kade knew once they hit Yemen, luxuries like hot water would be a memory. He sure hoped the prissy Ms. Emerson would be ready for the shock.
Fuck, he should stop thinking of her.
He got out of the shower and grabbed a towel, quickly drying his back and chest. He didn’t bother combing his cropped hair. Kade rarely lingered in front of the mirror, but, for some reason, he stared at his reflection, at the endless ink on his body that covered his scars.
His jaw tightened as another memory came to mind. It was a turning point in his life with a betrayal so horrific, it shaped him into the man he was today.
Brown eyes and a sweet smile.
Aysha.
She was locked away in the bitter recesses of his mind … a memory that made him trust few people.
He strode naked to his desk and woke up his computer and entered his password. His chest tightened when he saw an email from Max.
Re: ERAF contract
Kade clicked it open. A fire akin to adrenaline coursed through his veins.
His adrenaline quickly turned to irritation when a number buzzed on his phone.
John Garrison—his handler at the CIA and the person who hooked SSRR up with the Saudi royal family. “Looks like everything is going as planned.”
“Are you hacking our emails?” Kade mocked.
Garrison emitted a short derisive snort. “Max sent the contract to me. Where are we on the Emersons?”
“Jesus, I just met them today.”
“And you’re more timely in keeping me updated. You were supposed to call me after your meeting with ERAF. That was six hours ago. Then Max sent me the contract and I still had to call you. What’s going on?”
He had him there, but fuck if he admitted it. “Don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re not having second thoughts about the mission, are you?”
His temper rose and he couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Which mission?”
“Dammit.” Impatience grated over the line. “It’s always like pulling teeth with you. If you weren’t the best at your job, I’d hire someone more amiable.”
“There’s your answer,” Spear responded. “You’d rather I get the job done or you rather I kiss your ass?”
“Just remember there could be chemical weapons in play.”
“Understood. But the aid workers are dependent on us to protect them. It’s our agreement that we go after Nasir only after we deliver the workers to Taiz. You and the Saudis need to back off. Personally? I’m getting sick and tired of our so-called allies’ questionable goals.”
Silence.
“Garrison?” Kade growled. “You there?”
“Something is up with you,” the man said slowly. “Since when do you question the people who hire you?”
“All the time.”
“Well, stop it,” Garrison said. “Twenty million dollars, Spear. The Saudis are paying you good money to get Nasir Haddad and if Tariq goes down with him, so be it. Need I remind you that the royal family is not very patient with lack of results?”
“Sounds like a threat.”
“It is,” the other man shot back. “You don’t want anything to happen to Emerson, do you?”
His throat constricted and the little hairs on his nape bristled. “What are you saying?”
Garrison didn’t get to his position in the agency without being astute. Kade had already raised his suspicions with his evasive answers.
“General Boustari is tolerating the Emersons because the crown prince is a fan of Sully. However, if they are involved in arming the Nasir Rebel
s, it’s going to be a sticky situation between our State Department and the Saudi royal family. Knowing the general, he’d rather bypass all the red tape and take care of the problem.”
When Kade didn’t say anything, Garrison continued. “Just remember the general controls Saudi Intelligence and its agents. There are closed-minded people in that group who wouldn’t see past Yara’s Iranian blood.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“If they move against you in Yemen, you stand down.”
Kade’s blood ran cold. His protective instinct reared up, and the urge to tell the CIA handler to go fuck himself was overwhelming but, like the other man, Kade didn’t get to the top of his game as a PMC by showing all his cards.
“You mean if they want Tariq or Nasir, right? Because if Ms. Emerson gets hurt that’ll be disastrous for my reputation.”
“Protect the girl as much as you can but consider her collateral damage.”
Kade’s fingers tightened on his phone. “If Ms. Emerson gets hurt or, worse, killed, no one will ever hire SSRR again unless our involvement with the Saudis is exposed. They better make it worth my while to play their game.”
Garrison chuckled and Kade could feel the man relax on the other end. “I’ll let them know it’ll be expensive for them to interfere.”
“You do that,” he said with all nonchalance.
“Keep me apprised.”
“Roger that.”
Kade ended the call and wanted to hurl his phone.
Collateral damage.
He hated the phrase. Kade avoided it at all costs, but shit happened. When it was a result of greed, sloppy planning and execution, it pissed him off, especially when innocents were involved.
But was Yara innocent?
4
Friday arrived. Their flight to Ankara was scheduled at seven that night. SSRR had them arriving in Turkey at two on Saturday afternoon so they could meet up with ERAF aid workers that evening. On Sunday, a UN-led briefing was being held for the different aid agencies. After which, ERAF was sponsoring a medical workshop on how to handle different water-borne illnesses since cholera was a major concern.
“Thanks, Len.” Her father’s bodyguard hauled her luggage into the elevator. He had stayed in New York in case she needed extra muscle to prepare for her humanitarian mission. Not that she couldn’t haul her own luggage around, but it certainly eased her mind to have a second person double-check after her. She hitched a sensible backpack on her shoulder and followed Len into the elevator.
She’d been criticized for her designer suitcases, but she’d stopped feeling guilty for using them. They were a gift from her mother, a hand-me-down from her modeling days. And as much traveling as Yara did, the way these suitcases held up spoke for their quality. Still, she plastered stickers of the places she’d traveled to on its textured leather. At first it was to cover the famous monogram but, after a while it became her way of remembering the people she’d met in the various countries she’d visited.
The elevator doors opened and Yara held them so Len could walk ahead with her things. She repeated this action with the building’s heavy doors and spotted a man at the foot of the steps.
Elliot Denton—the investigative journalist who’d cost ERAF a lot of donors and given its PR department a string of nightmares in the past year.
“What are you doing here?”
“Yara …” Denton’s affable smile belied the shrewd eyes behind his round John Lennon glasses. His patched tweed jacket gave him the look of a college professor. “I texted you the other day.”
“Want me to handle this?” Len scowled at the reporter.
“I’ve got this. Just load up the car,” she said before redirecting her attention to Denton. “And I didn’t reply. That should tell you something.”
“So, today is the big day, huh?”
Yara continued to stare at him.
“I have a proposition.”
This gave her pause and she took a good look at Denton. His face was serious, urgent even. Usually he was an all-cutting critic of the aid community, spouting false accusations of the bloated salaries of their board members. He decreed that the aid system was broken and was doing nothing to end poverty, only fueling it by making poor countries dependent on foreign aid.
Yara gave him a bored look. “What?”
“Let me tag along on the mission.”
“No. Anything else?”
“If there’s nothing to hide, now is the time to show the world what ERAF does to advocate for the poor and hungry.”
“You don’t get it, Mr. Denton,” Yara said. “I don’t care what you write. And we certainly don’t need the help of a journalist who has smeared the reputation of organizations whose only goal is to help people in need.”
“Then maybe, if you get a chance, you can ask Nasir Haddad a question.” Denton gave a slow grin. “Shame, really, that the wrong person is in power.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ask Nasir why he’s stopping aid from going into Taiz.”
Yara shook her head in disgust. “You’re trying to stir the pot. That’s the last thing his country needs.” She pushed past him. “I have a plane to catch.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he called after her. “See you at the airfield.”
“How about not?” she muttered.
The press was already there when she arrived. Jeff opened her door with a smile on his face. Yara really wasn’t in the mood for this dog and pony show, but she wanted to please Jeff, who, as CEO, had taken the brunt of public criticism. The tarmac was lit by artificial lights as the early darkness of late fall had stolen the sun.
“There she is!” He helped her down from the SUV. There were a handful of reporters, and she spotted Denton in the back. She looked at Jeff again and took in the strain in his smile. It wasn’t the turnout he expected and yet she thought it was more than they could have hoped for given the fires in California dominated the headlines.
The barrage of questions started immediately.
“Yara! Who are you wearing?” She gave an internal eye-roll though it was a typical question they asked her.
“Is it true Sully and Zareen are separated?”
“Are you sure Yemen is safe for travel?”
“What exactly is your relationship to Tariq Haddad?”
“Ladies, gentlemen!” Jeff hollered, raising his arms and lowering them several times to call some order. Two men Yara hadn’t met before worked security and held the line of reporters at bay. Kade and Max were nowhere in sight, although probably behind her.
“Let’s ask relevant questions, shall we?” Jeff said.
Denton smirked behind the crowd.
Jeff pointed at a reporter. “Do you think the ceasefire will hold?”
“I’ve been assured the UN is working hard to maintain the ceasefire,” Yara said. “The United Yemen Transitional Council—the UYTC—is scheduled to meet next week and will hash out the demands from all concerned parties for UN mediation in Sweden.”
“What did your friend Tariq Haddad say when his uncle sent missiles into Riyadh that killed forty people?”
“I cannot comment on that, but it’s a tragedy we hope would not be repeated. That’s why this ceasefire is important. The tit-for-tat bombings must end because innocent people are paying the price.”
“Do you believe this is a proxy war between Saudi Arabia and Iran?”
She grinned derisively. “You expect me to answer that?”
“What is your mother’s opinion?”
“No comment. Next question.” Yara pointed to another reporter.
“What if the ceasefire breaks? Wouldn’t that leave aid workers stranded?”
“How is this different from Darfur? Sudan?” Yara replied. “Being caught in the crossfire is always a risk of humanitarian aid especially in war-torn areas.” She nodded to security corralling the press. “That’s why we hired the best PMCs to protect us.”
“I think the c
oncern is more because you’re Sully’s daughter.” Denton’s voice was clear and loud. The reporters quieted down, obviously respecting his say. The crowd parted as he moved to the front. “Why take the risk now, Ms. Emerson? Why not wait for the peace talks to finish? You can send the foreign aid in, follow later when all is safe, and do your three-day tour.”
Yara heard the clicks of the cameras and became aware of the glare of the portable stage lights in the ensuing silence.
“Because now is when I can make a difference,” she finally said. “And the affected population cannot wait to have their voices heard.”
“Then why not take an embedded journalist?” Denton challenged.
“I wasn’t talking about exploiting their plight for the world to see,” Yara said. “I am talking about taking the aid community over there and really listen to them. Their voice, their needs, what the aid groups can do better to improve their way of life. I would love to chat about this. Someday.” Yara flashed her celebrity smile. “But not today. Thank you for coming.” She spun on her heels and left a flurry of questions in her wake, letting Jeff do the rest of the spiel.
She stopped ten feet from the SSRR aircraft. Her mouth fell open and she wasn’t sure she wanted to get on it. The fuselage showed visible dents and scuffs, but what bothered her most was the soot on the nose of the plane, like it had gone through an inferno. But maybe the marks were starker because of the artificial lighting on the tarmac.
She hoped so.
Max was busy directing the cargo load; she still couldn’t find Kade. Maybe the man changed his mind and all she would have to deal with was his partner.
“Evening, Ms. Emerson.”
“Yara, please,” she said as she threw her hand helplessly in front of her. “What’s this?”
A grin played on Max’s lips. “Your carriage.”
“You expect me to ride on that piece of junk?”
“No.” A voice clipped beside her. Yara closed her eyes briefly, mentally counting to three, before she turned to Kade.
“You don’t have to get on that plane,” he drawled. “Sign over absolute control of the mission.” He shrugged. “We’ll keep you updated.”
The Princess And The Mercenary Page 3