Happily Ever Ninja (Knitting in the City #5)

by Penny Reid

  I frowned, watching him.

  It was as though he were in no hurry to leave the streets of Lagos—which was crazy because the longer he dawdled, the more opportunity he gave anyone and everyone who might be staking out the building to pick him up off the streets.

  If any of his captors were milling about, hoping he’d show up and be stupid enough to loiter, then they would not be disappointed. He would be easy to abduct . . .

  And the longer he loitered, the more I became certain he wanted to be abducted.

  . . . that motherfucking sonofabitch.

  My mouth went dry and my heart was lodged back in my throat. Determination to force him on the back of my motorcycle, or die trying, flooded through my veins with a new overwhelming violence. I wished he’d left me the Ketamine dart gun, because I’d give him a thorough poking.

  I moved to start the motorcycle with shaking fingers, intent on beating him senseless, when two strong hands grabbed me from behind and yanked me off the bike.

  Obviously, I hadn’t been paying enough attention to my surroundings as I’d been so entirely focused on my dumbass husband, strolling around in front of the US consulate in Lagos, Nigeria, dressed in a godforsaken alternate reality St. Louis Cardinals 2004 World Series Champions T-shirt!

  THAT MOTHERFUCKING SONOFABITCH!

  Regardless, the man now holding me with a muscled arm around my waist and a large palm over the front of my helmet was about to be the recipient of my frantic rage. Quite easily, I hooked my leg around his and kicked forward, tripping him and bringing us both to the ground. As a consequence, his hold on me faltered and I used the opportunity to whip my head back, bringing the hard surface of the helmet to his nose with a satisfying crunch.

  An unhappy and sharp curse met my ears as the man’s hands flew to his face. I turned, intent on breaking his nose if it wasn’t already broken, or delivering a tight throat punch, but then faltered when I identified my assailant as none other than Dan the Security Man.

  “What the hell?” I breathed out, frowning at him and pushing the windshield of my helmet up so I could see him better. Blood was gushing from his nose and his eyes were closed tight.

  “I think you boke my nose,” he groaned, laughing a little. “Fuck a duck, that hurts!”

  My eyes moved over his form as I knelt next to him, checking for additional injuries; two pedestrians walked around us like we weren’t even there. “Dan? What were you thinking? And what the hell is going on?”

  “I was thinking I needed to stop you from swooping in and trying to save Greg.” His voice was tight and nasally as he tested his nose. “I was also thinking I need to get you off the street as soon as possible, but I forgot you’re a fucking ninja.”

  Remembering the original source of my fury, I twisted over my shoulder looking for my husband. I turned just in time to see a black Mercedes SUV pull away from the sidewalk where he’d been standing and speed away.

  He was no longer there.

  I gasped for air. Tears of frustration gathered in my eyes as I desperately searched the now-empty corner.

  But it was no use.

  I felt it in my bones.

  He’d been taken. Again.

  He’d left me behind. Again.

  CHAPTER 18

  Dear Wife,

  The thought of losing you is unbearable; please believe in me. Always remember that no matter how dark things may seem, there is always a little sunshine for you in my heart. Love you today, tomorrow, and forever.

  -J

  Letter

  California, USA

  Married 29.5 years

  ~Present Day~

  *Fiona*

  “Talk to me, Quinn. Tell me what’s going on.”

  If Quinn had been surprised by my sudden presence in the surveillance vehicle, he made no outward sign of it. For my part, I was incapable of being shocked or surprised by anything as my mind was singularly focused on one goal: finding Greg.

  When Dan led me to the oil tanker and gestured for me to climb inside the huge cylinder that would typically house and transport gallons of oil, I did so without question.

  When my feet landed on carpet and my gaze landed on Quinn’s straight back, standing in front of a series of screens mounted to the far wall, surrounded by what appeared to be the latest in espionage gadgetry, I barely blinked.

  The floor¸ ceiling, and walls were carpeted—dark blue and granite grey—the extra padding had likely been added to absorb sound and ensure the interior remained at a constant temperature of sixty degrees Fahrenheit. Server racks stood beneath a long counter sitting at hip level, hence the chilly temperature. Computing servers are at peak functionality when they’re kept cool, the temperature of the space alerting me to the reality that this vehicle was capable of substantial computing power, a mobile data processing center.

  “How much do you know?” Quinn asked, glancing over his shoulder. He then did a double take, his eyes moving over Dan’s face. “What happened to you?”

  “Fiona Archer, if that is her real name.”

  Quinn lifted his chin and nodded once. “He pissed you off?”

  “Not precisely,” Dan volunteered, walking past us both toward the front of the vehicle. “I made the mistake of grabbing her from behind. She didn’t know it was me, so she defended herself.”

  “I’m sorry, Dan. I never would have—” I shook my head, my fingers coming to my forehead. I had a pounding headache.

  “Are you all right?”

  I felt the weight of Quinn’s gaze, his cool, assessing inspection reminded me of a surveillance drone.

  I ignored his question because I wasn’t all right. “Where’s Marie?”

  “She’s here.”

  “Here?” This was unexpected news. “You mean here here? In the tanker?”

  “Yeah. We borrowed this thing from my colleague who is providing our security. He loaned me the driver and armed escort at the front, good guys, anxious to do right. I didn’t want to take a chance and leave Marie back at the hotel.”

  “She’s our ace in the hole, our secret weapon,” Dan added, talking around his busted nose.

  “Marie is back there, asleep. She was up for over twenty-four hours, working against a deadline for tomorrow’s paper.” Quinn tossed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating a narrow door which must’ve led to an additional room of some sort.

  “This thing is like an RV, surveillance van, and bunker all rolled into one.” Dan straightened from where he’d been bent over, bringing a bag of ice to his nose. “And it’s perfect for this country. I’ve seen more oil tankers on the roads here in the last three days than I’ve seen over the course of my life in the States.”

  Unable to stem my insatiable panic any longer, I blurted, “Who took Greg? And why? And where is he? And—”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you everything.” Quinn held his hands up and crossed to me in three quick strides, likely sensing my impending hysteria. His steadying hands wrapped around my upper arms as I swayed, and he guided me to a seat. “Let me get you some water.”

  “Start talking. Please.” My request sounded shaky, but I couldn’t help it. “Please. I need to know what’s going on.”

  “Fine.” He took the chair next to mine; both were swivel chairs and had been bolted to the floor. “Greg called Alex early this morning while you were still asleep to check on the status of the hostages.”

  “Alex hasn’t been able to locate them. He knows they’re in Lagos, someplace, but he can’t pinpoint where.” Dan settled on the counter behind him.

  “Your buddy at the CIA, Banks?”

  I stiffened. “Spenser Banks, yes. What about him?”

  “He’s down here at the US consulate in Lagos. Did you hear about the articles Marie has been writing?”

  “Alex filled us in yesterday, or was it the day before . . . ?” The days were blurring together.

  “They’ve been effective, putting pressure on the right people to act. Marie has been interviewing
the families of the other hostages as well, putting images of their children next to photographs of desolated villages here, ruined by Big Oil.”

  “Nautical Oil doesn’t like the press,” Dan added, chuckling lightly. “Oil is money, and money makes all the difference.”

  “So Buhari’s new government asked the UK and the US to step in and assist with the hostage situation. Nigeria’s relationship with Nautical Oil has been strained for years due to the government corruption and ecological damage done by the oil companies. Buhari is trying to change that, clean up their image, clean up Nigeria, forge a new partnership.”

  “This all happened since we last spoke to Alex?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Nautical Oil’s shares have dropped every day since Marie ran her first article.” Dan removed the ice and touched the bridge of his nose gingerly. “Loud, angry shareholders and bad press is a language they speak.”

  This was all fascinating, but it still didn’t address my main question. “So, where is Greg?”

  Quinn studied me for a long moment, then sighed before responding, “Alex put Greg in touch with Banks.”

  “Spenser and Greg spoke?” If I weren’t already pushed beyond my limit, this information would have floored me. Greg did not like Spenser, and the feeling was mutual.

  “That’s right.” Quinn nodded, his gaze once again probing. “Greg explained about the money and the acetone, how we’re dealing with one hundred million dollars or more, instead of a few million.”

  “The money—or rather, the amount of money—changed everything,” Dan added dryly. “The CIA is now fully invested, instead of just making a show of it in order to patronize Nautical Oil and Buhari.”

  I guessed the Agency’s reasoning. “That kind of money is typically associated with terrorist cells, not small illegal oil refineries.”

  “Exactly.” Dan nodded once, grabbing a water bottle behind him, leaning forward and handing it to me. “The CIA doesn’t want to lose track of the money trail.”

  “Greg and Banks came up with a revised plan, since Greg was already on the ground, had the Intel, and time is of the essence,” Quinn explained.

  “What is the plan?” I became aware that the tanker was moving, thus we were being transported somewhere. I gripped the counter at my left, bracing my weight against it. “And why did the Agency rope you guys in? Don’t they have their own people on the ground?”

  Quinn continued, “The CIA isn’t happy about our involvement, but it was one of Greg’s stipulations for agreeing to his part. As I understand it, the basics haven’t changed from the original plan you and Greg devised with Alex: use the threat of the exploding refinery as a distraction, move the mysterious pile of illegally begotten money to a safe location, ransom for the hostages using the stolen money.”

  Dan cut in, “Except, since neither Alex nor the CIA can find the hostages, and it was decided that determining their location and rescuing them is the highest priority, Greg agreed to be taken.”

  “That makes no sense!” I surged to my feet, growling.

  “No. It does.” Dan’s tone softened. “He’s being tracked, and he’s wired. Quinn has the earpiece in right now, and you can listen too if you want. We can hear everything he hears; we know exactly where he is.”

  “And we’re not the only ones. He’s being tracked by the CIA, and a unit of Special Forces,” Quinn added.

  “But that doesn’t guarantee his safety. You’re using him as a beacon to find the others, but they could- they could—” they could easily kill him. I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

  Quinn reached forward and took my hand, encouraging me to sit down again. “Fiona, we don’t believe they’ll harm him. First of all, they know he’s been sent in by Buhari, the US, and Nautical Oil to conduct the negotiations.”

  “Who are they, anyway? Who are we dealing with?” I was grasping at straws, but if I knew the enemy then I would better understand what they were capable of.

  “Alex believes this group is spearheaded by Abayomi Contee, the former oil minister of Nigeria, who was deposed when Buhari came into power. Contee had been working in conjunction with Boko Haram and was responsible for . . . well, let’s just say many atrocities.”

  As Dan would say, Well, fuck a duck. We were dealing with psychopaths and terrorists. Just great.

  Dan’s big eyes were rimmed with compassion despite the fact that I almost broke his nose. “Don’t forget about the hundred million, Fiona. Once Greg and I secured it, Banks sent Contee’s people a message. Contee knows we have her money.”

  “And Alex believes the money is a payoff for Boko Haram, their portion of the illegal refineries’ profit,” Quinn added evenly. “Abayomi Contee needs that money, or else Boko Haram will come after her family, her people. Contee won’t do anything to Greg or the hostages until she has that money in hand.”

  “Where is the money?” I narrowed my eyes on Dan. “How did you and Greg move it so quickly?”

  “I took a helicopter this morning, then drove from Enugu and met Greg at the guard house.”

  “You mean the sentinel house? Where we found the money last night?”

  “That’s right. It was a sonofabitch to find. I had to follow the pipeline.” Dan covered his nose with the ice again. “We moved it into one of the dry pipes.”

  “You put the cash into the dry pipes . . .” And that’s why Greg didn’t need the mobile clinic. Hiding the money was just as effective as moving it, assuming Greg and Dan were successful at covering their tracks.

  “Greg has it rigged to explode if anything should happen to him. He has to speak certain phrases every hour into a transmitter Alex had me bring over this morning.”

  “They could torture the information out of him,” I hypothesized, but even as I said the words I knew them to be false.

  “Yeah. That’s unlikely.” Quinn’s words echoed my thoughts. Greg was a former Marine. He’d been trained to withstand torture as only Marines can—with a single-minded, brutal focus.

  I watched Quinn press two fingers against his ear, adjusting his earpiece; so I asked expectantly, “Did Greg say something? What are you hearing?”

  He shook his head. “Greg hasn’t said much yet, just made some joke about the fuel efficiency of their car. They ignored him. They’re still en-route to . . . well, wherever they’re going.”

  “Have they hurt him?” I asked haltingly, needing to know but dreading the answer. I wanted to listen in . . . but I didn’t. But I did.

  “Not from what I’ve heard so far. But they did blindfold him.” Quinn’s humorless smile looked more like a grimace.

  “Good. That’s good.” Blindfolding was good; no reason to blindfold someone if you knew they weren’t going to live. My attention refocused on Dan. “Why didn’t you and Greg take the helicopter back to Lagos? Instead of driving?”

  Dan already sounded less pained. “We didn’t want to give Contee’s people any clues as to where we hid the money. If we flew out of Enugu, then she’d know it was in the vicinity. The way it stands now, she has no idea whether it’s in Lagos or in Tom Brady’s deflated balls—so to speak.”

  “So what’s the plan now? What happens from here?”

  Quinn straightened, pressing the earpiece again with two fingers. “Hopefully, Contee doesn’t know we’re following her people. We track Greg until their destination is reached, confirm the hostages are on sight, then Special Forces goes in and extracts both Greg and the hostages. After that, Buhari’s police arrive, Contee and her people are arrested.”

  I nodded, absorbing this information, and endeavoring to sort out how I could insinuate myself into the extraction team.

  “How can I help?” I glanced between Greg and Dan.

  They shared a look, but neither spoke for a long moment.

  Eventually, Quinn said, “There’s something else you should know. Banks is aware you’re in Nigeria, he’s known the whole time. He used your presence here to push Greg into using himself as bait.
”

  My jaw opened and closed as I struggled to force my mouth to form words. “He what?”

  “Banks threatened to have you arrested for treason if and when you made it back to Chicago, unless Greg cooperated, helped the CIA get their hands on the money and free the hostages.” Dan gave me a humorless smile.

  “Fiona, I think he would have agreed to free the hostages. But, you should know,” Quinn waited until I gave him my full attention before continuing, “Greg negotiated amnesty for you as part of the deal.”

  ***

  Both Quinn and Dan hovered over me until I ate a sandwich and drank a liter of water. I listened to the wire feed for about half an hour. Nothing was happening. Nothing was said. But I could hear Greg breathe every once in a while. Or sigh. Or the rustle of his clothes. Each sound made my heart twist painfully and was followed by completely unhelpful thoughts like, What if this is the last time I hear him breathe?

  Dan and Quinn held a quiet conference in one corner while I obsessed about the sounds of Greg’s oxygen intake.

  Eventually, Dan walked over and said, “You stink. Go take a shower, catch a nap. This could take hours.”

  I appreciated Dan’s approach, his blunt speech, his lack of sympathy and coddling. If he’d coddled me or patronized me or promised me everything would work out, I think I might have kidney-punched him.

  Therefore, I acquiesced, mostly because nothing was happening. I was making myself crazy, and my body needed rest and a hot shower. He steered me to the back room. It was a small space, no more than seven feet by eight feet. Marie was passed out asleep; she was on the bottom bunk of a stacked cot. I made a beeline to the bathroom facilities, but made Quinn and Dan promise to get me once Greg and his captors arrived at the hostage site.

  Numbly, I took a shower and washed both myself and my bodysuit as much as I was able. Then I rifled through Marie’s bag for some clean clothes, knowing she wouldn’t mind. I settled on a pair of black yoga pants and tank top. She was taller than me, but we were usually the same size. Now the clothes were a little baggy.