by Harte, Roxy
Sophia is thirty-four weeks. Unless I can wrangle it, I will miss the birth of my sons. I will potentially miss out on much of my children’s lives…I feel doubly cursed. And there is even more guilt because in wishing I could walk away from this assignment, I feel I could walk away from my brother and my commitment to him.
“Lex!”
By the tone of Abigail’s voice I can tell something is wrong. Throwing open the shower door, I rush out, grabbing my Glock, ignoring the towels hanging in reach.
Weapon leading, I visually sweep the room but see no threat, just Abigail’s pale face trained on the television. Dripping, I go to her side. “What is it? What has happened?”
She doesn’t reply and so I turn my attention to the television screen for answers. A headline flashing Breaking News runs across the bottom of the screen, and as I watch the film footage playing behind the news anchor it takes a moment for my mind to register what I’m seeing. My wife Lattie is behind a podium giving a speech at a Sudan peace rally when the sound of gunfire fills the air. She drops down, ducking behind the podium. I hold my breath, hoping she was not shot. As the camera’s view zooms closer, I see that she is crawling to a row of seats staged behind her where moments before dignitaries were seated. They’ve all fled. All but one. As she reaches him I see the sniper’s target was her father, but that makes no sense to me. Yes, he’s powerful, he controls a significant part of the country, but he has no real enemies. I swallow hard and sit in a nearby chair. I didn’t like the man and he definitely didn’t like me—actually he wanted me dead—but I certainly didn’t want him dead. “What in the hell?”
“Wait. Watch,” Abigail urges as we continue watching events that have recently unfolded. Obviously she has already seen the footage once and instead of telling me, she lets me see for myself as four masked men appear at the back of the stage. Heavily armed, they grab Lattie and drag her off the stage.
The news anchor’s voice has been a monotone blah, blah, blah, not really registering as I try to understand what was happening. I force myself to listen. “It is not yet known why Lubna A’isha Charbonneau was taken following the assassination of her father, Charles François Charbonneau. There have been no claims by any group taking credit for the act of terrorism nor has there been any demand for ransom. Headlines across Europe are calling her a hero and it is being speculated whether she will be one more martyr to fall in this region of turmoil.”
Lubna A’isha. The last time I heard her birth names seems like a far-off dream. As soon as we reached American soil she became Latisha. Balling my hands into fists and breathing hard, I turn to Abigail. “I have to go to Sudan.”
“She could be anywhere. We don’t even know who has her.”
The full reality hits me like a blow to my head and I drop to my knees, realizing the entirety of the situation. With François dead and Lattie missing, I have no idea where my children are or who is caring for them. “My children.”
“God, Thomas.”
“I have to get them out.”
“I’ll send an extraction team. Do you know where they would be?”
I shake my head. My wife wasn’t even supposed to be in Sudan. The last I’d heard she was in Bahri but she’d promised to enroll the children in school in France. “They could be anywhere.”
My cell phone rings and I look at the caller ID with irritation, expecting it to be Abigail-related, but then I see it, the number for the Sat phone I left with my children. “Hello?”
“Papa!”
My son’s frantic whisper rips through me. Every imaginable horror races through my brain, hearing my son’s terror over the phone line. “Hektor? Are you someplace safe?”
“Men are here, searching the camp for something. They are screaming at everyone and hurting people! I’m scared.”
I fear the something might be my children, but that is horribly paranoid. It is more likely that François was involved in something that has gotten him killed and put Lattie in grave danger.
“Are you with your brother and sisters?”
“I have Athena-Sophia with me, but Nikkos and Olympia were with Isaam and Badriya.” His whispers alone tell me he is very afraid and believes he is in danger. I don’t know if it is good or bad that he is separated from his brother and sister, but at least I know the quadrant of the world they are in by his telling me they are with my wife’s sister and husband. I can also triangulate the Sat phone now that I know it is still in his possession. Thank God.
“How far are you from the well?”
“We are here. We arrived two days ago. We were packing to move out this morning, but the men came and started tearing everything up.”
“Don’t draw attention to yourself. Hide if you can. I’m coming for you.”
I hear a shuffling and then the phone goes silent.
I know it is too late but I shout “Hektor!” anyway. My mind and body go into work mode. I keep my cell phone in one hand in case Hektor is able to call back and use a second cell phone to make a call out to some very dangerous men on the other side of the globe, mercenaries willing to do whatever needs done for a price.
“Pepé, it’s Wiley, I need a favor.” Pepé is for Le Pew, not because he smells but because I’ve never known him not to be under the influence of obsessive love, and Wiley because I tend to survive even impossible circumstances as does the cartoon coyote.
“Name it, brother.”
“My four children are stranded in the base camp of a man named Charles François Charbonneau. I want them out of harm’s way immediately.”
Pepé whistles.
“What have you heard?”
“The same as you, I’m certain. Charbonneau was killed last night. His daughter kidnapped.”
“But you know what happened?”
“No. There wasn’t even a rumor on the wind before it happened.”
I growl. “Pepé!”
“Charbonneau was trafficking very rare finds from a recent dig and butted heads with some desert pirates. He had something. Something very valuable. Maybe he thought it was worth dying for to keep. I think someone is willing to do anything to get their hands on it.”
“Shit!” The only thing keeping Lattie and our children safe in that corner of the world was her father’s hired guns and with him no longer there to pay them, there is no protection for my children, and worse, they may turn on my family if there is money to be had from another source.
Pepé interrupts my thoughts. “You sure those kids are in that camp?”
“Yes. They’ll be there. There is a well three hours north of Khartoum. Do you know it?”
“Sure, sure.”
I use my phone to send a data file of their most recent photographs. “I need you to get them out of the country. Now.”
His voice is gruff when he tells me, “I’ll contact you when I have them in my custody.” The line goes dead and I listen to the silence. I called the right man. I called the only man for the job. I just hope I called him in time. Silently I pray for my children.
I pray the feeling in my gut that my children are the target of the search to be used to put pressure on my wife is incorrect. Why Lattie continues to place my children in harm’s way, I will never understand, but I know I am finished with whatever game she is playing.
I watch the television screen replaying the assassination footage. In the foreground Latisha is standing at a podium speaking. “Politicians want us to believe the war has ended, but I say to you, as long as women are being raped and murdered as they forage for firewood, as long as young men are being castrated and left to die in the desert for being born the wrong race, as long as violent raids terrorize those seeking sanctuary in refugee camps… The. War. Continues.”
In the background, many of the diplomats come to their feet, leading a standing ovation. The next moment her father is falling. The remaining dignitaries frantically run off the stage, taking cover.
Latisha looks over her shoulder, sees her father’s slain b
ody and reacts by facing the camera. Anger and fear make her eyes wild. Her nostrils flair as she cries out, “The. War. Continues.”
A second later she drops to her knees and crawls to her father’s fallen body. Film coverage breaks away after she is grabbed by the hooded men.
I feel Abigail’s hand on my shoulder. Looking up, I see her holding out a towel. I’d completely forgotten that I am wet and naked.
“You spoke to one of your children?”
I nod and numbly take the towel. “My son Hektor. He said that men were in the camp, searching it.”
“Men? Insurgents or soldiers?”
“I’m not sure he’d know the difference. He knew enough to be afraid.” My gaze collides with hers as I wrap the towel around my waist. “Did you know?”
“That Charles François Charbonneau was targeted for assassination? No.”
She worded her answer too carefully, making me suspicious. “But my wife, you did know something?”
“There are threats against your wife every day. She is not a popular person in Sudan.”
“The people love her. She is a hero to them.”
“Yes, and by being so, she has alienated herself to others.”
Abigail’s cell phone rings and she supplies curt answers. Meeting my gaze she says to me, “I have a team in Djibouti.”
My breath catches in my throat. Following the attack of 9/11, our bases in Europe and Asia were abandoned in favor of a military presence closer to the Middle East. Djibouti is one of several places the military could locate in Africa that could serve as a point of operations in the US attempt to fight terrorism and secure US oil interests.
“They have recovered four children—two boys, two girls—claiming to be American.”
I don’t ask what in the hell they were doing in the camp at exactly the right time. I don’t even challenge the lies Glorianna told me moments ago. I just utter, “Thank God.”
“They are sending photos for possible identification before taking them on to London.”
I nod, understanding that London is a safe refuge while they wait for transport to the US. We stand stiff and anxious, hovering over her PDA, waiting for the photos and when the device vibrates in her hand, she jumps then laughs nervously.
The first photo loads and it is Olympia. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. “My daughter.”
She scrolls through three more photos, and I am uncertain only about the infant. The truth is I haven’t seen Athena-Sophia since her birth and seeing proof of her growth…
I am overwhelmed with emotion. God. Oh God.
Through tear-blurred eyes I deduce it is the correct baby, dark, wavy hair, slanted Asian eyes, a female of the correct age.
“Yes, they are all mine.”
“Thank God.” Abigail grants authorization to transport to London and from London to Washington, DC. When she is finished with the details she comes to me, pulling me near, consoling me. “By tomorrow you will be reunited with your children.”
I look at her blankly, still numb and uncertain. The truth is I don’t trust a single thing she says. Ever. I manage to whisper “Thank you” against her neck.
With my children out of danger, I can focus on the next hurdle and immediately contact Pepé. “My children have been recovered. When you reach Khartoum, you will focus on intelligence recovery. I want to know who has Charbonneau’s daughter and where they are keeping her.”
* * * * *
Secret CIA airbase, undisclosed location
It is dark outside, thick fog and pouring rain. Still hours before sunrise. Inside the hangar, the lights are bright and the air chilly. I’m comforted that Glorianna insisted on escorting me, but her presence isn’t really necessary. Waiting is the hardest, but finally a military air transport lands. We wait for it to taxi into the hangar. We wait for the hangar doors to close. It is only minutes, but it seems like hours before the airplane door opens. A Marine exits first. He takes the hand of a young boy, my son Hektor, and leads him down the steps.
I hurry to his side and kneel beside him. He strokes my cheek. Using both of his small hands, he grabs at my shorter hair. “You are my father.”
“Yes. My hair is cut, my beard shaved, but I am still the same man.”
“I have missed you, Papa.”
“I have missed you, my firstborn son.” I hug him close. “I’m taking you home with me. It’s time we are together again.”
He nods against my shoulder, whispering, “I would like that. I have missed school, Papa. Do you think my friends will remember me?”
I kiss the top of his head. “I’m certain they will.”
Seeing a second Marine approach, I stand. He holds both Olympia and Nikkos’ hands, and as soon as they see me, the children pull free and run to me, Olympia almost bowling me over. “Papa! Papa!”
I pull my children to me, hugging them all at once. I blink rapidly, holding back tears I wouldn’t be ashamed of if they fell, but thinking it better that I not let my children see them. They need to feel safe and protected. They don’t need to know how bad everything really is.
A third Marine exits the plane and I see she is carrying a toddler. With my children close I stand, preparing to take my fourth child, but Athena-Sophia clings to the female Marine’s neck, refusing to come to me.
Hektor holds out his arms, and the baby goes readily to him. He is just a child himself, but he carries her as though he has taken care of her often. Sighing heavily, I shepherd my children to a waiting SUV. Abigail walks over as I get them settled in the backseat. She smiles sadly. “It was fun while it lasted.”
I look into her eyes, not understanding.
“You have four small children to raise. You don’t think I’m going to force you to stay with me, do you?”
Actually I hadn’t thought about Abigail at all, my only plan being to get my children home and settled.
“When their mother is recovered…” I don’t finish the sentence. The look in her eyes is a reflection of my own doubt. I think we both know that without a ransom, without even a hint of who is responsible, the likelihood of recovering her is slim.
“I expect you to go home and stay with your children. No heroics.” She buries her face against my chest, hugging me tight before releasing me. “I may be searching for a new assistant but I do expect to see you again. Alive.”
I look through the vehicle’s window at my children. They don’t know anything about what has happened to their grandfather or mother yet. To them, this has been a big adventure. What will I tell them if I don’t do everything I can to rescue their mother?
I wink at Abigail. “I’ll see you again.”
“I will wear my heart upon my sleeve/ For daws to peck at.”
William Shakespeare, Othello
Chapter Thirteen
Kitten
I wake up with Master spooned around me. I keep my eyes closed, feeling him against me, the long line of his chest, the solid press of a morning erection. I think he is still asleep but I’m unsure. I drift in and out of slumber, realizing he follows my movements as we sleep, staying curled against me, holding me, protecting me. Sometimes he wakes me, kissing away tears I shed while sleeping. I try so hard during the day, while I’m awake, to be strong and not show my emotions. I miss Thomas so much, but I try not to let those feelings show. I can’t help what happens while I’m sleeping. Every morning he makes love to me, again at night before turning out the lights. I think he hopes he can erase the pain of missing him.
“I know you’re awake.” He presses his hard cock against the crack of my bare ass, as if I hadn’t already noticed his hardness.
“I’m tired of being pregnant.” It isn’t actually a denial of entrance. He lifts my leg, thrusting into me shallowly from behind. Behind us the alarm clock goes off, announcing it is 5:00 p.m. It is a soft harp sound meant to wake us up gently and will gradually grow louder if Master doesn’t turn in off. He ignores it.
“I know, baby.” He kisses the back of
my neck. Short, gentle thrusts as his hand slides around me and between my legs to rub my clit. “It won’t be long now.”
“I’m scared,” I admit, squeezing my eyes closed. I hold back tears. Stupid, irrational tears. I shouldn’t miss Thomas as much as I do. Master is more than enough for me. He takes such good care of me. There isn’t any proof that Thomas would be able to prevent a Cesarean birth, but I’d feel like I at least had an ally. In my darkest moments I worry Master won’t even be there to hold my hand during the birth, but Lord Fyre would. He would move heaven and earth to be with me. The question is will he be able to convince the senator?
Master pushes harder against my clit, making circles against my flesh, and my thoughts flee.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Women give birth every day. It’s a natural part of life.”
My body responds to his touch, the simple pleasure lifting me higher…higher. I ride the wave of bliss, waiting for the crash, but the orgasm spirals on. I make sounds in the back of my throat, high-pitched, seemingly agony-filled, but so far from pain. Master increases the pace of his thrust and reaches his own climax as I cry out. “God, Master. Oh God.”
Too soon he rolls away to start his day with a shower.
I sit up, disappointed. It seems more and more I just want to lie in bed. “You don’t listen to me.”
He turns slowly to face me. My tone might have been a little harsh. “Did you say something? I didn’t hear you.”
“Please come to the Birthing Center with me tonight. I really want you to know how to breathe with me, just in case I can have a natural birth.”
Master returns to the bed and sits beside me and even though he strokes my face softly, I can tell by his expression I won’t like what he’s going to say. “Kitten. Love. I do not want you to get your hopes up about something that has very little chance of happening.”
