by Rachel Grant
I will survive.
Whoever her buyer turned out to be, he would make a mistake somewhere.
If fighting back is too dangerous, I will be meek to protect myself. There is no shame in not fighting. There is no shame in survival.
She removed her boots, then dropped her pants and underwear to the floor. She stepped out of the pile.
No shame in stripping when threatened with a knife.
Once upon a time, she’d learned to stand regally and present speeches to sell a toxic development plan to people who didn’t want it. If she could do that, she could handle this.
Fully nude, she faced her abductor without flinching. The man had dead eyes. He scooped her clothes from the floor and tossed them out the door.
I will escape. I will come back to this place. I will help the children here. And I will kill you with your own knife.
The last vow caught her off guard.
Could she kill a man?
The metal collar around her neck chafed in the heat.
Yes. Absolutely.
An hour after they received the coordinates from SOCOM, Bastian entered the market. He was unarmed except for a knife, and wore civilian clothes that signaled Western and buyer. This was to be a quick recon mission. He would only act now if Brie’s sale was imminent.
She had to be in one of the three huts near the center of the market. Even though the market operated without fear of reprisals, they wouldn’t conduct the transaction of selling an American woman in the open. That was the sort of thing the US military couldn’t ignore.
Assuming, of course, that they knew Brie was American.
Bastian studied the layout of the market. Six guards patrolled the edges, keeping parents or other would-be rescuers out and the children in. Proof the market operators weren’t fearless.
He counted the clusters of children who were lined up in the sweltering heat. At least fifty children. Some cried, but most sat silent with a thousand-yard stare as flies vied for the moisture in their eyes.
Bastian hardened his jaw, thankful for the cover of his beard. Today, he was a buyer. He couldn’t react to the sight of starving children offered up as chattel.
If he returned here with a full twelve-man A-Team and a squad of SEALs, they could take out the slavers and free the kids. End this atrocity in one sweep.
But he couldn’t do that today. Today, he was only authorized to save one American adult, meaning this op would fuel nightmares for years to come.
SOCOM had been clear: retrieve Brie Stewart and no one else. Otherwise they risked alerting the South Sudanese government that the US military had conducted a rescue operation within their sovereign borders. The US could not get drawn into South Sudan’s civil war.
The US military had played that game too many times, with sometimes disastrous results.
But still, his gaze took in the beautiful ebony-skinned children. Malnourished. Emaciated. They faced slave labor or sexual exploitation. He’d have to be a monster to walk away.
He could save some of these kids. Now. Today. But that risked his mission objective—to rescue Brie Stewart.
Weeks ago, he’d gone AWOL with Pax and Cal to save Morgan Adler, and they had managed to save a bunch of girls who’d been rounded up by a warlord to fund his private army. He’d thought that place was bad, but this market brought atrocity to a whole new level.
He cut through the market, inspecting the “wares” while keeping his revulsion from his face. He had a hidden mic in his collar and a tiny earpiece, keeping him in touch with his team.
Ripley and Espinosa spoke Arabic and could translate Bastian’s conversations with merchants for the others. The easiest way to spring Brie without revealing he was a soldier was to buy her. He had money. The question was, did he have enough?
Could he buy all the children?
Doubtful.
Plus it would be noticed if he suddenly bought out the market. And the slavers would just be encouraged to round up more children.
No. These assholes had to bleed.
He reached the huts at the center and circled the first one. Made of grass-thatched mud, the structure had plenty of gaps for him to peek inside. He whispered to his team without moving his lips, “Southeast hut is the arms depot. AKs, grenades, and a shoulder-fired rocket launcher.”
“Relaying the intel to Savannah James,” Ripley said.
Bastian moved on to the next hut. He couldn’t quite make out what was inside but suspected some of the items were artifacts. Probably drugs too. Both funded terrorism. Did Boko Haram or ISIS use this market? He passed the intel on to Ripley and then moved on to circle the third hut.
The mud filled the gaps better on the structure than the others and a curtain covered the open doorway. He thought he saw a woman inside but couldn’t confirm it was Brie.
From the chatter, he learned potential buyers would get to view the goods one at a time before the auction began. Some cynically speculated that they were stalling, waiting for a special buyer to arrive and the previews were just to drive up the price before the man got here.
A special buyer meant auction was fixed. It had to be Brie.
He’d just have to line up with the other previews and try to buy her before the auction even began. With enough money, it might work, but he would need every dollar they’d taken from the Blackhawk.
He headed back toward the market entrance to grab the money and confer with his team. He heard a piercing shriek and turned to see the source. A girl who couldn’t be more than ten lay huddled on the ground, her arms covering her head as she sobbed.
A man three times her size kicked her in the side and yelled at her to get up and take her place on the block.
Bastian wanted to puke.
Instinct urged him to lunge for the man and gut him.
But his mission required him to keep on walking.
6
“No fucking way can we rescue Brie and leave the kids behind.” Bastian paced in front of his team, his entire body shaking from what he’d witnessed in the market.
He had to get his shit together and get back there. He looked to Ripley, who had the satellite phone. “Call Cap. Get the rest of the team here.”
“We don’t have authorization to save anyone but Stewart,” Espinosa said.
“Fuck SOCOM and their orders. This market needs to be wiped off the map. Jesus. Savannah James knew about it, and no one did anything?”
“No Americans were in jeopardy,” Goldberg said.
“Well, an American is now. We’re here. We’re armed. We can take these assholes. They don’t expect Special Forces to come calling.”
He met Pax’s gaze, then turned to Cal. They’d understand. They were at Desta’s compound last month. They’d helped rescue the girls and smuggled them out of Somaliland. They’d caught shit for making the girls the US embassy’s problem, but the women who worked at the embassy had quietly thanked them for doing the right thing.
“We can rescue the children and get them across the river, into Ethiopia. Sort it out over there. Drop them in one of the refugee camps,” Bastian suggested.
“No way. The Ethiopian government will freak if we dump refugees on them. We could lose our Forward Operating Base,” Ripley said.
The stability of the FOB in Ethiopia was tenuous at best. They’d all be booted from Special Forces if they caused a troop withdrawal.
“Maybe we can get Jeffery Prime to drop a wad of cash on the Ethiopian government, as thanks for helping out in the rescue of his daughter,” Cal said.
“They’re estranged,” Bastian said.
“So what? Do you think it would look good if he didn’t make a donation as thanks after his daughter—who’s an aid worker—was rescued?” Cal responded. “The guy shits money. Plus they need good PR after those documents were leaked that showed how they’ve been suppressing global warming data for the last decade. Brie is his ticket to PR heaven.”
“There’s another possibility that wouldn’t
risk our FOB and wouldn’t require Prime’s cooperation,” Pax said.
Everyone turned to the master sergeant. “What if the kids escaped…on their own? With a little help from an A-Team. We can lead them to the river. If we can round up some boats for them, they can hide out in the islands that dot the marsh and maybe make their way into Ethiopia.”
“We’d need a bunch of boats,” Bastian said. But the kids were small and far too thin. He’d bet they could fit ten in a dugout palm canoe. “Five at least.”
“There were several stacked in the village where the hostages were held. The rest of the team can grab them on their way south.”
“It would take time to get them in place. Brie could be auctioned any minute.”
“You’ll go in and buy Brie,” Pax said. “Cal and Espinosa will enter the market a few minutes after you to secure the kids. By the time they reach the river, the others will be there with the canoes.”
Cal and Espi were the logical choices. Black and Hispanic respectively, and both sporting decent beards, they were less likely to draw attention than if Pax, Ripley, or Goldberg attempted to blend. Pax’s skin might have a darker, southern European tone, but it was still obvious he was white, and the fact that his beard was only about two days old didn’t help matters.
“With Cal and Espi in position, after Brie is clear, they can trigger an ‘accident’ in the arms hut,” Pax said. “The kids can escape in the melee that follows. Then Espi can lead the kids like the Pied Piper down to the river, Cal covering their flank. The rest of us can move in and mop up, make it look like the kids did all the damage and orchestrated their own escape, taking out anyone who sees us. It’ll take at least two hours to get to the river, plenty of time to get the boats in place.”
“We’d need to draw some of the guards away,” Cal said, “so Espi has a chance to talk to the kids, tell them what to do.” The kids might not speak Arabic or English, but it was their best option.
“Cause a scene with Brie. Get all eyes on her,” Espinosa suggested. “Odds are, they’ll be watching her anyway. I don’t imagine she’s typical merchandise.”
Bastian’s nod was uneasy. It wasn’t a great plan—there were far too many variables that were beyond their control, but it was their best option. Worse came to worst, they’d gun down the slavers and set the kids free. At least with this plan, there was a chance they could make it to the relative safety of the islands hidden in the swamp. Maybe some would find their parents there, or make it into Ethiopia as refugees.
No matter what they did, his A-Team was going to be in a shitload of trouble with the US Army and SOCOM, but in the end, they were all in. Fuck the job if they had to turn their back on these kids. The dishonorable discharge would be worth it.
One by one, men entered the hut and circled Brie. They spoke in Arabic to the man who’d chained her, either assuming she didn’t understand or not caring.
They complained about her body to lower the price. Tits too small. Ass too big. Fat. Skinny. Ugly. It wasn’t like these monsters could hurt her feelings. She hoped they all found her as repulsive as she found them.
A few men spoke directly to her, asking questions in Arabic, which she pretended she didn’t understand. They switched to English, and she answered with a French accent.
She stared each potential buyer in the face. Memorizing his features. When she escaped—and she would—she would describe these men to the US military. They would be hunted down.
At least, she wanted to believe that. The truth was, the US military would probably avoid antagonizing South Sudan. No one knew who would win the civil war, and so the US continued to play neutral.
She clenched her fingers into a fist, the nails biting into her palms, making her glad she hadn’t trimmed them in two weeks. Her nails were her only weapon, and they were sharp.
She gathered from the words exchanged between potential buyers and the seller that the bidding would take place soon after all the private previews had been completed.
A Saudi man circled her. He touched her ass, and she flinched. The man laughed and grabbed again, this time pinching her.
She was chained at the throat, but her arms weren’t bound. She jabbed the man in the eye with a sharp nail, using a move Ezra had taught her. The Saudi howled with pain and lunged for her. His hands closed on her throat, above the metal collar.
An instant later, searing pain shot down her side. The man attempting to choke her recoiled with another yelp of pain.
The slaver had lashed out with a whip, hitting both the Saudi and her. Punishment for striking a potential buyer, or punishment for touching the merchandise?
The man was tossed from the hut, and she gathered from the shouts that followed, he wasn’t permitted to join the bidding.
Both, then.
Her left biceps throbbed. A welt formed along her arm and trailed down, curling around her side just reaching the top of her left buttock. She was certain to end up with a nasty bruise, but at least the skin hadn’t broken.
She was studying her wound when footsteps sounded on the dirt floor, and she looked up to see the next buyer. A jolt of recognition went through her. To hide it, she turned back to studying her welts.
This man worked for Druneft now, but once upon a time, he’d worked for her father.
All she could do was hope he wouldn’t recognize her. She was covered in mud, naked, bruised, with hair shorter than she’d ever worn it before. She doubted her best friend from high school could pick her out of a lineup.
She kept her face averted, attempting to look cowed, which wasn’t hard after just being whipped. He asked questions in Arabic with a bogus British accent. He then addressed her directly, in English. “Where are you from, my dear?”
It was possible he was here to help her, although the odds of that were miniscule.
She cleared her throat, her brain blanking on how to conjure the French accent. Her hip and arm throbbed. Terror had been slowly creeping up on her, and now she found she couldn’t speak.
The whip lashed out again, snapping before her nose, a warning.
She let out a yelp and answered, “Madagascar,” she said, naming her last USAID assignment. She knew the country and the French language to fake her way through this.
The man circled her slowly, tutting as he viewed her from behind.
She was naked and chained by the throat and was being threatened with a whip. As if she gave a fuck what this man thought upon viewing her ass.
He left. Her guard held the whip in front of her face. “You answer the questions, or you get more of this.” He spat into the dirt.
“Whip me, and you’ll drive down the price.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but he wasn’t stupid. Badly injured, she’d sell for next to nothing.
Another man stepped into the hut, and Brie lifted her gaze to memorize another face. The man’s eyes flicked to hers, then dropped down, dismissive as he studied her naked form, then slowly he raised his gaze to hers again.
She wobbled on her feet as shock radiated down her body.
Chief Warrant Officer Sebastian Ford.
Bastian turned cold at the sight of Brie stripped and chained.
Jesus. He’d walked past a line of starving children to enter this hut, and in the hut next door, there was a guy selling an assortment of weapons.
This fucking country.
And South Sudan was only one of several African countries that trafficked in children.
This fucking continent.
But the truth was the US and other countries with power knew exactly what went on here, and did nothing to stop it.
This fucking world.
He’d witnessed atrocities in many places and forms. Hell, he’d grown up on a poor reservation and had seen crap go down there that had the power to make him cry even now. Yet humans could still shock him with their inhumanity.
But right now, he had to be a soldier.
No. Not a soldier. Right now, he was in the
market for a sex slave, and the woman before him was just what he was looking for.
“Is she a good fuck?” Bastian asked the seller in Arabic. He was good at this, the blending. It was what Special Forces did. They infiltrated. Became one with the community. He could pass for a soulless slave trader who belonged here without breaking a sweat.
“Excellent fuck,” the slaver said. “Very tight pussy.”
Bastian used the anger the words triggered to feed his character. He wouldn’t consider what the answer indicated. His gaze swept down Brie’s naked body with cold indifference. “Does she fight?” he asked.
“No. No fight in her. She’s well broken.”
If he had a heart left, it would have seized. Outwardly, he shrugged and turned for the door. “Too bad. I like a woman who fights.”
Haggling over human flesh. An old Army jingle flashed through his mind. “Be all that you can be…”
“Wait!” her keeper said. “She fights. She blinded a man just minutes ago for touching her ass.”
Bastian turned back, and his gaze swept her body again. He gave no sign of recognition. No wink, no nothing to put her mind at ease, while inwardly he cheered that she’d fought back. The welt on her arm was likely the price she’d paid.
Savvy said Brie spoke Arabic, not fluent, but enough. He wondered if she’d hidden this from her captors.
He touched the welt, his fingers lightly tracing the raised skin. He wanted to find the man who’d touched her and do worse than blind him. But instead he needed to be just like that man. He grabbed her ass and squeezed.
She flinched but didn’t strike him. Her gaze met his. Her eyes burned with anger and unshed tears.
The guard snapped the whip. “No touching before the auction!”
Bastian raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. But I’ll pay more if I can have a taste first.”
The whip snapped again, this time dangerously close to Brie’s face. She yelped and jumped back, tripping over her own chain.
