With No Remorse

by Cindy Gerard

  With the bulk of their gear still packed away, each truck had to make do with the light fortification of a MP5-K mini sub-gun, stashed low and out of sight. The MP5-K was a compact thirteen inches overall and weighed in at under five pounds, handy as hell and fairly easy to conceal if they got stopped by the local police.

  In addition, they were all armed with their personal handguns. Reed, like Luke and Rafe, preferred a SIG; Crystal and B.J. both carried Glock 19s. Joe preferred the Glock 17. All three weapons shot 9mm rounds, but the 17 had a bigger magazine. Gabe, as always, swore by his 1911-A. Only Nate was old school and preferred a revolver to their automatic weapons. His seven-shot S&W Model 686 Plus .357 magnum was the culmination of old technology meeting new. In Nate’s expert hands, the revolver rivaled the speed of an automatic.

  Val, Chamberlin, and team Santos with Waldrop at the wheel were ahead of them in a black armored limo, compliments of the Sierra Leone government. A pair of black Suburbans, loaded with rifle-toting government security guards, flanked the limo and transported M’boma, the mayor of Freetown, and a handful of lesser dignitaries.

  Luke kept eyes on Val’s vehicle. The armored limo was as impenetrable as a tank. He’d insisted on it. Two-inch-thick polycarbonate bullet-resistant windows, and Kevlar in the door panels, floorboards, roof, and engine compartment. The tires would run flat no matter how many holes were shot in them.

  It wasn’t as if they expected trouble on the drive between Lungi and Freetown. Even so, it was with no small measure of relief that they made it across the city without incident. Even without the complication of sitting on a shitload of weapons and an impending arms transfer, Freetown was a dangerous place. So when their truck got stalled in traffic and both Suburbans and Val’s limo drove out of his line of sight, Luke fought to keep it together.

  “Step on it,” he said sharply.

  “Easy, bud,” Rafe said reacting calmly to Luke’s tension. “You might have noticed that there’s a semi blocking my way. Now relax, would ya? We’ll catch up. In the meantime, Waldrop and company have things well in hand. Let ’em do their job.”

  Luke knew that Rafe was right, but he’d feel a damn sight better if he had eyes on even though he was tracking Val’s progress with the GPS. He could raise them on the SAT phone, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, he wanted to see where she was every mile of the trip. Deep breath. He needed to trust the three men they’d hired to keep her safe.

  He shifted in the seat and made himself tough it out. And was damn relieved a few minutes later when they finally caught up with the limo again.

  “So this is Kissy,” Rafe said as they rolled into a crime-ridden slum on the east edge of the city. “Not exactly a Top Ten vacation destination, I’m guessing.”

  “Why Kissy?” Luke had asked Val when he’d found out the ghetto, which had once been the Waterloo refugee camp at the height of the bloody RUF-run government, was their primary stop. “You couldn’t have picked a more dangerous part of the city.”

  “Which is exactly why they need the help,” she’d said. “We have always gone to Kissy. The program is built around the mission there.”

  Luke looked around the littered streets as they rolled slowly by graffiti-splashed buildings with broken-out windows and ripped awnings. Despondent eyes stared back at him from street corners and sagging stoops. He was no stranger to third-world poverty. Still, he was sickened by what he saw. If anyone needed help, it was these people.

  Ahead of them the limo stopped. Rafe pulled in behind it. The heavy scent of diesel fumes and the squeak of the transport truck’s brakes accompanied the cheers of a small crowd that had gathered in front of a dilapidated Methodist church. A hand-painted WELCOME, VALENTINA! banner was draped above the double entry doors. A choir of barefoot children with bright smiles and mismatched clothes sang a welcome tribute as others swarmed around Val, squealing with laughter when she stepped out of the car.

  He watched from the truck, his heart going all squishy when she leaned down and picked up a grubby little boy with big brown eyes and a fairy-tale smile, set him on her hip, and carried him up the front steps of the church. Children and adults alike followed her inside like she was the Pied Piper.

  Luke climbed down out of the truck and made himself concentrate on his job. All seven BOI team members followed suit and started loading supplies into waiting hands.

  He just kept telling himself that Val was safe. She was secure. There was no reason to anticipate she would be a target of any kind.

  It was clear that the local populace loved her, not only because of her philanthropic gestures but because of who she was. A celebrity of international fame. A shining beacon who spread her light twice a year into a world that was for the most part ugly and dark.

  Still, he was relieved when Santos and company herded her and Chamberlin out of the church and back into the limo an hour later. One stop down, two to go, and Luke was that much closer to sending her home.

  28

  This was it, Val realized two hours later as she stood on the front steps of the Good Shepherd hospital, saying her final good-byes to the mayor and Mr. M’boma. Her show was over, but it was the beginning of the real danger for Luke and the team. And like it or not, this was where they parted ways.

  M’boma and the mayor were due at meetings on the other side of town. She and Marcus would be driven back to the airport with Santos, Carlyle, and Waldrop providing protection. Luke and the BOIs would drive to the storage facility and set their trap. Even the reporters had peeled off one by one, no doubt leaving to write their sound bites and get their footage ready to air on the evening news.

  She caught her lip between her teeth and looked over the head of Mrs. Koroma, who had been the head nurse at the small rural hospital since the missions began. Luke was standing by the front fender of the truck he’d been driving, waiting for the rest of the team to gather. He looked rugged and lean, competent and heroic, and suddenly she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him.

  She wasn’t supposed to acknowledge him in any way . . . but she just couldn’t let him leave without telling him good-bye one last time.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Koroma,” she said, pulling out of the woman’s embrace. “The drivers have been so helpful. I want to thank them personally.”

  “Of course.”

  Ignoring Marcus’s warning look, she made her way through the reporters and lingering curiosity seekers lining the steps outside the hospital entrance.

  “Thank you,” she said, surprising Luke when she appeared beside him. “You and your crew have been wonderful help.”

  “Our pleasure,” he said, and gripped the hand she extended in a formal shake.

  “Please be careful,” she whispered for his ears only.

  “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Before she could give in to the tears stinging the back of her eyes, she spun around and walked to the limo, nodding a quick thank you to Waldrop, who immediately opened the door for her.

  Only after she was alone in the backseat did she let herself look back at Luke. The tinted window was covered with road dust, but she could still see him as he climbed up into the driver’s seat of the transport truck parked fifteen feet away.

  Her heart leapt when he looked directly at her window. She knew he couldn’t see her through the tinted glass. Just like he knew she could see him.

  She watched his lips move as he mouthed something to her . . . and her heartbeat shifted to a flat-out sprint.

  She inched closer to the window, frustrated because she couldn’t lower the thick, bulletproof glass.

  And watched as he said it again.

  No question this time. His lips formed the words—I love you—before he settled his dark glasses over his eyes.

  Her heart tripped, flooded by sensations that were frightening and thrilling and yet oddly calming.

  I love you, too, she whispered, not even aware of the single tear that trailed down her cheek. God help her, she did love him.


  His truck grumbled to life, then eased forward. Close behind him, the rest of the BOI team followed suit.

  She was so intent on getting one last glimpse of him, it hardly registered when the three bodyguards and Marcus climbed into the limo. Waldrop sat behind the wheel. Santos and Carlyle slid into the seat directly opposite and facing her. Marcus sat quietly beside her.

  “You ready to roll, ma’am?”

  She met Josh Waldrop’s earnest blue eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  “I guess I have to be.”

  “The guys have the situation well in hand,” Brett Carlyle assured her.

  In spite of the gravity of the situation, she couldn’t help but smile at the boyish-looking bodyguard.

  “Thank you, Brett,” she said, and was rewarded with a full blush that pretty much blew his image as a macho warrior.

  “Jesus, Carlyle. I thought you finally grew out of that.”

  Instead of being embarrassed by Santos’s ribbing, Brett just shrugged. “It’s hereditary. And a curse.”

  “Just like you’re my curse,” Santos grumbled good-naturedly.

  “What say we leave the lady in peace for a while,” Waldrop suggested with a glance over his shoulder. “And heads up, boys. We’ve got a four-hour drive back to the airport. We don’t want to drop the ball this late in the game.”

  The limo rolled out into traffic. Val closed her eyes and let her head rest against the plush leather seat. It had been hours since she’d slept and the fatigue had finally caught up to her. She must have immediately fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes and checked her watch, almost an hour had passed.

  She looked out the window. They were driving through a stretch of fairly open road before heading into the throbbing pulse of the center of the city. She dragged a hand through her hair, combing it back out of her eyes, and felt Marcus watching her.

  So far she’d managed to avoid any one-on-one conversation with him. She didn’t know what to say. And wasn’t even certain what she felt anymore.

  “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

  She froze momentarily, then slowly turned her head his way.

  “The one they call Doc,” he said, looking weary and drawn. “You have feelings for him.”

  She glanced up to see both Santos and Carlyle were totally engrossed in their own conversation and oblivious to her and Marcus.

  “I don’t think I want to talk with you about this,” she whispered.

  “I understand. It’s all right. I just . . . I just want you to know that I hope you find happiness, Val.”

  She swallowed hard. Nodded. She didn’t want to hate him. Yet how could she ever forgive him for everything he’d done?

  “I know I can never make up for what I did to you . . . for any of this,” he said, lifting a hand in a gesture that encompassed not only their sham of a marriage but his subterfuge and treasonous acts. “I’m going to turn myself in as soon as we get back to D.C. It’s too little, too late; I know that. But it’s time to do the right thing.”

  Tears burned her eyes for the man she had once believed in. And when he slid his hand across the seat toward her, she hesitated only briefly before covering it with hers and holding tight.

  A split second later, Waldrop swore under his breath. “Get ’em down. Now! We’ve got company.”

  Santos grabbed Val by the arm and jerked her to the floor. Carlyle flew forward and wrenched Marcus down beside her.

  A Jeep roared past, then cut sharply in front of them. Two more vehicles flanked them on either side. A quick look behind her confirmed that a fourth Jeep had joined the others.

  They were surrounded. And they were under attack. A barrage of automatic weapons fire battered the bullet-resistant limo.

  A hand landed hard on the back of her head and pushed her face into the floor—but not before she saw that at least half a dozen men manned each vehicle, all with automatic rifles, all firing in nonstop bursts from the backs of the open Jeeps.

  She felt the car shift, then drop several inches.

  Oh, God. They’d shot out the tires.

  “Hang on! We’re getting the hell out of here.” Wal-drop hammered down on the gas pedal.

  Between the blown tires and the weight of the armor, the limo was no match for the lighter, more maneuverable Jeeps. She could feel the vehicle losing speed.

  She lifted her head again to see what was happening, just as a huge cloud of white vapor exploded from under the limo’s hood.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Bastards have armor-piercing rounds,” Carlyle said. “Just blew through the engine block.”

  The Jeep on the driver’s side swerved in and rammed them hard. The limo fishtailed, throwing Val against the side door. No sooner had she gathered herself when they were hit from the other side.

  “Brace!” Waldrop yelled, then jerked the wheel hard right and slammed into the Jeep crowding them on the passenger side.

  The next instant they were airborne, then they landed with a bone-rattling crack as the limo tipped to a forty-five-degree angle, teetered several yards on the wheel rims, and finally fell on its side.

  Val landed hard against the door; the world became a reckless tumbling of arms and legs and pain. Steel screeched against concrete as the car skidded along the pocked pavement; sparks flew past her face on the other side of the glass. Smoke streamed from the engine block.

  Sheer instinct had her scrambling for something to hold on to. She grasped at the seat in front of her, but lost her precarious hold when the limo flipped completely over on its top. Upside down, she rammed into bodies, seatbacks, the ceiling, then bounced off the floor when the limo rolled one more time and stopped.

  Her head slammed against something hard; stars burst behind her eyes. Then pain stabbed through her head and sucked her into suffocating blackness.

  Luke was running out of patience. Once the BOIs split from the limo, they were out of radio contact. Point-to-point commo was low power by design, because too much power made it possible for the bad guys to home in on your signal. That’s where the GPS was supposed to come in.

  Only it wasn’t working.

  Now they were in the back of the fucking beyond, miles away from any town, working inside an isolated warehouse in the middle of an exposed field.

  He swore under his breath. He’d been out of contact with Val for over an hour and it was driving him crazy.

  An odd tingle slithered down his spine.

  Don’t ignore the itch.

  Something wasn’t right. He could feel it.

  “Could use a hand here, bro.” Sweat soaked Rafe’s shirt as he trudged past Luke carrying a ninety-pound case of ammo on his shoulder.

  Since the buyers were expecting the warehouse to be abandoned, the guys had driven the trucks inside the sweltering heat of the twenty-five-by-seventy-foot metal warehouse that drew the sun’s warmth like a bitch in heat drew strays. No electricity, which meant no lights so the big roller door on the south end of the warehouse was open wide, letting in enough late-afternoon daylight for them to see what they were doing.

  They were setting up for the upcoming meet-and-greet with Ryang’s buyers, who were going to be surprised—and not in a “happy birthday party” sort of way—when they swung by to pick up their guns and found that Black Ops, Inc. had come a-callin’.

  Luke pushed away from the truck’s bumper and stomped up to Nate, who was directing the placement of their weapons.

  “You tell your buddy, Farmer,” he said, getting in Nate’s face, “that this state-of-the-art GPS he wants to manufacture doesn’t work for shit.”

  “Noted,” Nate said without glancing up from his checklist. “Give it to Tink and see if she can get it working. Unless you want to stand around and finger bang it to death for another hour, because, wow, you’re really getting results with that method.”

  Nate glanced up at him then, and the look on his boss’s face relayed that it was an order, not a sugges
tion.

  Without a word, Luke headed to the far side of the warehouse, whipped off his shades, and searched the shadowy interior until he spotted Crystal.

  “Tink,” he bellowed and walked across the dirt floor toward her. “Make this sucker sing and dance.”

  “Hey.” Reed bulled his way in between them. “Who died and made you emperor?”

  Luke set his jaw and glared at the tall Texan. Reed rarely got pissed, but he was good and mad right now. They were all hot, sweaty, and edging toward cranky. They’d been loading and unloading heavy crates all day, and they still hadn’t completely set up shop to welcome Ryang’s buyers, who could arrive at any moment.

  “Now let’s try that again. Ask my wife nice,” Reed ground out, butting his chest against Luke’s, “and maybe I’ll let you sleep in the same bed as your teeth tonight.”

  “It’s okay, Johnny,” Crystal said. “He’s worried about Val.”

  “No,” Luke said, feeling like an ass. “He’s right. I’m sorry, Tink. Yeah, I’m worried, but that’s no excuse to bark at you.”

  “Better,” Reed said and backed off. “She’s in good hands, bro,” he added, letting Luke know there were no hard feelings.

  Tink took the GPS unit. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  “Nothing good.” The signal from Val’s tracker had told him they were right on course, right on time. Then it stopped. Just blacked out.

  “It’s frozen.”

  “Let me see what I can do.” She squeezed his arm. “It might not even be the unit. GPS needs to see the sky to get fixes on the satellites. Something could be blocking the signal. Maybe the armored limo’s the problem. When they get to the airport and she’s out of the car, we’ll probably pick her up again.”

  “Why don’t you just freakin’ call Waldrop and get it over with?” Reed suggested.

  He should do exactly that—it would piss off the security detail, but at this point he didn’t care. He cupped the back of his neck, rubbed at the slight tingle again.