by Rachel Grant
“If he’s taken Morgan, the asshole is going to die,” Pax said.
Savannah James fixed him with that chilling, calculating stare. “No, Pax. If Desta has Morgan—and she’s still alive—the warlord will come out of this situation more powerful than ever. The only question is, will it be China or the US pulling his strings?”
Morgan guessed she’d been in Desta’s stronghold for well over a day when the fever broke and she finally kept a meal down. She was weak but figured that after a shower, she might even feel human again.
The woman who had tended her in her illness spoke very little English, just a few keywords, and Morgan wished again she’d learned more Arabic. The woman led Morgan to a bathroom where she was presented with a bar of soap and hot and cold running water.
She took the longest shower she’d been allotted in months, but was too weak to stand for the entire ten-minute water smorgasbord. A single window was high in the bathroom wall, and the light changed from day to night in the short time she was in the room, giving her an estimate as to the time of day.
She ate an entire bowl of beans after her shower, and her stomach didn’t rebel at the influx of food. Given the rapidity of her recovery, she guessed she’d suffered food poisoning, and wondered if it had been deliberate, or if being a foreigner had caught up with her and she’d come across a bug the locals were immune to.
Bathed and fed, she wondered if she’d at last meet the warlord, but instead she was returned to the cell she’d occupied in her illness. She’d gathered that, given the time of day, she was expected to sleep.
Shockingly, she did, and she woke the following morning with renewed energy. She guessed that six days had passed since her abduction. The lack of windows in her cell made estimating time difficult, but she was certain most of the people on the base would have given up on her by now.
Did Pax believe she was dead?
What about her father? Had he given up hope?
She sat up on her cot and pulled her knees to her chest. Six days. She touched the back of her left knee. Number forty-two on Pax’s list. She wanted desperately to have Rome and the promise that rendezvous implied. For that to be possible, she had to trigger the tracker, but even more important, she needed to look for her own way to escape. She’d begun to wonder if relying on the chip was the real danger. Instead of trying to escape sooner, she’d allowed herself to be taken here, waiting for an opportunity to trigger the tracker. En route, she’d only had two guards, while she now had no idea how many men guarded Desta’s compound. It was entirely possible the fail rate of the chip was because those who had been taken before her had relied too much on being rescued and hadn’t sought their own escape.
Not that she blamed other victims. There was likely nothing they could do, especially if they were bound. Tortured. And maybe there was nothing she could have done on the journey either.
But right now, she wasn’t bound. Cruel Kaafi and menacing Saad no longer guarded her. For all she knew, the mercenaries had moved on to grab their next victim for another client.
She was weak from her illness, but that could work to her advantage. The chain had been removed when she was sick. If she let her captors continue to believe she was ill, perhaps she’d remain unbound.
She had nothing to fear from the ruse, and everything to gain.
Her secret power had always been that men underestimated her. It was time to take that to the next level.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hours later, a man with an AK-47 appeared at her cell door and insisted she get up and follow him. She moved slowly, as if weak—not faking nearly as much as she’d like—and as she’d hoped, he didn’t bother binding her.
She eyed his gun, wondering what it would take to get it from him. He held it casually, the way women held purses: an everyday accessory, there if needed but not something clutched tightly except when walking down a busy city street.
He didn’t expect her to be a threat.
Good. But it was too soon for her to act.
She only exaggerated her shaky legs a slight amount as she was escorted down a hallway and a flight of stairs. By Somali standards, the place was a palace, with multiple rooms, electricity, and hot and cold running water, but in the US, the dilapidated mansion would be considered squalid.
She was reminded of Osama bin Laden’s hideout in Abbottabad, Pakistan. The press had made much of it being an estate and at first had described it as a luxurious mansion. There was no doubt the man had been comfortable, but photos had later proven it wasn’t a grand home fit for Lifestyles of the Rich and Evil.
Desta’s home appeared similar, large, with multiple wings, but sweltering and decayed.
At last she was presented to the warlord, who sat behind a desk in a small office at the back of his estate, like any lord of the manor. The very mundaneness of his office, of the lack of fanfare after waiting for days to face down the paunchy, middle-aged African man, took the wind out of her. She didn’t have to fake being weak and grabbing a chair.
Maybe his very normalness was what rattled her. His eyes should be cold, a manifestation of his evil. He should be scarred. If this man were auditioning for the role of East African warlord for a Hollywood movie, casting directors would roll their eyes and send him home.
“It appears you were not faking your illness, as Kaafi and Saad claimed when you arrived,” the warlord said.
“They are poor nurses if they can’t recognize when a person has the flu.”
“Better that they went into mercenary work over medicine, then. However, I hired eight men to collect you, and only two completed the task, so perhaps you have proved they were poor mercenaries in addition to poor physicians.”
She stiffened. She didn’t want him to see her as capable. “It wasn’t me so much as well-trained US soldiers and in-fighting between the men. I gathered Kaafi and François didn’t get along.”
“Only François’s brother could tolerate him. He was an ugly brute.”
The audacity of a warlord calling a mercenary a brute was too much. “And you aren’t?”
“I am a prince of my people trying to reclaim the throne that was stolen from my father. I am fighting for the liberty of my people, like any of your American founding fathers.”
“Yeah. You’re a regular George Washington. Except George didn’t traffic in young girls or khat.”
“Your George Washington owned slaves, as did your Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson even sired slaves with his slave mistress. And both men grew hemp, which was legal in their time, as khat is here.”
Dammit, she hated it when warlords were up on their American history. She could argue that hemp wasn’t marijuana, but she wasn’t there to debate Jefferson’s and Washington’s legacies with Etefu Desta. “Khat may be legal here, but it’s not in the countries where you sell it.”
“You have done your homework on me. I’m flattered.”
She glared at him. “If you’ve abducted me for ransom, you’re wasting your time. The US government won’t pay, and my family is hardly wealthy.”
“Your concern is touching. Have no fear, I will be well rewarded for your abduction.”
“It’s too late to stop Linus from being revealed. I’m not needed for that.”
“Your fossilized monkey is of no concern to me. He was simply an irritation because the discovery meant your survey of the alternate route would be intensely thorough, and you might see the same signs Broussard did.”
Morgan leaned forward in her chair. The sudden movement made her dizzy, but she couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t due to illness so much as finally getting to the truth. “Is he dead?”
“Most certainly.”
“Why?”
The warlord made a tutting sound. “You aren’t nearly as clever as I’d hoped. My sources indicated you hypothesized a great aquifer deep below your project area.”
The taunt made her bristle. “I’m no geologist, but yes, I wondered if Broussard found evidence of a
n aquifer.”
“He did.”
“And you killed him. Why?”
“I did not kill him. Ali Imbert did.”
“The natural resources minister?”
“Yes. He either killed Broussard himself, or hired it done. No matter, the man is gone.”
“Why would he do that?”
The warlord sat back in his chair and studied her. “I could warn you that if I tell you, you’ll never be released. But you must know I have no intention of letting you go.”
She shivered but met his gaze without flinching. “No one will pay the ransom.”
“True.” He shrugged. “Two years ago, when the Chinese first proposed paying for the railway line from my country to the sea that should be ours, they hired a geologist—one of their own, a Chinaman, who has as much experience as Broussard but isn’t granted Western respect, because you are egocentric megalomaniacs.”
“Unlike present company,” she couldn’t help but say.
“I am a patriot.”
“As am I.”
“You have strayed far from your country, Dr. Adler, if patriotism guides you.”
“One could say so have you.”
“I am an Issa from Ethiopia. Issa are Somali. Somalia—or Somaliland—Ethiopia, Eritrea, and Djibouti should all be one, under Issa rule. I will make that happen, I will complete the dream denied my father with help from the aquifer Broussard found.”
“Because you will bring water to the people?”
“No.” His eyes flashed with glee. “Because I will use it to bring down my enemies and unite my people.” He cleared his throat. “The Chinese geologist saw the same thing you and Brossard did, and under the guise of geothermal testing, his team located the aquifer with deep bore tests.
“With the aquifer found, the Chinese government proposed to fund a privately owned desalinization plant in Eritrea, which will provide drinking water to both Eritrea and Djibouti. This was seized upon as a great generosity, when in truth, Eritrea’s plant will pump water from the aquifer, then pipe it back into Djibouti and sell it to the very people they’re stealing it from.”
The unmitigated evil of stealing water from the dry nation caused her unsettled belly to churn. “And how are you part of this plan?”
“Eritrean law prevents foreign governments from owning vital utilities. Imbert and I, through proxies, own the plant.”
“Neither of you are Eritrean.”
He shrugged. “I have papers that say otherwise, as does Imbert.” He flashed yellow teeth, indicating he’d used khat in the past, but the decay was mild, leading her to believe he hadn’t used the stimulant for several years. “I will use the proceeds to increase my army and arsenal, and then crush the very government that allowed us to build the plant. Once I’m installed as the ruler of Eritrea, the rebel state will be reunited with Ethiopia, and Djibouti can have their aquifer back.”
Her head spun at the machinations involved. “And you abducted me to stop me from exposing the aquifer? It’s not like anyone was listening to me. No one in Djibouti was even investigating Broussard’s disappearance.”
“Imbert has the police in his pocket, but you would have Police Nationale come. You were trying to get your military involved.”
“You got the US military involved when you planted a bomb under my car.”
Again, he made the tutting sound. “That wasn’t me. That was Imbert. He was trying to scare you into leaving Djibouti before you saw signs of the aquifer. He never wanted the archaeological survey to begin with. The Chinese were pushing for the railroad to be built without any investigation. It was the damn Americans who insisted, and who pushed Lemaire to make it a condition of construction. Your father, it seems, was trying to get you a job.”
Her father had played a role in her getting the contract?
How on earth did this warlord know this, when even she’d been ignorant? Her mind flashed back to the meeting in Lemaire’s office, when Imbert mentioned her father. He was telling the truth about Imbert’s involvement. “If you and Imbert are allies, why did his henchmen name you when they came to the site and put a bomb under my car?”
“It appears my partner has gotten greedy and is trying to use your government to get rid of me.”
“Now that you abducted me, that might be exactly what happens.”
“No, my dear. For that, the US military would have to know where I am. No doubt they are looking for you in Ethiopia.” He paused. “Do you even know where you are?”
“Somalia, or Somaliland, depending on who you ask.”
“Correct. You are, in fact, only twenty-six kilometers from your Camp Citron.”
She’d been right about them backtracking on the endless drive. “Why? Why did it take days to get here, then?”
“I ordered Kaafi to take you far afield, in case you were being tracked somehow. It is known teams of SEALs have located kidnapping victims within three days of abduction, but no one has been rescued after four days. I believe the US military has some sort of tracking system. My guess is a subdermal tracker with a short life—four days at best. My orders were to hold you deep in Somaliland where you couldn’t be extracted until four days had passed.”
Holy hell. The warlord had detected a pattern in unsuccessful abductions? She’d known Desta’s father, also a warlord, had sent Etefu to Oxford, as any king would send his prince to be educated abroad, but she’d never counted on Desta being a good student, of applying analysis to his terror trade. However, everything about this conversation showed he was intelligent and shrewd.
His methodical approach to kidnapping was chilling, but she was grateful he hadn’t figured out the truth, that it wasn’t the number of hours that mattered, it was access to a cell signal.
Morgan wanted to press the tracker, but she waited for a sign this house had cell coverage. It was the final missing piece.
Did Desta believe he’d get some sort of ransom for her? He’d said he would be well compensated, but there was no way the US government would pay for her release. It would be open season on Americans if they did. And it wasn’t as if she’d be valuable to the Chinese or any other government. Djibouti had neither money nor a reason to pay.
A sound emitted from his pocket, and Morgan tried to mask her reaction.
Was that a working cell phone?
He pulled out the device, and she held back a smile at the sight of the wonderful, sweet, beautiful cell phone.
After the warlord answered the call, she reached over and massaged the spot on her arm vigorously, as if it ached. Four seconds should trigger the tracker, but she kept rubbing to be certain, praying Desta would ignore her, so she could sit in proximity to his phone and let the tracker do its job at last.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Six days, one hour, and seven minutes of nothing. Pax had spent the last few days chasing down fruitless leads with Savvy. He’d spent endless hours on the computer, searching for answers. Searching for Morgan.
But the hard truth was, they didn’t even know if Desta had taken her.
The two mercenaries in lockup only gave Mouktar’s name. Mouktar led to Lemaire, and Lemaire led them to Imbert.
Imbert was cagey, but a search of his home hadn’t revealed a damn thing.
All the while, the tracker remained silent.
The command center, once a hive of activity, was now down to a skeleton staff during the odd hours of the day.
In another day or so, Pax’s XO would insist he return to his job training Djiboutians. As if he could simply return to work while Morgan remained missing.
In Yemen, he hadn’t known the victim, and in spite of what Bastian believed, they’d done everything they could. Returning to the job after the failed op—and no matter what Savvy said, it had been a failure—hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it. But this was Morgan. No way could he run live ammo training when his mind was on her. He’d be booted from the team, from SOCOM. Hell, he could be busted down to private and spend the rema
inder of his time in Djibouti on KP duty.
And he didn’t give a damn.
Pax glanced around the empty room. Most of the SOCOM staff had gone to lunch. Only Pax and one tech who monitored the various phones and computer screens remained. Pax figured he’d grab a sandwich after the others returned. He still didn’t have an appetite, but at least he remembered to eat.
As if conjured by his thoughts, a turkey sandwich appeared before him. Pax glanced up to see Cal, bringer of food, enforcer of sleep.
“Thanks,” he said.
Cal dropped into the seat next to him. “What’s the latest on Imbert?” he asked.
“Savvy is pretty sure he’s stealing from the geothermal research kitty. The guy is crooked as hell.”
“But no connection to Morgan?”
“None yet. But she’s looking into the possibility that the bomb under Morgan’s car could be Imbert’s work.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Not sure. But she’s right about one thing. Whoever set up the bomb, the sniper, even the militants in the wadi, made damn certain we’d blame Etefu Desta and look no further. They were planting the warlord’s calling card everywhere. Which isn’t really Desta’s MO. He prefers to fly below the radar, keep his dirty dealings private.”
Cal smiled. “Savannah James is a smart cookie.”
“When are you going to get off your ass and make a move?”
“Never. Spooks scare me.”
“Chickenshit.”
“Hell yeah.”
“You’re a dumbass. Savvy’s cool.”
“Cold is more like it. And since when does she let people call her Savvy?”
“Morgan started to call her that, and she discovered she liked the nickname.”
Cal laughed. “Trust Morgan to blowtorch her way into an iceberg. Hell, look at how she changed you.”
“Have I changed?” Pax asked, surprised by the statement.
“Well, for starters you’re giving relationship advice. Terrible advice, but still. It’s not like you to give a shit about anything but the job.”
