The countdown clock was running. They’d agreed to strike ninety minutes before the time Lubanga had set, to let him know exactly who was in control here. In two minutes and twenty-eight seconds, Cal’s uncle would blow up the hillside above the encampment. That would keep a good number of the troops busy while Espi set off charges along the perimeter, driving the men toward the river to escape collapsing hillside.
Cal could only hope the rest would play out according to plan.
They’d cut the timing close. It looked like the soldiers were mobilizing to move in on the village. Another ten minutes and they’d be crossing the river en masse to round up their hostages.
Thirty seconds before go time, they each chimed in on the radio, confirming they were ready. Uncle Frederic reported first, Cal last. They were ready.
The countdown reached zero and a blast sounded in the distance. Military timing, delivered by a civilian, giving Cal a fierce surge of family pride.
He zoomed in on the hillside with his high-power binoculars. The hillside shook but didn’t collapse, just as Uncle Frederic predicted. The man knew his job, and Espi was no slouch either. A second explosive detonated, and this time, the hill gave way. First came mud, then rocks and trees. The slide gained momentum as uprooted trees rolled down the hillside. Debris flowed like liquid, a massive wave of soft earth, hard rock, and a jagged tangle of vegetation.
Shouts echoed across the river. First in warning, then in fear. From Cal’s perch above the river, he could see it all. Some men went to drag their comrades out of harm’s way, while others fled left or right, out of the direct path of the mudflow.
Espi’s secondary charges went off, redirecting the fleeing men, sending them to the river, in the path of mud and rolling logs that were gaining speed.
On this side of the river, Freya stepped from the cover of jungle and approached the gently sloping bank. Across the water, men screamed and ran toward her.
Lubanga would have given strict orders not to shoot Freya. Without her, he couldn’t access the bitcoin key. If she were shot and the key went down the river… Lubanga couldn’t risk that. This might be a small, shallow stream here, but it met with a much larger river that flowed into the Congo River. If she dropped the key, it could go all the way to Inga Rapids, forever lost in the world’s largest and deadliest whitewater.
That Freya didn’t give a damn about the money was another risk for Lubanga. She could watch the USB key disappear without shedding a tear for the lost millions. Lubanga had to tread carefully if he wanted to recover the money, which explained the drastic ultimatum of holding an entire village hostage. And he’d chosen not just any village, but Cal’s family.
Cal would have protected any community, anywhere, with the same ferocity. But the fact that this was family, targeted because of him… Yeah. This fucker was going to die.
Freya wore body armor and a Kevlar helmet as she marched toward the river. Cal’s heart constricted at seeing her standing so exposed, but he couldn’t exactly tell her to sit in the corner while the men did the work. There were a dozen reasons for her to take this role, and only one objection he could think to raise: because he loved her.
But she loved him too, and she wasn’t playing that card to tell him to stand down. Her job scared the hell out of him, but his was just as risky. If this relationship was going to work—and it would—he had to accept her work in the same way she accepted his.
So there she stood, in the most vulnerable position, waiting for Lubanga to show his ugly face.
Freya was miked, but he didn’t need that to hear the collapsing hillside and screams in French, Lingala, and a half dozen other Congolese languages. “It’s her!” a man shouted, and Cal saw a group of men at the river’s edge, eyeing Freya.
AKs were lifted and pointed at her, but one man put his hand on the barrel of the man next to him and shoved it down. “Shoot her, and the general will kill us.”
So Lubanga had given himself a rank. Not surprising. It was what wannabe dictators did.
Freya lifted the bullhorn they’d gotten from the open-pit mining operation and her voice projected across the valley. “Jean Paul Lubanga, step forward if you want my bitcoin key.”
She raised a hand. Dangling from her fingers was quite possibly the most valuable USB drive in the world. They’d toyed with the idea of using a different drive as a decoy, but Freya’s key was distinct in that it had a built-in thumbprint reader. Professional grade. Lubanga might be suspicious if he saw a cheap keychain shaped like a comic book character.
Lubanga’s men were probably zooming in right now and taking a picture of the drive, noting that it was high-tech and required two-factor authentication.
A man broke apart from the crowd of soldiers and stepped to the riverbank directly across from Freya. Less than thirty feet separated them. His shout carried across the water to her microphone. “Give me the drive, Savannah.” His voice and the emphasis he put on the name had Cal zooming in with his binocs.
Shock filtered through him. He hadn’t thought Seth Olsen would dare show up here. This didn’t make sense. He’d exposed himself. There was no going back from this.
Was it possible the CIA was supporting this coup?
As if Freya could read Cal’s thoughts, she whispered over the radio, “I am so fired.”
He recognized Ford’s laugh. Ripley was slower on the uptake, but then, he couldn’t see who stood at the river’s edge from his position. “What’s going on?”
“Freya’s boss is here,” Cal answered. “This could mean we’re fighting…” Shit. “The CIA?”
“What the fuck?” Goldberg chimed in.
“Yeah. The fuck,” Blanchard said.
“CIA wants Lubanga?” Ford said. “Did they learn nothing from Hussein and Mobutu? And…a dozen other assholes?”
“Frey—” Cal said. It was weird using her first name when he’d slipped into military protocol with everyone else, but he didn’t think of her as Lange, and she was no longer James to him either. He hoped she understood he meant no disrespect. “Do you think Evers was assigned the mission so he could deliver a USB drive with CIA money to Lubanga? Could the CIA have been trying to snipe him from Russia?”
“It’s possible.”
Of course, if that was the case, then why the hell had Olsen told her to kill Lubanga?
What was the real order—copy the hard drive, kill the man, or finance the coup?
“Are there American operators out there?” Ripley asked. “SAD, like James—er Freya?”
“I don’t think so,” Freya said.
“You got anything more than gut instinct to go on there?” Blanchard asked.
“No.”
“It doesn’t matter if CIA is involved,” Cal said. “We may not have official rules of engagement, but don’t forget, these assholes are targeting civilians. Children. Babies. Lubanga brought four hundred soldiers here. If we hadn’t struck first, they’d have moved into the village and taken everyone hostage.”
“Burn them all,” Espi said.
The others echoed the sentiment.
Seth Olsen shouted across the river. “Stand down. The CIA is behind me. Behind the general.”
Cal watched as Olsen slowly waded across the river, moving ever closer to Freya.
“The US doesn’t support mining uranium to sell to Syria,” she responded. She took a step back from the bank, then halted. Cal guessed she realized she was retreating and stopped herself.
The asshole had been manipulating Freya for years and probably believed he had her programmed, his to command. It could take years for her to work through and understand all the ways Seth Olsen had used her. And Cal would be right by her side, holding her hand as she did the hard emotional work.
“The Agency will look the other way,” Olsen said, midriver now. “With over twenty trillion up for grabs, they can’t afford not to.”
“It’s not up for grabs. It belongs to Congo.”
He shrugged. “The current regime isn’t protecting the resources. Up for grabs.”
“You talk about the CIA as if it’s one person. As if it’s you. But I know dozens of operators, analysts, and directors who will fight your kind of corruption.”
“Those people are leaving the IC in droves. It’s so easy to drive the idealists out of the intelligence community. The ones who stay are easily manipulated. All you have to do is tell the trainers to assault them. Take away their control over their bodies.” Olsen stood just twenty feet from Freya now, calf deep in the shallow river. “Then you let them cry. But everyone knows a woman who doesn’t fight—especially one who’s been trained to kill with her hands—can hardly claim she was raped.”
She took a step toward him. Cal could see Olsen had rattled her. “I was threatened with losing everything I’d worked for. I’d devoted my entire life to the CIA.”
Cal could see Olsen’s smirk through his binoculars. “A woman with your strength? You’d have fought. Obviously, you saw the advantage of fucking him but didn’t want it known you screwed your way to the top of your training group. So you cried rape. You even had me convinced, until you went after Harry because he could expose your lies.”
That must be the story Olsen had given the CIA after he’d backed her with Captain O’Leary at Camp Citron. As they’d suspected, he’d backtracked, changing the narrative to make Harrison Evers the victim.
“Fuck you, Seth,” Freya’s voice showed annoyance and not the strain Olsen had obviously been attempting to trigger. She’d been sucked in for a moment, going on the defensive, but now his grip on her was gone.
That’s my woman. Forged from steel. Harder than a diamond.
“What do you possibly think you can get out of this?” she said. “You’re fronting a shitty army of untrained rebels. What did you promise them?” She waved the USB key. “Because without this, no one is getting paid.”
“You can’t win,” Olsen said. “You think we don’t know you’re on your own here?” He nodded toward the carnage behind him. Dozens of soldiers had made it to the river, but they must’ve been given orders to stand down while Freya and Olsen negotiated. “Nice fireworks display, but the flash and bang are over. So you got some explosives from the miners. Big deal. There are still only two of you against an entire fucking battalion.”
It wasn’t surprising Olsen didn’t realize she and Cal had backup. Olsen believed he’d smeared her to the degree that SOCOM wouldn’t send aid, and in fact, SOCOM had made certain the CIA remained ignorant of Cal’s A-Team being dispatched.
Across from Freya, the trained soldiers stood in a line, weapons in hand but pointing up. Ready to attack, while the untrained men fidgeted, holding weapons with lax fingers, or the opposite, stiff as statues, clutching rifle stocks with white-knuckled grips. She snorted in disdain. “It’s two against fifty actual soldiers, tops.”
“Two against fifty, two against a thousand. You are still only two.”
She shifted. Something in her stance changed, subtle but somehow projecting dejection, even as she remained standing tall.
Cal couldn’t help but grin. She was giving the right cues to lure Olsen in. Damn, but she was good at this. As she’d said at Camp Citron, she didn’t break character. He’d witnessed that multiple times since this mission began, and now he saw another layer of her talent. But then, she knew Seth’s triggers as much as her mentor knew hers.
“Did the CIA order Lubanga’s assassination?” she asked.
Olsen said nothing.
Not surprising. He wasn’t a dumb man. He’d guess she was recording this. Olsen knew she needed proof of his lies. A confession would do nicely.
Finally, he said, “Your orders came from above. If you have an issue with them, raise them with my superiors.”
“Somehow, I doubt I’ll live that long.”
“Frankly, I doubt that too.” He held out a hand. “Give me the key, Freya. We can cut a deal.”
“Who owns you, Seth? Is it Lubanga or Gorev?”
Cal fixed the binoculars on Olsen’s face. No reaction.
“I’m thinking Gorev,” Freya continued. “In fact, I think originally you belonged to Drugov. What I can’t decide is if you are glad he’s dead because I removed your puppet master, or if you decided to frame and kill me because you fear I’ll find the truth in Drugov’s files.”
Olsen’s gaze flicked downward. Subtle, but there was a shift. She was on to something with the Drugov connection. This all went back to the oligarch’s death in Morocco last month.
If that was the case, then the CIA wasn’t backing Lubanga’s coup. That was a bluff on Olsen’s part.
“No more talking. Give me the drive.”
She shook her head. “Only Lubanga gets the drive. You take one step toward me, and it burns.” With her free hand, she grabbed the propane torch she’d hooked to her belt at her back and flicked the trigger. They’d adapted the nozzle so it shot a bright puff of orange two feet in the air before settling in to an eight-inch stream of blue flame.
Olsen took a step toward her, and Cal fired a warning shot with his M4—the fifty-caliber M107 was much louder, and they didn’t want to tip their hand just yet. The bullet just missed Olsen’s shoulder and landed in the stream behind him.
“You’ve read Cal’s file,” she said calmly. “You know he doesn’t miss unless he wants to.”
That was a slight exaggeration. But only slight.
“That was your only warning,” she continued. “I’ll give the disk to Lubanga, and only Lubanga.” She gazed across the river. “Is the big man too chickenshit to face a mere woman?”
A man like Lubanga—one easily manipulated by his ego—wouldn’t like that.
“I think I’m in love too,” Goldberg said.
“Back off, Goldie, she’s mine,” Cal responded. “Don’t forget, I only miss when I want to.”
Ford laughed.
“You sure have her snowed,” Blanchard said.
“No one tell her about Mosul,” Espi chimed in.
Goddamn, he was so glad his team had his back. How could Freya work alone as she did? No wonder she’d always seemed so unhappy.
“Oh, I know all about Mosul,” Freya said, her whisper soft and smooth on the radio. She covered her mouth with one hand so Olsen couldn’t read her lips and wouldn’t realize she spoke to more than just Cal. “You boys have no idea what kind of info SOCOM gave me access to. And Espi, I wouldn’t be quite so smug. One word: Kandahar.”
Cal laughed. “I really love you.”
“I know. Now let’s finish these fuckers.”
“Yes, ma’am,” his team said, practically as one.
“Lubanga,” she shouted. “Come to me, or I burn the drive.” She fired the torch again.
The mudslide had stopped, caught in a trough before reaching the river. Espinosa and Cal’s uncle had predicted that. Less than a hundred soldiers remained, gathered on the thin stretch of land between mudslide and shallow river.
Seven to a hundred. Not bad odds, but these hundred had to be the seasoned men. Soldiers who’d seen action in the east. Some would be the génocidaires Lubanga had threatened.
The formation of the soldiers across the stream shifted. It looked like the seasoned fighters were ordering the green troops to circle around.
“Ford, they set one foot in the river on your end, and you lay down a line,” Cal said. “They cross it, and you open fire.”
“Roger.”
“Where did you hide the villagers, Savannah?” Olsen made the name a sneer, trying to regain control. “You think we didn’t guess you’d hide them in the mine? It will just make it easier to kill them all. You know how many toxins are in the air in that mine? They could already be dead.”
The villagers had powered up generators to run fans for just that reason, but the danger remained. This standoff had to end in a few hours, or innocent people could die.
Cal studied the hardened soldiers. It was possible—no matter how finite the odds, it remained possible—he had a cousin near his age in the opposing force. But that didn’t change the situation.
The men who hadn’t fled the collapsing hillside had stayed to back Lubanga. They were in it for money or ideology, but no matter what, they were threatening unarmed civilians. Children. Even babies. This assault was a war crime.
Freya raised the bullhorn to her mouth and spoke in French, then repeated the words Cal had taught her in Lingala, then said the same in English. “Leave this valley. Lubanga cannot pay you. If you attack this village, you will burn.”
Men shouted back, calling her a liar and a whore. She stood there, repeating the phrases in all three languages.
They couldn’t claim they hadn’t been warned.
Olsen retreated. Freya stood on her side of the river, the queen protecting her domain.
A group of men made a break to the south, wading into the river. Ford laid down a line of fire midstream. The men came to an abrupt stop, looking up in shock at the hillside where Ford was concealed.
Olsen stepped forward again, and this time, Lubanga was behind him, surrounded by his men. Now they knew who the best soldiers were.
“So you managed to get a fifty-caliber machine gun,” Olsen said. “Well done, Savannah. But your soldier can’t be in two places at once.”
“Ford, short burst.”
A moment after the machine gun stopped, Cal fired a warning shot from his position. Proof there were at least two of them.
Olsen scanned the hillside, clearly nervous now. “So you trained a local to shoot. Too bad you’re wasting your bullets.”
Freya fired up the torch again. “I’m tired of fucking around. Jean Paul, you want your money? Come and get it.”
Before anyone could respond, an explosion sounded to the north. “Rip, what’s going on?” Cal asked.
“Eight men trying to sneak across the stream around the bend. Five are still coming. Fire in the hole.”
Another boom sounded. Ripley had the grenade launcher to guard against attempts to cross the stream around the bend, out of sight of the rest of the team. It could fire nearly a quarter of a mile. The effective range might be shorter, but fear would push the untrained troops to the limit, separating them from reinforcements should they attempt to cross.
“Two are retreating,” Ripley said.
“The others?” Ford asked.
“Injured. They aren’t going anywhere.”
Cal fixed his binocs on Lubanga’s face. For the first time, the man’s expression registered fear. His planned siege wasn’t going well. He said something to Olsen, his face contorted with anger.
They couldn’t move on Lubanga until the camera they’d set up to record this operation caught something incriminating from the big man. Lubanga had to order the men to attack the village. They needed proof this guy was going after civilians. They had the ransom note, but video was harder to ignore.
Lubanga looked at the shallow river with annoyance. “Come here,” he shouted.
Freya’s voice was cold and calm. “No.”
She wiggled her fingers, flashing the USB drive. “You want your money, you need to come and get it. Bring a computer so I can initiate the transaction.”
That, right there, was the rock and the hard place for Lubanga. He needed the money. Three hundred and fifty million dollars could buy him over twenty trillion. But none of this was simple. Freya had tied all the money to her. Two-part authentication. Required thumbprint.
Lubanga had to give if he was going to get. “Your Green Beret will shoot me.”
“And risk your army destroying this village? Killing his cousins? You chose this location. You know he won’t risk his family.”
C’mon, asshole, listen to her. She speaks the truth.
Cal wouldn’t risk the village. A hundred—even only fifty—soldiers was too many. But separate Lubanga from his backup, and he was dead.
But. Dammit, there was always a but.
Special Forces couldn’t strike first. Not without an international incident. Lubanga needed to make a move that was undeniable. The camera needed to capture it. And then all rules of engagement were on—or off, as the case may be.
“Bring the drive to me, and I will spare the villagers. That is our deal.”
“The CIA knows why Abel Fitzsimmons is buying uranium. Forget the lies Seth has told you. No one in the CIA will support you knowing you’re selling yellowcake to terrorists.”
Lubanga shrugged. “America wants Congo’s minerals. The only way to get it is through me.”
“Did you know Seth sent you a Trojan file on the thumb drive with Drugov’s money? The Trojan gave him access to the computer in Gbadolite—so he could steal your money. It’s his Trojan that destroyed your backup files—right after he copied everything.”
“She lies!” Olsen said.
“He told you it was me, didn’t he, Jean Paul?” she asked. “Seth here has been lying to you, setting you up, so he could clean you out once your coup attempt fails.”
Cal knew Freya was the one who destroyed Lubanga’s files, but her bluff was working, as Olsen’s agitation grew, Lubanga’s face showed more suspicion.
“Damn, she’s good,” someone whispered over the radio. Cal couldn’t even be sure who. He was too focused on the conversation on the river.
“And you will fail, because without CIA support, you don’t stand a chance.” She cocked her head. “You really should be more careful in choosing allies, Jean Paul. Some men, they just can’t be trusted.”
“She lies,” Olsen repeated. “I’m here on orders from the DDO.”
“Really? Well then, the director will be pleased to see the video that is uploading right now, the one of you standing with a group of militants threatening a peaceful mining village.” She hooked the propane torch onto her belt and pulled a small disk from her pocket and held it up. “In fact, he’ll be even more pleased to see this tracker’s data upload, proof the video he’s viewing is streaming in real time and the location is exactly what I said it would be. I sent the entire Directorate of Operations the URL for the video and this tracker thirty minutes ago. I’m guessing everyone at Langley is watching us. If you’re really here on orders from the DDO, then this isn’t a problem. Smile for the camera, Seth. Make Aunt Kim proud.”
Olsen charged across the river, pulling his gun. He aimed at Freya.
Cal pulled the trigger on the M107.
Olsen dropped into the water. Cal guessed he wore body armor, but this was a fifty-caliber bullet. He was done. Cal could probably put his arm through the hole in Olsen’s chest.
Lubanga scanned the hillside, looking for Cal. He pointed to Cal’s right. “There,” he shouted.
A man near Lubanga raised his rifle.
“Take the shot!” Lubanga ordered.
The man fired at the hill.
Lubanga returned his focus to Freya, as if the sniper threat had been taken care of. This guy was no general. What was it with these wannabe dictators who knew nothing about fighting? It was obvious he thought this was all about numbers: show up with a big army and make threatening statements. He had no clue that war was about strategy. The size of the army didn’t matter if you didn’t know how to use them.
“You’re the whore from Gorev’s party,” Lubanga said. His voice held surprise.
“Seth didn’t tell you?”
Lubanga glanced at the body in the river and shrugged. “Give me the key, or my men will charge the river. You can’t shoot us all.”
“I think we can.”
“If you don’t give me the key, I will order my men to blow up the mine with everyone inside. We have explosives too.”
She jangled the USB drive. “Come and get it. Like the dog you are.”
Lubanga signaled to his men to charge her. Four did. Cal and Goldberg shot them.
“You,” she said. “Just you.”
“You will shoot me too.”
“I give you my word as a Spaniard.”
Blanchard laughed.
“Inconceivable,” Espi said.
Cal watched from his perch, shaking his head at the joke even as sweat poured down his brow. It wouldn’t take much to separate the man from his army. Not when he was desperate to fund his coup.
Lubanga spoke to a man by his side then disappeared behind others in the cluster of soldiers.
“I’m getting tired of waiting, Jean Paul,” Freya said.
Lubanga had no intention of crossing the water, but he needed a living, breathing, talking Freya to access the bitcoin key.
This was his all-or-nothing moment, and Cal knew exactly what the man would do. He’d send everyone across the river at once, effectively separating him from his security. He was so certain all the firepower would be focused on protecting Freya, no bullets would be spared for him.
As if Cal had written the script, all at once, the hundred men or so who lined the river charged.
“Blanchard, Goldberg, you’re up.”
The soldiers were positioned to the north and south with hoses connected to high-powered dredging pumps. But instead of pulling water from the river, they’d connected the pumps to tanks filled with a mix of gas and diesel. Both men opened their hoses and lit the stream. Fire shot a hundred feet from each hose, creating a rain of fire that arced the length of the stream. Charging men ran into the flames, then fell and screamed. The soldiers behind them tripped over their fallen comrades and pitched forward into the firestorm.
And behind it all, Lubanga was alone, retreating from the burning river.
They had enough fuel to sustain about thirty seconds of flaming rain before the pump would shut off to prevent air from flowing down the fuel line, which would be dangerous. But it was enough. Cal had Lubanga in his sights and pulled the trigger.
The would-be dictator dropped. A head shot.
The rain of fire stopped, but chaos continued in the river.
Freya lifted the bullhorn to her lips. “Your general is dead. Leave here before UN troops arrive to arrest you.”
Slowly, the men withdrew, some dragging others from the stream.
Goldberg would provide medical aid to anyone who surrendered, but she didn’t make that offer, as there would likely be too many takers.
“Cover me,” Freya said into her radio. “I’m grabbing Seth.”
The CIA operator had floated twenty feet downstream before getting caught on something in the shallow water.
“Got you,” Ford said.
She reached the body and turned him over, revealing the gaping hole in his chest. She tucked her head down as she worked the body free of whatever had snagged it.
Two soldiers separated from the chaos in the stream and charged Freya. Cal’s heart, already beating fast, went into overdrive.
A burst of gunfire rang out, and the men dropped.
Freya looked up, seeing the fallen men just feet from her. “Thanks, Bastian.”
Yes, thank you, Bas.
“Anytime,” he said smoothly. “You should probably get yourself and that kabillion-dollar key out of sight. Let Blanchard recover the body.”
She dropped Seth’s arm and backed away. “Roger.”
She disappeared from Cal’s line of sight, retreating into the jungle that flanked the village.
Cal watched the river and the men retreating, feeling his heartbeat in his fingers. She was safe. And as soon as they got all these men out of the valley, the village would be safe too.
They’d gotten Lubanga and Olsen and decimated an entire battalion.
“Cassius?” Her voice came from behind him, not over the radio.
He got to his feet and turned to her. She was wet from wading in the river, but otherwise absolutely perfect. He pulled her against him and planted his mouth on hers.
“Uh, Freya’s mic is still open,” Espinosa said. “None of us wants to hear this.”
“Please stop,” Ripley said.
Cal released her mouth and ripped off his radio headset as Freya pulled off her miked Kevlar helmet.
Her eyes were lit with a warm light. “You did it.”
He pulled her to his chest again. “We did it.”
“So I want you to know, I lied about one thing when I asked you to do this op with me.”
He raised a brow. “What’s that?”
“You were absolutely my first choice.”