by Rachel Grant
The room went silent. He met his XO’s gaze. The man gave him the signal to mute his end of the call.
Pax did as directed, and the soundless seconds stretched on as they all waited to hear from Morgan.
A single gunshot sounded, followed by a stream of curses that was pure foul-mouthed fairy. Pax smiled even as tears came to his eyes. She’s alive.
In trouble, but alive.
“Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?” Morgan asked.
Pax couldn’t make out the muffled response.
A primal, blood-curdling yell sounded. The yell became Arabic curses.
She shrieked, and there were several thumping sounds. Was Morgan fighting the man?
A few male grunts played over the speakers, and Pax hoped that meant Morgan got in some good hits. A loud whack was followed by a shriek from Morgan, which abruptly cut off.
There was nothing but silence for several seconds, then Pax’s phone chimed. The screen flashed with the red symbol that indicated the call had been cut off on the other end.
Pax glanced at the map. The SEAL team was three minutes out.
The hands around Morgan’s throat tightened. She was going to pass out. The man had gone berserk after seeing the body in the back of the van, and he’d lunged for her after letting out a primal yell. She’d fought him off, but she was shaken from everything that happened and slipped, allowing him a window to gain the upper hand.
She bucked against the clawlike hand. She needed air.
Blood rushed in her ears, blocking out all other sound. His grip on her right hand was loose, and she broke free and jabbed him in the eye. He recoiled but didn’t release her throat.
She grabbed at the hand, desperate.
SEALs were coming. If she could just keep these men here long enough, the Navy team would save her. Just as that thought formed, the man who had her pinned by the throat was yanked backward. She coughed as she took in air, wheezing in a shallow breath through her bruised windpipe.
Her vision was blurred. Had a SEAL saved her?
A man scooped her up by the shoulders and dragged her backward. Toward the Humvee. Not a SEAL, then. One of the other militants. She gasped, trying to take in dusty, hot air, which scraped her throat and seared her lungs.
She was shoved in the back of the Humvee. A man followed her inside, practically sitting on her. She fought against him, and he grabbed her hands, then slapped her across the face, a harsh blow that had her head spinning. “Enough!” the man yelled. “Or I will tell Desta that François killed you.” He leaned out of the Humvee and fired a pistol.
Through the doorway, she saw the man who’d choked her. His forehead sprouted a red dot, then he dropped to the ground. Another man—the one who must’ve pulled her attacker from her—stepped over the body of his former comrade and climbed into the front seat of the Humvee.
“That was François,” the gunman said. “He attacked you because you killed his brother.”
She said nothing. She was too busy reeling, trying to take in all that had happened. She leaned over and vomited on the seat between her and the gunman, surprised to discover there was any food left in her stomach.
The man glared at her, and raised his hand, as if to strike again, but maybe he realized another blow would just make her puke again, because he lowered his hand and shouted to the driver to move.
The heavy vehicle surged forward. She slapped a hand over her mouth, fighting a different kind of nausea.
This was really happening.
Her gaze darted around the vehicle. It was old, battered. A remnant from an earlier conflict. She never would have mistaken it for the armored ride Ripley drove, except she’d been out of sorts.
She decided to focus on the fact that a team of SEALs was in the air and would likely spot them. They knew she was in a Humvee. This vehicle would be hard to hide. They’d find her. She glanced backward, watching Djibouti City fade into the dust. They rounded a bend and came to an abrupt halt.
Another vehicle waited. This one an ancient SUV. She was dragged from the Humvee and shoved into the back of the old Land Cruiser.
“Don’t vomit in this one,” the gunman said as he bound her hands. “We’ll be in this truck for a while.”
In minutes, they were off. The Humvee went one direction, the Land Cruiser another.
The Blackhawk wouldn’t find her. Not now. These men would take her into Ethiopia and straight to Desta.
But she had the tracker. Once she was settled, she’d trigger it, and the Blackhawk would come. She would be found. She would be rescued.
Pax stared at the monitor that carried the live feed from a camera strapped to one of the SEAL team members. His heart pounded as he took in the carnage at the abandoned cargo van. One man with a slit throat, another with a knife in his chest, just as Morgan had described. It was the third body that caused his blood to run cold. A bullet between the eyes. But who had fired that shot?
Where was Morgan?
Ripley had arrived in his Humvee five minutes after the SEAL team landed. He’d grabbed two SEALs and taken off after the active GPS signal from Morgan’s cell phone. Pax watched monitor three as they closed in on the cell phone’s red dot. A direct line to Ripley had been patched into the command center, and the Special Forces operator’s voice carried over the speaker.
“The only vehicle on this road is a small pickup truck, heading deep into the desert.” Ripley switched to Arabic and Pax assumed he was commanding the driver of the pickup to pull over, using the Humvee’s loudspeaker. Feedback from the microphone caused a piercing tone, and the radio was shut off.
Pax waited, knowing in his gut Morgan wasn’t in that truck. It wouldn’t be that easy, not when the phone call had been deliberately cut off by someone on Morgan’s end. They knew about the phone, and if they didn’t want it followed, they’d have pulled the battery.
But still, it was a lead that had to be followed.
Long minutes later, Ripley radioed the base. “Negative on Dr. Adler. We’ve recovered the phone, which was in the back of the pickup. The driver didn’t know it was there. It was probably tossed in the back. The driver says he passed an old Humvee five klicks back, on the edge of the city. Also, the US should probably buy the guy some new tires. We shot out two when he didn’t pull over.”
Pax’s vision tunneled. He’d expected this report, but still, the reality of it had him reeling.
Forty-two minutes had passed since he’d last heard her voice, and they had no fucking clue where she was.
The truck drove in the shadows of a ridge, which would make it hard to see from the air. Morgan tracked the sun, well aware of the time of day. She didn’t need her compass to know what direction they drove.
The plan had been simple. She’d trigger the tracker; the US would get Desta’s location. They’d send a team to save her, and they’d take out Etefu Desta in the process. The US had agreements with the Ethiopian government. They might not want US interference, but they’d tolerate it, because it would be lucrative for them, and Desta was a thorn in their side as well. But after an hour of driving, the problem with the plan became alarmingly clear.
They weren’t driving west toward Ethiopia.
No. They’d been heading steadily southeast, which meant they were taking her to the one place the US military would have the most difficulty entering. The one place no American in their right mind would willingly go given the current situation.
Her abductors were taking her into Somalia.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Miles short of the border, the SUV pulled over. She’d managed to pick up two of her captors’ names from listening to them argue. The driver, Saad, demanded she strip, then she was given a plain, traditional buna dress to wear without bra or underwear. Considering they’d skipped the cavity search, she wasn’t about to complain. But then Kaafi—the man who’d shot François—told Saad to gag her in addition to binding her hands and feet.
She recoiled. “No
. Please,” she said to Kaafi, who was clearly the leader. “If I vomit, I might choke.”
The militant merely glared at her. “Then don’t vomit.”
A new wave of fear washed through her, worse than when she’d realized she was being dragged into Somalia. She held her breath against the sobs that wanted to break free as she was bound and gagged and forced into the rear footwell of the SUV. A coarse blanket was draped over her. The heat was suffocating under the wool covering, and she wondered if it would be her burial shroud.
She’d assumed they’d cross the border using one of the panya smuggling routes that were rampant in Somalia, so why were they hiding her? But even if they did go via the main road, ransom payments were a major portion of Somalia’s gross domestic product, it was hard to believe border guards would bother to halt them.
Was this a simple abduction for ransom? Or was this about Linus or Broussard?
The battered SUV bounced along the pitted road. She suffocated beneath the hot blanket and tried not to fall apart.
Months ago, after reading through the various warnings put out by the US embassy regarding work in Djibouti, she’d said to Staci, a close friend and fellow server at Double D, that she’d make a suicide pact with one of her field workers before she’d let herself be dragged into Somalia.
She’d only been partially kidding. She’d known the risk was real, but somehow, not that real. Yet here she was. The jokes had proven to be both horribly unfunny and terribly naïve. Following through with a foolish, poorly considered suicide plan hadn’t been an option. She was being taken into Somalia. Odds were, tracker or not, she’d die there. And her death wouldn’t be easy.
The SEALs couldn’t save her. Not inside Somalia. The US military would have Desta’s location, and eventually the drones would come. They’d take out Desta and everyone inside his compound. That was the best death she could hope for. At least then Desta would be gone, unable to hurt more people.
She should have told Pax she loved him. To hell with all the SOCOM personnel listening in. She should have told him that their one forbidden night was the best night of her life, that she’d never felt such a connection before. It had been so much more than sex.
He’d likely guessed how she felt, but there was power in hearing the words and in saying them.
She loved him. He was her soldier. Her Green Beret. Everything she’d never known she wanted wrapped into one perfect, flawed caveman.
The truck slowed to a stop, and Kaafi placed his boot on her head and uttered a sharp warning for her to be quiet.
They must be at the border. Not a panya route, then.
The driver spoke with someone—likely a border guard—in Arabic or Somali. She debated making a noise to get the guard’s attention. The measures Kaafi had taken to hide and silence her told her they did have something to fear, and she wondered if the US military had put out the Djiboutian equivalent of an Amber alert, and if that would even matter in the lawless region.
Pressure on her temple increased. In spite of the fact that he’d clearly been ordered to take her alive, she didn’t doubt Kaafi’s willingness to kill her.
She bit down on the gag in her mouth and thought of the look on Pax’s face when he’d draped the scarf over her hair in the market the day after they met. She held on to that image and remained silent.
She had to survive until she got to Desta’s. After she’d triggered the tracker she could take risks. Until then, she’d be an obedient prisoner.
Pax stared at the monitor that showed the flight path of the search helicopters. They worked in a grid, clearing one section, then moving on, much as Morgan did on her archaeological survey. Soon the search would be called off. Morgan’s abductors had plenty of time to cross the border into Ethiopia. She was long gone, out of their searchable range.
General Adler dropped into the empty seat next to him, but thankfully, the man remained silent. Pax didn’t think he could find words to try to comfort the man. They shared a similar agony, but beyond passing on Morgan’s apology, Pax was at a loss for what to say.
And he was still pissed at the way the general had humiliated Morgan during the meeting on his first night in Djibouti.
They sat in silence as the men around them discussed options, and finally the CO gave the order for the search helicopters to return. Pax had known it would happen, but still, the order was a blow.
Unless they received a signal from the tracker or had a tip she was being held in a particular area, active searching would cease. Pax wanted to kick the walls, to smash the nearest object. He hadn’t found it this hard to hold back a violent outburst since he was a hotheaded nineteen-year-old out to prove himself.
He debated going to the gym, but then he wouldn’t be here. And what if a transmission from the tracker came in?
The searchers returned, and Pax remained in the control room, staring at the monitors that were now blank.
Cal appeared at his side and dropped a plate of food in front of him. “I figured we wouldn’t be able to convince you to go to the cafeteria.”
Pax nodded and said thanks. He dutifully ate, because he knew he needed the calories. His body was used to being pushed to the limit and would perform as required, as long as he did his part and provided fuel. He didn’t pay attention to the meal before him. Couldn’t smell or taste it. It was fuel, nothing more.
He could well imagine the horrors she faced, and the idea that she would suffer—could be suffering even now—caused his vision to tunnel. His fear for her was unlike any he’d ever experienced before.
Dimly, he was aware this could be the thing that broke him. Not since his divorce when he was twenty-one had he seen himself as breakable. He’d spent the intervening years denying that fragility, out to prove that no mere relationship had the power to take him down. He’d built a mental wall against commitment. He’d made rules that justified his solitary life.
The intense attraction to Morgan was part of the reason he’d attempted to resist her. He’d known she’d be a weakness. A vulnerability. Not just to his focus or his job, but to his content isolation.
He should have told her he loved her. Was crazy for her. That he’d never be the same because of her. But all he could do was hope thoughts of the crazy wonderful intensity they shared would carry her through the coming nightmarish hours.
Moving forward, he needed to turn off those thoughts. He needed to shut down the emotions that threatened to tear him apart, because he needed to remain whole. He needed to fight for her, and his XO would only let him stay in the game if he saw a Special Forces operator in prime mental and physical condition.
Only then could he go after Desta. Only then could he save her. And he would save her, or he’d die trying.
Morgan was pulled from the suffocating footwell after they cleared the border. They drove onward over rough roads, deep into Somaliland. Pax had called Djibouti lawless, but the country was a veritable haven of orderly governance compared to Somalia and the self-declared state of Somaliland that bordered Djibouti.
Darkness fell, and she stared out the rear window, orienting herself with the position of the stars. The angle of the North Star from the horizon gave her latitude. If the star was straight above her, or ninety degrees, she’d be at the North Pole. If it looked like it was sitting on the horizon, she’d be on the equator. Midway between, she’d be at forty-five degrees latitude.
She was somewhere south of eleven degrees north of the equator now, with the north star so low on the horizon, she rarely was able to spot it through the rear window, but when she did see it, it confirmed her fears that she was being taken deeper and deeper south into Somaliland.
They drove late into the night, but she’d lost her ability to gauge time, as each minute felt longer than the last. At some point, adrenaline gave out, and she escaped into the oblivion of sleep.
Ten minutes or two hours later—she had no idea which—Kaafi dragged her from the back of the SUV, without bothering to wake her first.
Her shoulder hit the side of the vehicle, and she staggered to get her feet beneath her before she landed on her face.
She was taken into a run-down house and wondered for a moment if this was Desta’s compound. But the house was too small for an operation as large as his must be. Kaafi led her around the back of the small structure so she could squat to pee. As this was likely the least of the indignities she would face, she offered no objection even though his piercing glare ratcheted up her fear another notch higher. At least the buna dress provided covering.
Bladder voided, she wondered if they’d return to the vehicle, but instead, Kaafi led her into the main living area, where he tied her to a heavy metal ring bolted to the wall. “We will all sleep,” he said. “You try to escape, you will be shot between the eyes.”
She shuddered, realizing the purpose of the wall-mounted ring was to tie up prisoners. A kidnappers’ rest stop.
She lay on her side with her back to the wall, her arms stretched above her head, parallel to the hard ground. Her nose could reach the tracker, and Kaafi pulled out a phone and dialed, indicating cell coverage.
They’d be here for a few hours. Long enough for a team of SEALs to fly in. But this was Somaliland, meaning they’d need more than a few hours to plan, and this wasn’t her final destination. Desta wasn’t here.
Decision made, she closed her eyes and released a slow breath. Kaafi grumbled and tucked away his phone. It appeared there wasn’t a cell signal after all. This was a lesson in making slow, reasoned decisions. She couldn’t be rash. She had to exercise patience. She’d have one chance to call for help, and that was all.
She dozed fitfully. Not really sleeping yet not quite awake either.
Dawn arrived, and she was stiff from the floor and dehydrated with a fierce headache. Kaafi gave in to her plea for water, then again took her outside so she could empty her bladder. She’d had precious little fluids in the last twenty hours, making the excursion largely unnecessary.
