Catalyst (Flashpoint Book 2)

by Rachel Grant

  Glass, unless it was bulletproof, was a shitty shield, making Bastian wonder where Drugov found his goons.

  A similar scene played out on the other side of the deck. Another dipshit down.

  The team broke apart in groups of three as planned. They would search for Brie while the second Blackhawk circled, taking out henchmen if they dared show their faces on the deck.

  There’d been no time for a buy-off on the mission, no time to set rules of engagement, but an American woman—an aid worker—had been abducted by a twisted, biological-weapons-making Russian oligarch. The team was on board to use lethal force. They’d explain themselves after the fact. Stockpiles of Ebola-laced panty liners would only seal the deal.

  Drugov would fry. Diplomacy with Russia could fuck off.

  Bastian’s group took the middle deck. Aerial photos had shown a private deck off a room at the back, probably the master suite, and the most likely place for Drugov to have Brie. Bastian had called dibs. No one objected.

  These guys might not be US Army Special Forces, but they were okay.

  They dropped from the upper deck straight into the sectioned-off deck. The French doors were tinted glass. They flanked the doors, and a SEAL popped the lock. The doors opened inward.

  And there was Brie, spread eagle on a giant fucking X. Drugov hid behind her, like the pathetic asshole he was. He held a needle to Brie’s neck.

  42

  Brie’s heart was ready to explode at seeing Bastian. It was so much like when he’d stepped into the hut. Like then, his face was a mask of controlled emotion. And here she was, tied up.

  She was clothed this time, but the silk blouse and pencil skirt hadn’t faired well in the last few hours. The whip had shredded the top, while the skirt had split along one side.

  But there was Bastian, beautiful Bastian. Alive. Here. For her. Again. This time he had Kevlar and a rifle. He might not be in uniform, but he was geared up and ready to fight for her.

  The needle pressed against her throat. If she moved her head forward, it would pierce the skin. “Send them away, Gabriella.” Nikolai’s voice was low, his head right behind hers in the middle of the V formed by the top half of the X as he ducked down to hide behind her.

  She was terrified of the needle. Her battle with addiction hadn’t been won the first, the second, or even the fifth time she’d tried to go clean. It had taken years and multiple attempts and with one jab, she could be right back in the thick of it.

  But one thing she knew, if Nikolai shot her up, she’d suffer, but she’d survive.

  She could beat it, even if it meant crawling her way back.

  Because that was what she did.

  She was a master at starting over, and believed in herself now in a way she hadn’t when she’d tried and failed.

  And this time, she wouldn’t be alone in her battle. Bastian would help her.

  He’d hold her hand and love her.

  She stared at his face. Protective glasses covered his eyes, but she could sense he was staring right back at her. He and the two SEALs with him held their rifles at the ready. They were just waiting for an opening.

  She turned her eyes up and toward the right, directing his gaze to her hand, where she held up four fingers.

  She took a deep breath and counted down with her fingers. At zero, she jerked her head forward, and the needle pierced her skin. She rammed backward with her head, a hard jab that probably landed on the bridge of Nikolai’s nose.

  He dropped from the unexpected blow. Gunfire zinged between her spread legs, bullets from three rifles, pelting Nikolai in the legs. He dropped lower, and the bullets hit his chest.

  She stood there, breathing heavily, syringe protruding from her neck. Her legs had turned to mush but the bindings on wrists and ankles prevented her from falling and catching a bullet. In a weird way, the St. Andrew’s Cross had saved her, keeping her out of the line of fire.

  Her whole body shook as she watched the needle with her peripheral vision.

  All three men lowered their rifles and charged into the room. The SEALs grabbed Nikolai, pulling him through the frame of the cross, between her legs, while Bastian came for her.

  He gently removed the needle, set it aside, and probed her neck. “It wasn’t in a vein, and the plunger wasn’t pressed. If you got any, it was just a drop.” He leaned down and sucked on her neck as if he were removing venom.

  He then swished his mouth with water from his hydration pack and spit it on the floor. He released her feet, then her hands, and caught her when she would’ve collapsed. He scooped her against him.

  “I’ve got you, Brie. As soon as we get the all clear, I’m taking you to the Blackhawk.”

  From the shouts of the SEALs, she gathered they were reporting in that they had her. Drugov was alive. Barely.

  She buried her face against Bastian’s armored chest and breathed him in. Gunpowder, sweat, and Bastian. Tears returned to her eyes. “Thank you.” She lifted her head and met his gaze. Beautiful Bastian. She stroked his chin. “He told me you were dead. I didn’t believe him, but still, I was so scared I might’ve lost you.”

  “I was sure I’d lost you.” His arms tightened around her.

  “The last crew member has been rounded up,” one of the SEALs said. “And Lawiri is in custody.”

  “Are you impounding this boat?” she asked.

  “That will be for the Moroccan police to decide, ma’am,” the SEAL replied.

  “You’re going to want to take any computers or USB drives you can find. Nikolai told me he has kompromat on my brother. If he has that here, there could be more. Plus he probably has information on his plans for Ebola-laced pads. This room is probably a treasure trove for intelligence.” She wondered if they’d also find kompromat on Uncle Al. It would be fitting if Nikolai’s actions brought the senator down as well.

  The SEAL repeated her words into the radio, and she gathered that word came down from SOCOM to collect any digital media they could find. Like the bin Laden raid, they’d take what they could quickly grab and leave the rest behind. Morocco could decide what to do with the boat and the rest of its contents. Bastian carried her out through the double doors.

  The midday sun was blinding and the ocean was a crisp blue.

  How was it only noon? It felt like a lifetime ago that she and Bastian had shared a shower together.

  Bastian reached the stairs that would take them to the upper deck, and she insisted on climbing the steep ship ladder herself. He cursed when he saw the stripes on her back from the whipping and the burn on her shoulder from the cigarette.

  The moment they were on the upper deck, he scooped her up again. She protested, pointing out that she’d have to climb a rope ladder into the Blackhawk, but then she saw the litter they’d arranged to hoist her and Bastian together.

  They’d just settled into the helicopter, where she sat facing out the side opening, her gaze fixed on nothing, when one of the men radioed the news that Nikolai had died.

  The man who’d been obsessed with her since she was thirteen would never hurt her or anyone she loved again.

  43

  They were flown to a US Navy ship at Naval Station Rota, where a doctor examined Brie’s injuries while Bastian was debriefed. Her wounds were cleaned, and she refused all painkillers stronger than ibuprofen. She had ugly bruises on her back, throat, and cheeks to go with the burn on her shoulder and stripes from the whip. The cuts on her wrist from trying to escape the cuffs weren’t deep, thankfully. She was told she should expect to be sore for several days, but there shouldn’t be any complications in her recovery as long as her wounds didn’t get infected.

  A young woman sailor led her from the medical facility to the room where Bastian and the SEAL team were answering questions. She took her place at the table and repeated everything Nikolai had told her about the shipment of Ebola-laced underwear.

  All UN camps in South Sudan had been notified not to accept any shipments of supplies until they could be
searched by a hazmat team—something that would likely delay food distribution for a large population already suffering.

  The debriefing lasted for hours, during which time Brie learned that her brother and the guards had all been rounded up at the chemical lab by Casablanca police officers, who’d been called by the US military. No one knew whom Nikolai had spoken with when she arrived on his yacht, but it was likely a Russian contact who knew nothing about the arrests at the lab. It appeared Nikolai had lied about Bastian’s death simply to strip Brie of hope.

  Brie also learned that Russian news carried a story of a Russian politician very publicly succumbing to poison during his daughter’s wedding reception. Brie didn’t know if it was more Game of Thrones or The Godfather, but odds were, the dead man had ordered the hit on Nikolai, leading to questions as to the identity of the mysterious Ivan.

  Bastian questioned Ivan’s loyalty to the Kremlin, suggesting that the US could have an ally in the GRU—if that was what the man was—and it might not be in America’s best interest to vigorously pursue his identity. It was agreed to limit inquiries with Kremlin sources. No one wished to expose how Ivan had aided Bastian and Brie. Questions were likely to get the man killed.

  Nikolai’s guards were arrested, but until they had evidence of JJ’s complicity with Nikolai, there were no grounds to detain him. He was expected to return to the Prime family’s villa once he was released.

  The RFID chip was retrieved from Armando’s severed hand, and Moroccan police, FBI, and Interpol would likely work together to get access to the data recorded in the lab system for all the RFID chips with access to the basement part of the facility. With that data they could determine how many scientists had worked in the secret lab. Identifying the scientists should be easy—they’d either have the RFID chip still implanted, or a deep cut from removing it.

  After much back and forth, it was decided that Bastian and Brie would be flown back to Camp Citron, where Brie could recover for the next several days and be available for questions. The FBI would be brought in to examine the electronic data collected from Nikolai’s boat in hopes they could find evidence to arrest JJ—before he fled to Russia.

  It was late that evening when they boarded a military jet and departed Spain for Djibouti, accompanied by several Delta Force operators who would be working with Savvy on unraveling the mess that was South Sudan.

  The flight would take eight hours. Exhausted, Brie leaned against Bastian as the jet took off. She closed her eyes and thought of her brothers. She’d had a brief conversation with Rafe, in which she told him what Drugov had said. It only felt fair to warn him that JJ had planned to have the oligarch kill Rafe so JJ could take over the business.

  Rafe was skeptical, but he promised to be cautious. He’d just received word that their father had taken a turn for the worse, and he intended to fly back to the US the following day.

  The timing of the turn in Jeffery Senior’s condition only confirmed Nikolai’s words for Brie. One thing about Nikolai, he was sick and vicious and deeply rotten, but he generally spoke the truth.

  Deep down, she believed Rafe wasn’t complicit with JJ, and she hoped to have a chance to reconcile with him and be siblings, but she would never work for Prime Energy again.

  Bastian draped an arm around her. “How’s the pain?” he asked.

  “I think every part of me aches, but it’s manageable.” Her voice held a slight rasp. She was warned to watch for signs of swelling in her throat increasing, and one of the men flying with them was a medic who’d been briefed on her condition.

  Bastian’s lips touched her forehead. “It’s a long flight. You should sleep.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Try. For me?”

  She smiled up at him, this man who’d come after her and helped save her from torture that would have resulted in an agonizing death. She’d been told he watched the cargo plane explode, believing she’d been aboard, and could only imagine how awful that had been for him, given how much it had hurt to be told he was dead.

  She, at least, had reason to doubt Nikolai’s words.

  “I love you,” she whispered, aching for the blows he’d taken. All because of her. Because Nikolai had been obsessed with her since she was a child. How many people had been harmed because of one man’s depraved fixation?

  Had the cosmetic ads been the cause, or the result? She hadn’t known Nikolai’s father owned Carabella. Had she been offered the gig because Nikolai had wanted to see her vamping for a camera? But none of that mattered now.

  Instead, she had the horror of knowing the slave market had formed in part because of her—that it served other goals of Nikolai’s was merely a bonus for him. The food destruction would kill hundreds in the famine. Again, it served Nikolai and Lawiri’s other goals, but the facility had been selected because of her.

  And if they couldn’t locate the Ebola-laced pads, thousands could die. What if they weren’t going to South Sudan? What if Nikolai had shipped them elsewhere to bide his time? What if they couldn’t find them? There was a lot of territory between Morocco and South Sudan. One truck wouldn’t be hard to hide.

  “I love you too,” Bastian said, smoothing her furrowed brow with an index finger.

  She closed her eyes again and was pelted with images from their nightmarish day. She shoved those aside and instead chose to focus on the previous night, when they’d made love in the hammam. For a few hours, they’d escaped into each other and the world had been perfect. And it would be again. She had to believe that.

  Fifty-six hours later, word came down that the truck had been located in Nigeria. Bastian was in the gym working out with several of the guys on his team when Savvy came charging in to share the news. Bastian abandoned his workout to tell Brie, who was still asleep in her CLU.

  He let himself in and paused to stare at her as she slept. The bruises on her face and neck had gotten worse and were now in the purple-fading-to-green stage. But no amount of bruising and swelling would diminish her beauty to him. She could be Brie Stewart or Princess Prime and he didn’t care, because no matter what she wore on the outside, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known on the inside.

  Her dedication to her work was only one thing he loved about her. He was also pretty crazy about the way she faced challenges, owned her past, and was passionate about making the world a better place for those in desperate need, no matter the risk to herself. And the way he felt when he was with her… He imagined it was similar to a drug high but without the steep price.

  He sat on the cot beside her and leaned down to kiss her lips. “Wake up, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t wanna,” she murmured without opening her eyes, but she smiled.

  He kissed her neck, her lips, her cheek. “You sure?”

  She let out a soft purr. “Well, maybe.” She opened one eye, then glanced at the clock. “It’s not even seven yet. What are you doing here? I thought you were working out with your team this morning?”

  “I was. But Savvy interrupted us with news I thought you’d want to hear. A UN team found the truck.”

  Brie sat up, both eyes open, fully awake now. “They did? And the pads weren’t distributed yet?”

  “Everything is sealed tight. They found it in Nigeria as it was crossing into Chad. The team collected samples, which are being sent to the CDC for testing.” There was still hope that the scientists had lied to Drugov about their success in bioengineering the virus, and Russia didn’t have weaponized Ebola in their arsenal. “But out of caution, they’re moving the truck to a remote area, where they will remove, then burn the contents.”

  She threw her arms around Bastian’s shoulders. “I’m so relieved.”

  He held her against him, breathing in her scent. Truly, deeply, and undeniably happy. South Sudan’s civil war would continue. People would starve. The situation there would remain horrific. But thousands of young girls wouldn’t contract and spread Ebola simply because they’d gotten their period.<
br />
  He’d take this as a win, pathetic as it was.

  The embrace ended, and Brie relaxed against his chest. “You should try to go back to sleep,” he said, stroking her hair. He knew she hadn’t slept well the last two nights.

  “I should get dressed and talk to Savvy. I want more details. Hell, I wish I could see the pads burn with my own eyes.”

  He understood that need. He released her and rose from the bed, clearing a path for her to get up. She grabbed clothes from the locker and pulled them on. They’d left everything behind in Casablanca, so she was back to wearing T-shirts purchased at the base store.

  “Savvy also told me our suitcases will arrive today.” At the Army’s request, yesterday a maid had packed their belongings under the watchful eye of an FBI investigator, who’d shipped the bags to Camp Citron. “You’ll have your new passport back.”

  She bit her lip. “I guess that means I’ll be heading home soon. I’m a distraction for you, and you need to get back to training Djiboutians.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Tomorrow I’m back to my regular duties.” He frowned. “You won’t go back to Morocco, will you?”

  “Not while JJ’s at large.”

  “Good.”

  “I made a decision when I was tossing and turning last night. Today I’m going to talk to Rafe about breaking the trust and selling the Casablanca house. I’m going to use my share as seed money for a charitable foundation focused on menstruation underwear for adolescent girls. I’m going to suggest Rafe donate his share too. I want JJ’s portion too, but odds are he’ll have to be convicted of conspiring with Nikolai in my abduction before he’ll give it up. Donating the money to my foundation is the least they owe me, considering Dad used my virginity to buy the place.”

  “I think that’s a great idea. But damn, I’ll miss that Turkish bath.”

  Her smile lit her eyes. “Me too. Maybe we can visit again before the house sells. How long are you going to be stuck here?”