Mission: Out of Control

by Susan May Warren

  It had been right in front of him the whole time.

  “Luke, do you have eyes on Tommy anywhere?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I haven’t seen him since before the show,” Artyom said.

  “I’m checking backstage.” He turned to Lyle. “You keep your eyes on her, kid. And if you see Tommy, you come and find me. Pronto.”

  Lyle nodded.

  “Good work.”

  He grinned.

  Brody took off, hearing Ronie’s song come to a close.

  He ducked into her dressing room. Nothing. He was just turning to leave when she came flying in, nearly plowing right into him.

  “I gotta change.”

  He couldn’t move.

  “Brody, where’s Leah?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her.”

  Ronie pushed past him, unzipping her dress.

  “Wait, what are you doing?”

  “For crying in the sink, Brody, I have a unitard under here. Now help me. I have three minutes—”

  He knew he should be averting his eyes, but the zipper wouldn’t move and he had to wiggle it down.

  Phew, yes, she did have a unitard on. He grabbed the wings and she slipped into them, then the blue high heels. “I’ll just have to leave the wig. Did you find Tommy?”

  He shook his head. “Why?”

  “Because I think he’s the one who shot at me.”

  And then she vanished.

  “Wait! Ronie, you can’t go onstage!” He took off after her, grabbed her arm just as she reached the curtain.

  She turned and gave him a smile. “You’ll save me, Boy Scout.”

  Then she kissed him on the cheek and slipped out onto stage.

  You’ll save me.

  “Find Tommy,” he said into his microphone.

  He ran around to the stage wing. “Did you see him, Lyle?”

  Lyle shook his head. But the kid was clearly looking, and Brody practically wanted to hug him.

  “Let’s bring up the house lights,” he said, but no one responded.

  His chest tightened as Ronie sat on the trapeze seat, the fog machine already creating the “clouds” for her song. Her voice lifted, sweet and high.

  In a different time and place, he’d liked this song. Like when her feet were safely on the ground.

  “I have him on surveillance footage, leaving the Paradiso thirty minutes ago.”

  “He’s going to meet with Damu.”

  “Wait—there, I see him.” Lyle pointed and Brody grabbed his arm, pushing it down.

  “Where?”

  “Under the Exit sign. Top balcony.”

  Brody stared at the spot.

  A metallic flash.

  “Luke, Tommy’s got a gun—balcony, right-hand side, go!”

  He turned to Lyle, pushing the kid down. “Stay put.”

  Ronie had begun to swing, way up high above the stage. “Your love gives me—”

  A shot cracked the air as Brody vaulted onto the stage. “Ronie, jump! Jump!”

  Another shot and her swing pulley exploded.

  His heart stopped as she dropped from the ceiling.

  Please, God. Please—! He dove and… “Gotcha,” he said, cradling her in his arms.

  She stared up at him, face white. “You caught me!”

  He turned his back to the shooter, scrambling to get her offstage as another shot fired.

  Heat blazed across his chest. In his arms, Ronie convulsed. “No!”

  He ran down the steps, then set her down amid the screaming. Pandemonium exploded around them. He fell to his knees, searching her costume. Blood spurted out of her chest where the bullet had entered her rib cage.

  Her mouth opened. Blood dribbled out.

  Another shot. “He’s down!” Luke’s voice.

  So much blood. Brody pulled her to himself, put his mouth to her ear. “Hold on, baby. You’re going to be okay.” He picked her up. “Make a hole!” he yelled as he jumped off the stage with her and ran toward the entrance. “I need an ambulance, now! Ronie, please, stay with me, baby.” He kicked open the door to the street, hearing the sirens. “Don’t die on me.”

  Her lips moved and he put his ear next to her mouth.

  “You caught me.”

  He couldn’t help it. Brody began to sob.

  “Veronica! Come back!”

  The sultry breezes of the island caught her long brown hair, tangling it around her face as Veronica ran.

  “I want to swing!”

  She turned, grinning at Savannah, who emerged from the playhouse, dressed in their mother’s discarded party dresses, a black curly wig, a pair of heels spearing into the lawn.

  “We’re not done playing!”

  “I want to swing!” Veronica reached the swing set, crawled onto the leather seat and began pumping her legs.

  Savannah stood in the yard, looking pale and thin despite the brilliant sun.

  Veronica pumped her golden legs harder, her toes scarred from running barefoot on the flagstone. She gripped the chain, leaned back and let the sun heat her face. “I’m going to fly!”

  “You’ll just get hurt.” Savannah pulled off her wig, her short brown hair not yet grown back. “And then we’ll both be in trouble.”

  “You just don’t want Mom to know you’re out of bed. But I’m not sick.”

  Savannah narrowed her eyes and grabbed the other swing. “I can swing higher than you.”

  “You can’t.” Veronica leaned forward, pumping harder. Her sister’s dress dragged on the ground. “I’m going to jump!”

  “Don’t!”

  Veronica turned at the panic in Savannah’s voice, saw her still struggling to pump her swing.

  “Watch me, Savannah. Watch me fly!”

  “Don’t—”

  She leaned forward, letting the swing’s momentum release her.

  She flew. The blue sky caught her and she landed in the soft grass, tumbling to her hands and knees, laughing.

  “Did you see me?” She turned back to the swing set.

  There was only an empty swing, limp in the wind.

  “Veronica, come back, now.”

  She heard the voice and reached out for the limp swing. “Savannah?”

  A hand in hers. Hot. Strong. The yard at Harthaven vanished and she opened her eyes.

  White, lots of it. A curtain to her left, and wow, she hurt, all the way to her bones.

  “Where—?” Was that her voice?

  “You’re in the hospital, honey. In Amsterdam.”

  The senator was here? Dressed in a brown sweater instead of his suit? He looked as if he’d been up all night, pacing. Wait—was it morning?

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days. You had surgery. The bullet collapsed your lung, but thankfully Brody kept you from bleeding out. He practically ran you to the hospital. If it weren’t for him—” He blinked and looked away. “Then again, if it weren’t for him, maybe you’d never have gone onstage—”

  She scrambled for any scrap of memory. Swinging, and Brody yelling, and she looked down and saw him charging across her stage. Then, falling, and pain exploding in her chest…

  “He caught me.”

  Her father ran a thumb under his eye. “That’s his job.”

  He’d caught her. Rescued her. She reached up, wincing at the pinch of an IV and touched her hair. No wig. Just her.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the hallway, being incorrigible. He had to be pried away from your bed. I told him he’s fired, but apparently that hasn’t made a dent in his loyalty to you. I finally sent him out for coffee. In fact, the entire security team seems to be pretty dedicated—after they took down Tommy, they found Damu, had him arrested, and they’ve all been camped out here for two nights.”

  “Tommy—is he…”

  “Alive. Doing better than you. Apparently he’s been acting as Damu’s smuggler for a couple years now, even before you went to Zimbala. In fact, that’
s probably why you had such an easy time getting in. Apparently he and Damu met at Harvard—Damu attended one semester. Did you know that?”

  She shook her head. “Was Tommy the one who tried to shoot me?”

  “Yes, and Damu armed him.” He shook his head. “I just can’t believe you were involved in this.”

  “You can’t believe I’m involved in a lot of things.”

  “You’re very trusting, you know. Tommy was stealing you blind—I had your accounts checked. He was siphoning away your money. I have no doubt that Damu approached him about helping him transport goods into the country, and they’d worked out your tour with his delivery dates.” He ran his thumb over her hand. “Honey, please tell me you didn’t do all this because of some obligation to me, or—”

  “No, Father. But what are you doing here?”

  He frowned. “I should have been here a long time ago, Veronica. A long time ago. I just couldn’t bear to…” He bit off his words, turned away.

  See her? Have her remind her of the daughter she couldn’t save?

  “Lose you, too,” he finished.

  He kissed her forehead. “Do you want to see Brody? I have a feeling this is more than loyalty.”

  “Really?”

  He smiled. “I knew there was something between the two of you. When I saw that newspaper picture of you slapping Wickham outside the club in D.C., I saw something in your eyes—the girl I hadn’t seen for years. And I wondered if perhaps Brody Wickham might find the girl that I’d seemed to have lost.”

  He got up.

  “Wait—I’m a mess. I need some makeup, or—”

  “You look beautiful. Trust me on this.”

  “But I need a comb! And a toothbrush!”

  He winked at her. “Right.”

  So maybe she’d never be as beautiful as Savannah, or even Vonya, but at least she wouldn’t frighten small children. She finally declared herself as presentable as she could be in a pink hospital gown and unwashed hair.

  How unfair could it be that a couple of sleepless nights only made Brody more breathtaking? With his beard growth, his dark, mussed hair, his trademark black T-shirt, a pair of worn jeans—and bloodshot eyes.

  He stood at the end of her bed for a long, terrible moment, shaking his head, and she just wanted to reach out to him. To pull him into her arms. But for all his dedication he seemed afraid to touch her. “Oh, Ronie. What would I have done if you had died?” His hands whitened on the bed and he looked down, drew in a breath.

  “But I didn’t. Because of you. You caught me, and you kept me alive. You saved me, Brody.”

  “I nearly didn’t.” He lifted his head, his gaze fierce. “I held you in my arms, and thought—”

  “You thought I was going to die, just like Shelby.”

  “No. Shelby’s death took me apart, but yours…well, I would have crawled right into the grave with you.” He closed his mouth, his lips a hard line. “You don’t understand. I didn’t rescue you.” He took a breath and finally moved around the bed and took her hand in his. “You rescued me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was just half alive when I met you. That night at the club, when I plowed through the crowd and found you huddling under a speaker, something sparked inside me. I would have never guessed it was my heart coming back to life, but being with you—you made me want to be more. Made me want to know you, to discover the real Ronie. And when I did…” He smiled. “It had to be you, baby, who turned my life from blue.”

  “That’s a terrible version.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s better than yours.” He leaned over and finally gently, sweetly kissed her. So sweetly, it could steal her already fractured breath from her. He ran his fingers down her face, and seemed to breathe her in even as he pulled away, kissing her forehead.

  “So. You like me?”

  She wasn’t sure where the words came from, and didn’t intend for them to be quite so pitiful.

  “Yes. I like you. A little.” Then he shook his head. “Okay, more than a little. I’m crazy about you.” He swallowed, his beautiful eyes suddenly serious. “I love you, Ronie. Every side of you.”

  He kissed her again, this time with a little more determination.

  He tasted fresh, his touch full of grace. She couldn’t believe this amazing, breathtaking hero belonged to her.

  Yes, oh yes, Brody Wickham had caught her.

  She smiled. “I love you, too, Boy Scout. You make me feel safe.”

  “I do?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t suppose you’re available for my next tour?”

  “Wonder Girl, I’m available for your every tour.”

  He moved away then, something new in his eyes. “And don’t you worry about Kafara anymore. I’ve got the whole thing under control.”

  Of course he did.

  EPILOGUE

  “Stay put.”

  The last words Brody said to Ronie hammered in his mind like a heartbeat as he lay in the brush outside Mubar’s training camp, hiding amid the tall grasses under a scrub mopane tree.

  In the indigo darkness, under a too-clear midnight sky, the camp lay below, tin roofs painted black, shiny under a half-moon. Around him, the savanna rustled, the smells of dry earth in his nose, crickets buzzing, the occasional screech of a bird, mosquitoes in his eyes. He didn’t move.

  Bishop’s information had better be good, or he’d track the man down again, and this time he wouldn’t be civil. Sorry, but the CIA handler’s answer of national security and the government’s best interests didn’t in the least satisfy Brody’s questions. Brody wondered if Bishop ever had any intention of wasting time liberating Kafara or just intended to continue to milk Ronie for more favors.

  He’d done the guy the favor of keeping him out of the hospital. In return, of course, for every last scrap of intel about Mubar’s camp and Kafara’s current location.

  “All set, Wick, Artyom. Move in,” Chet said in Brody’s earpiece. Some ten feet away, Brody could barely make out Artyom’s form as the man proceeded toward the camp.

  Brody followed his own route, past the two child guards, their AK-47s lying across their laps. They didn’t have a prayer of seeing Brody as he slipped past.

  He crouched behind a shed—one of the completely enclosed buildings that Brody had no doubt was used for weapons storage—then hit the ground and crawled toward the free-standing shacks.

  Two days of surveillance told him that Kafara had a bed near the back—and that Mubar ran a tight, brutal camp, training true killing machines.

  He’d had to put a lid on his fury—it had the ability to turn him inside out, or take him apart with the memories.

  For Ronie, he’d do this.

  For Ronie, he’d sneak into Hades and back, if she asked it.

  “Set,” Artyom said, and Brody moved toward the structure. He stayed low next to the sleeping bodies, row after row of them, curled on ratty blankets, some with cuts on their pudgy dark faces, others shivering, the chilly savanna air finding their dreams.

  Or nightmares.

  Someday soon, he’d return with more than just the Stryker team, if he and Ronie had their way. Behind him, Artyom captured the entire thing on video. Perfect for an exposé and, hopefully, international pressure.

  And if he happened to start a revolution to overthrow General Mubar, well, that wouldn’t exactly keep Brody up at night.

  Kafara, dressed in an oversize army jacket and thread-bare pants, slept as if protecting himself, his body in a fetal position. How many of these kids were high? Too many times he’d seen children being forced to take drugs in order to make them more violent.

  He clamped a dirty hand over Kafara’s mouth and whispered in the boy’s ear, speaking the words he’d memorized in Kafara’s language: “Vonya sent me. Say nothing.”

  The boy’s eyes opened. He shook and Brody clamped a hand across his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

  Kafara stilled, probably terrified.

 
; “Vonya sent me,” Brody repeated. Please, please let their intel be correct. What if Kafara lay across the room, or in yet another tent, or even buried under the rubble of a charred village?

  The boy nodded. Brody had no time for relief. “Follow me. Quiet.”

  Still, he held the kid a moment longer before he released his hand from his mouth.

  Kafara took a breath. Brody held his. Then, Kafara rolled over, got to his knees and looked at Brody. He nodded.

  Brody led them out of the shelter, running until they reached the shadows of the storage building. How he’d like to leave a little present—a couple of grenades, perhaps. But their only objective was to rescue Kafara.

  “Stop.”

  The voice could have shouted, could have alerted the entire camp. But it came out a whisper, and that gave Brody hope even as he turned.

  He recognized the boy as one of the three in Ronie’s picture. He was dressed in ripped fatigues, a grimy T-shirt.

  And holding an AK-47. He leveled it at Brody’s chest.

  “Chuma.” Kafara turned to him, speaking in Zimbalan. Chuma shook his head, his eyes on Brody.

  Brody lifted his hands.

  “I’ve got him, Brody,” Luke said quietly into Brody’s ear. “Give me the word.”

  “Hold,” Brody said softly. He looked at the kid, placing him at about thirteen. “Listen, Chuma, I hope you can understand me…” He took a breath, putting as much compassion into his tone, his eyes, as he could. “Come with us. Right now. Put the gun down and come with us. You don’t have to stay.”

  Chuma stared at him without blinking. Without moving.

  Kafara glanced at Brody and spoke again to Chuma in a low tone.

  The boy shook his head.

  “We’re running out of nighttime here, Brody.”

  “Hold, Luke.”

  Please, God, I’m trusting You…

  He could reach out and grab the gun, turning it on Chuma faster than the kid could even take a breath.

  And he could probably even take out a good portion of the camp before getting Kafara to safety.

  How, then, would he live beyond that? He stared at Chuma, saw sweat beading on his upper lip, saw the way the weapon shook, ever so slightly in his hand. This kid didn’t want to kill him. Not really. He just didn’t want a beating for disobeying orders, for being responsible for Kafara’s disappearance.