by Penny Reid
“Wait a minute,” Quinn interrupted, glaring at the three of us, but addressing his comments to Alex. “If you heard the phone call, then you heard what Banks said about Fiona going to Nigeria. She could be arrested for treason.”
“I’ve been arrested lots of times.” Alex shrugged. “It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”
“And what about Grace and Jack?” Dan grumbled. “Fiona, you know I like you, but how can you risk your life like that? What if neither you nor Greg make it back? You can’t leave those two kids without any parents.”
I considered Dan’s comments and wondered how I could possibly explain my perspective without sounding like an unfeeling mother. How could I explain to someone who’d never been married or never had children? I had to get Greg because of the children. I owed it to them. Because if Greg died, I would. . . I’d be dead too.
The look I was giving him must’ve been intense because he flinched and held his hands up between us. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“I’m not going to shoot you, Dan.”
Under his breath he added, “Christ, you’re scary sometimes.”
“But here’s what you don’t understand about me: in a street fight, in a gun fight or a knife fight, or even hand-to-hand combat, I would annihilate you. Quinn, too. No problem.”
Silence greeted my revelation. Dan stared at me like I was weird, then snorted, looking to Quinn for commiseration. In my peripheral vision I saw Quinn nod his head slightly, confirming my words.
I knew Quinn had run background checks on all of us when he’d proposed to Janie. He was suspicious by nature. But now I realized how extensive the background checks must’ve been.
Dan turned sober brown eyes on me, as though he were seeing me for the first time. He swallowed. Loudly.
“Police officers—with children—go out on the streets every day. Soldiers—with children—are asked to sacrifice for their country. I will not be made to feel guilty or judged about risking my life to rescue my husband, because I don’t do so lightly or with flippant disregard for my kids. I am very well trained. I was part of an elite extraction team as a field agent. I can do this.”
I leaned forward and Dan leaned away in a mirroring motion. Alex smirked and dipped his head to his chest to hide his smile.
“Quinn is right. The greatest risk to me when I go to Nigeria is capture by the US government. So we have to make sure that doesn’t happen. But allow me to address your words about Jack and Grace. If Greg died, I would die too. I know I would. We have been married for fourteen years. He is my soul.”
He truly was. He’d been my first real home, my first unconditional anything. And he still was.
Perhaps my need of him was unhealthy, made me weak, but I didn’t care. I was weak for him. I always would be.
I’d spent fourteen years as a we. An us. And becoming a me at this point was entirely out of the question.
“I don’t know if you can grasp that—and I mean no offense,” I continued, “I don’t know if you’ve ever loved and needed someone like I love and need Greg.”
Dan’s mouth compressed and his eyes moved between mine, a flicker of understanding behind his expression.
“So I can either sit on my talents and skills, wait for someone else to save the other half of myself, to save Jack and Grace’s father.” I leaned away, turning my attention to my hands where they rested flat on the table’s surface. “Or I can put those considerable talents to use, and do it myself.”
“What’s the plan? After we get you into Nigeria?” Quinn—finally recognizing the futility of trying to dissuade me—took a large gulp of his whiskey.
“Depending on the facility where he’s being held, I’ll either go in on my own, or ask for a volunteer to accompany me. We extract him and the other hostages.”
“I volunteer.” Dan lifted his hand before Alex could speak up, and pointed at the hacker. “You need to find Greg, and do all the hacking . . . weirdo voodoo stuff . . . that you do.”
“I agree.” Quinn gave his glass another twirl. “And we need to open negotiations as soon as possible, let them think there’s a lot of money to be made if they hold out for ransom. We’ll channel it through the United Kingdom, try to draw out the ruse. Then we can ask for a proof of life.”
The promise of a significant ransom might keep Greg alive long enough for me to extract him.
“You should ask Marie and Kat to help.” Alex’s fingers flew over his keyboard, his eyes affixed to the screen.
Dan stiffened, a dark cloud of disquiet passing over his features. “With what?”
“Kat can front the ransom.”
“No,” I disagreed. “Quinn should fly down to Lagos on my behalf, to negotiate the ransom. His bank account will check out.”
“His bank account is peanuts compared to Kat’s. If she were to go down there—”
I saw Dan growing agitated at the mere idea of Kat flying to Nigeria, so I decided to change the subject. “How can Marie help?”
“She can put pressure on the government, write an exposé, flash her AP credentials all over the place.”
“Marie?” Elizabeth scrunched her face. “I thought she wrote for Cosmo. She has AP credentials?”
“Yes . . .” I hadn’t thought of asking Marie for help, but the idea definitely had merit. “She’s freelance, but she’s also contract staff with the Chicago Sun, and they’re a member of the AP. She could do a human interest piece on Greg, on the abduction.”
“Human interest piece? This shit is straight-up news,” Alex snorted, shaking his head. “She might win a Pulitzer.”
CHAPTER 8
Dear Husband,
I was thinking about you and decided I would write you a little letter to let you know how much I love you. We used to write each other love notes often when we were dating and early on in our marriage. I know that life has become super hectic, especially with our two little blessings' schedules keeping us on the go and worn out, but I want to try to be better about taking time to let you know how I'm feeling, even if it's just a quick note every once in a while…
-Allison
Letter (written during lunch break at work)
Texas, USA
Married 18 years
~Present Day~
*Fiona*
I waited. And waited.
And waited.
Just after 2:00 a.m. on Friday, local time, I was released from my crate.
I was happy to be out of the crate.
I was thankful for the crate, but—after twelve hours—I also hated the crate.
“Are you okay? Do you need water?” a faceless female asked, accompanied by gentle hands reaching into the box.
“No,” I whispered, grasping her fingers and allowing her to help me from my hiding place, my felt-lined rubber soles soundless as they connected with the floor. “When do we leave?”
I heard the smile in her voice as she responded, “Elizabeth said you would be all business.” And then with a more serious tone, she added, “We leave within the hour. I’m sorry about your husband.”
“Thanks,” I nodded, even though she likely couldn’t see the small movement. The room we were in was pitch black¸ and the smell of disinfectant and bleach permeated the air.
I had to trust this woman, Elizabeth’s friend, to keep me safe and hidden for the next six hours on a medical transport until she dropped me off one hour south of Enugu. She would continue on with her team to conduct clinic visits in Enugu. I would hike three miles south through mostly jungle to the camp where Greg was being kept.
The official story: I’d decided to accompany Ashley and Drew on their drive south. I was helping Ashley get settled in Tennessee.
Professor Matt Simmons agreed to keep an eye on the apartment.
Elizabeth and Nico took Grace and Jack. I promised I would return—from Tennessee—within two weeks. Jack liked the idea of staying in their penthouse, especially since Nico always owned the latest and greatest gadgets.
Plus, Elizabeth was Grace’s favorite person ever since she’d given Grace a Build-A-Bear kit two years ago.
Saying goodbye to the kids had been difficult. I knew it would be. I’d prepared for tears—theirs and mine—but they were fine. They waved goodbye with smiling faces. I cried in the car afterward.
I called work and explained I had a family emergency. I told my contract supervisor I’d be off the grid for a while and couldn’t accept any new work until mid-April.
Unofficially, I drove to Tennessee with Ashley and Drew. From there, I used Ashley’s mother’s passport—same height, same weight, same eye color, just ten years older—and flew to Puerto Rico. Luckily, US passports aren’t cross-referenced with the social security death database. Therefore, Ashley’s mother’s passport was still valid.
In Puerto Rico, we used one of Quinn’s contacts to get me on board a FedEx carrier bound for Paris. In Paris, I hopped on a Red Star mail carrier flight bound for Lagos, Nigeria, as an employee of Grinsham Banking and Credit Systems —one of Quinn’s corporate clients based out of London.
I didn’t enter the country of Nigeria as a person. I entered as a parcel, a wooden crate delivered to the north Lagos triage center of Doctors Without Borders.
“I’m Dr. Evans.” The woman’s grip on my hand turned into a handshake.
“It’s nice to meet you. Call me Fe.”
Our fingers entwined again as she led me out of the room where my crate had been delivered. I assumed it was a storage room, or an internal delivery dock. She paused just as we approached a door-shaped strip of light.
“Put these scrubs on. I’ve included a headscarf.” She handed me a bundle, which I accepted. But I hesitated.
Within my tool belt had been several vials of Ketamine, courtesy of Dr. Drew Runous, federal game warden of the Smoky Mountains National Park in Green Valley, Tennessee. Also in my possession were a satellite phone, a Ketamine-loaded dart gun and a hundred rounds of Ketamine darts, a SIG DAK—Greg’s preferred weapon of choice, a SIG X-Five—my preferred weapon of choice, a switchblade, and a survival kit. The goal was to get in and out with no bloodshed. Nothing that would make the news, draw any attention to my presence in the country, or inspire retaliation.
I didn’t need a body count. I just needed Greg.
However, that meant the tool belt and harnesses strapped to my bodysuit would look bulky and suspicious beneath fitted clothes.
“What size are these?”
“Small. Elizabeth gave me your size.”
“I need a large. And a lab coat.”
Dr. Evans vacillated for a moment, dithering like she wanted to ask why I would need a bigger size, but then released my hand, reclaimed the bundle, and shifted away. I listened to her as she blindly searched for the larger scrubs and requested lab coat. Even though the room smelled like a hospital, I gathered a large breath and held it in my lungs, thankful for any air beyond the confines of the crate.
I’d received word from Alex while I was in transport on the Red Star mail carrier that he’d located Greg and the other hostages. Apparently, his captors hadn’t tried to hide their whereabouts or cover their tracks, adding fuel to the theory Greg had been abducted by a corrupt government faction.
Meanwhile, Quinn—accompanied by Marie and Dan—had arrived two days ago via a commercial flight and were staying on Victoria Island at one of the luxury resorts in Lagos.
The biggest issue we’d encountered so far related to private citizens and firearms. Private citizens could not carry firearms in Nigeria. This meant all security, private or otherwise, had to be contracted with the local government. Quinn opted to hire a team of guards through central military channels, trusting the advice of a local contact and old friend, who just so happened to own the luxury hotel where he was staying. His friend handpicked the guards, but I could tell Quinn was still uneasy trusting anyone with his wellbeing and safety.
Last I heard, Quinn, Dan, and Marie had already met with the local police and initiated the process for ransom negotiations.
Dr. Evans passed me a new bundle, which I accepted, and quickly set to work pulling on the baggy attire.
“When we leave this room, we’re going to pass through the hospital, then exit via a set of double doors. We’ll be taking one of the triage vans—a mobile clinic unit—and two of my colleagues will join us in about thirty minutes. They’re locals, trained medical assistants. I’ll tell them you’re a visiting physician, but don’t be surprised if they address you as Oyibo.”
“Oyibo?”
“White person. Whereas they call me Akátá, it means African American.”
I slipped on the lab coat. “One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Is there a toilet on the way?”
She chuckled. I heard her steps move away, toward the outline of the door. “Yes. No problem.”
I did have to go to the bathroom. But more than that, I hadn’t yet received word whether proof of life had been obtained. I was itching to reconnect my satellite phone and check for an update.
***
I waited. And waited.
And waited.
And while I waited, I watched.
The camp wasn’t heavily guarded. Not at all. I observed neither rhyme nor reason to the guard’s movements. Obviously, they had no expectation of being raided. And this angered me.
Initial overhead schematics sent by Alex misrepresented the size of the structure. I’d assumed it was a warehouse. It wasn’t. It was an old refinery, likely illegal, and the ceilings couldn’t have been higher than twelve feet. The tin roof was rusted, caving and peppered with gaping holes in several places.
Alex sent a second data package just before sundown with several rough architectural sketches, presumably of the structure some fifty feet away. I was thankful for the additional specs, because the refinery had a lower level, a basement carved into the rocky earth. A single staircase led down to a long hallway with six ten-by-ten offshoots.
That’s where he was. He was in the basement, in one of those cells.
By midnight, I still hadn’t received any update from Quinn, but I was tired of waiting. I also knew, in my bones, Greg wasn’t dead. I just knew. He was alive and he was within reach.
So, after watching two of the guards for thirty minutes share a bottle of liquor, finish it, and open another—all the while playing cards on a picnic table—I made my approach.
They were already drunk. No challenge there. I did take their weapons though, emptied the magazines, and slid their semiautomatics under a rusted-out Buick LeSabre. I also picked up the half bottle of Ogogoro liquor. If anyone were to come by, they’d see two of their comrades passed out from imbibing too much distilled juice of Raffia palm trees.
I forced myself to go slow, counting to thirty between each position, listening, waiting, watching. I had to take out three more guards between the side entrance and the stairwell leading to the lower level. One of the men must’ve weighed three hundred pounds and required two Ketamine darts—one in the neck, one in the leg. I had no way to move him so I propped him against the wall and placed the half-drunk bottle of Ogogoro liquor in his fist.
Despite my training, despite all the mental preparations and subduing of emotions, the last week was catching up with me. Anxiety bloomed in my chest, a hot impatient weight. I needed to see Greg. I needed to touch him and see him and scream at him for putting me through this nightmare.
My heart galloped on adrenaline and it tasted metallic on my tongue. I was sure I’d been operating mostly on adrenaline since learning of his abduction, because my headaches were gone—or at least I hadn’t noticed them. But my hands were steady as I opened the door to the basement.
The hall was clear, lit by hundred-watt bulbs placed twelve feet apart. Several had burned out.
I itched to move, to act. My skin was too tight, stretched over my bones. Yet I waited.
A man appeared, exiting one of the cells. He had a Heckler & Koch MP5. The st
rap was around his chest, the gun on his back, and he was locking the cell door.
I needed those keys.
While he was distracted and his hands were occupied, I allowed my body to numbly operate on cruise control, going through the necessary motions. I slipped through the stairwell door, and sprinted to him on light feet. I was a shadow. He didn’t see me coming until it was too late. He dropped the keys in startled fright, and I dropped him before he could get a hand on the gun.
He was small, easy to lift and move, and he hadn’t finished locking the door. I turned the key, crouched, and peeked in. I perceived no direct light source, only greyish lines of illumination provided by a circular vent in the ceiling of the cell.
I waited.
And as I waited, straining to listen, my muscles and tendons coiled, burning with tension and frustrated inaction. I realized how much I hated waiting. Waiting completely sucked.
And then someone moved within the cell.
And coughed.
And my heart skipped.
Before I could stop myself, his name tumbled from my lips, an urgent hopeful whisper. “Greg?”
Three seconds of stillness met my query, followed by an urgent hopeful whisper. “Fe?”
I wanted to run into the cell, throw my arms around him, and—again—scream at him. That part was key, he was going to be thoroughly screamed at sometime soon.
If we made it out of this alive, I was going to kill him. But I couldn’t. Not yet.
“Are you alone? Is there anyone else in here?” My whisper was barely audible to my own ears.
He didn’t answer. I waited. My heart beat loudly between my ears. I could taste my panic.
I was about to call out to him again when he said, “Am I dead?”
“What? Greg?”
“How can you be here?”
Relief coursed through my system. He was confused, which was understandable. Truthfully, I was just grateful he was lucid enough to talk. I dragged the guard’s body back into the cell, pocketing the keys, and shutting the door as quietly as possible.
