Covert Christmas (14 page)

Monday, December 23, 0100 Zulu

J
ack's heart missed a beat.
Cass.
Illuminated by a halo of fluorescent light under a giant flame tree—looking like a translucent angel in a garden of equatorial darkness, and on today, of all days.

Their anniversary.

Relief surged through him. She was here, in the compound, safe, where he could still get her out. And for a moment Jack remained rooted to the spot as he was pounded by an irrational urge to go straight up to her, grab hold of her.

Her mouth opened in shock, her hand holding the mike lowering at her side. And the lost years, the shared memories, seemed to yaw between them, quivering, visceral. Jack's world narrowed—the distant sound of gunfire, the acrid scent of burning villages, fading to just her.

Reflexively his thumb sought the smoothness of the wedding band he still wore, could not give up, and his chest ached with a need he could not define.

He had not seen her in person for four years—although he'd watched her on television. That's how he'd known she was in Kigali.

It's why he was here.

Cass was a like a drug to his system, always had been.

He'd put in for this tour, wanting to be near. So he could protect her, as he hadn't been able to protect his son.

He wanted a second chance.

Because Jack had not given up. Hope was something he still had, even if his wife had none.

An explosion rocked the sky, making the blackness of night glimmer with dull orange light. It snapped him together. Jack swiveled instantly on his heels and made for the DCM Swift, waiting for him atop the slate stairs.

“Madame Swift.” He held out his hand as he approached. “Warrant Officer Jack Bannister—”

She took his hand, her skin dry, her grip forceful. “Please, come this way. I've compiled a list of all compound personnel that need to be evacuated. Thankfully most foreign service staff and their families were here at the residence when the rebels attacked.”

“Any staff still at the embassy in Molatu?”

“Two marines were inside the building. We lost all contact with them—I fear the worst.” Her voice was crisp, her staccato delivery belying the worry he could see in her eyes as she handed him the list. “We've had reports of armed convoys heading this way—the sooner we can evacuate non-combatant staff and their families, the better.”

Jack nodded, scanning the list as she spoke. From the look of this list, his team had two hundred and sixteen people to evacuate from this compound within the next few hours.

It was going to be tight. In an emergency, their helos could take twenty passengers. They only had two birds; flights were one hour each way. Mortar fire pounded outside in the hills. Jack glanced up as he felt the vibration, and dust trickled down from the ceiling. Too close for comfort.

He'd seen the devastation from the air. Molatu was burning,
pockets of fire spreading to rural villages. Kigali had descended into complete chaos in mere hours.

Swift inhaled deeply. “In most cases we are aware trouble is brewing, or an army is unhappy, or there's a volcano ready to blow, but…we just did not see this coming. No sign. No murmurs. Nothing. We have no idea who is behind this.”

He heard the fear, the self-reproach in her voice.

“No one saw it coming, ma'am. We've been working closely with the Kigali military and we had no warning, either. Don't worry, we'll have everyone out of here and across the border within the next twelve hours. My men are securing the compound perimeter as we speak. We'll commence evacuation protocol with the first Black Hawk. Another is already on its way. We're also working with the Ivory Coast military and expect to use some of their aircraft, which will speed things up. The goal is to get all non-combatant personnel to a safe staging area just inside the Ivoirian border, from where they will be processed and flown out to the
U.S.S. Shackleton
as soon as it arrives.”

Swift nodded, jaw tight. “Thank you, Officer.”

Jack stepped outside, instinctively searching for Cass. Her name would
not
be on the chargé d'affaires' list. He'd have to find some other way to get her onto that last chopper. He also knew in his gut Cass would resist him.

Monday, December 23, 0122 Zulu

Cass was reporting live via satellite while she still could. She focused on the camera, her audience, delivering her message in her trademark crisp style—but her insides were jelly.

Her anxiety had little to do with the situation on the ground.

It had everything to do with the raw shock of seeing Jack, the way he'd brought the past crashing down around her. Even from a distance she'd felt the electricity in his gaze, the intensity of his wholly consuming focus. Maybe that was what rattled
her most—her own reaction to him. She tried to concentrate on her words.

“A twelve-man strong Special Forces Operational Detachment Alpha has just arrived in the U.S. compound to begin the first stage of the evacuation…” But as Cass spoke, she saw Sam reaching for the sat phone in his flak jacket. He kept it on vibrate. It was the newsroom phone and it meant breaking news. Or trouble.

She kept reporting while Sam glanced at the display. He tensed suddenly and took the call. He looked up at Cass, his face tight, and made an abrupt
cut
sign at his neck. Cass's pulse quickened—she'd never seen Sam do this, just quit in the middle of a live segment.

Quickly, she wrapped the broadcast. “This is Cass Rousseau for CBN.” She lowered the mic. “That was a live broadcast,” she said angrily. “This better be good, Sam.”

The whites of his eyes showed fear and his ever-present smile was absent. Sam was huge in stature and with the grim look on his face, he looked a little frightening.

“It's Gillian,” he said.

A chill pooled slowly in her gut at the sound of his tone. “What…about Gillian?”

“Boss—” he swallowed, eyes glistening suddenly “—this is serious. We need your help, you must come with me. Now. Or Gillian will die.”

 

From up on the patio, Jack saw Cass touch her cameraman's arm. Their heads were close as they conversed, their movements urgent.

A sense of foreboding curled through him as he watched Cass and her cameraman rapidly packing up their equipment. They headed across the lawn towards the driveway.

Tension rippled through him.

Cass was going to leave the security of the compound?

He glanced over his shoulder at Swift. He could see her through the window, conversing with the Joint Chiefs of Staff via military sat phone.

His orders were to keep her safe, above all else.

You care more about duty to your country than you do about your own family.
The words Cass had hurled at him the last time they'd fought stabbed through his brain.

And he swore, once again torn between duty and the woman he loved as he watched his ex disappearing into the hot, black equatorial night.

Monday, December 23, 0204 Zulu

“W
hat do you
mean
Gillian's life is in jeopardy?” Cass said, rushing after Sam.

Sam didn't answer. He tossed his video equipment into the back of the Jeep, his movements fast and astoundingly fluid for his size and bulk. And out of character, because Sam
never
treated the equipment like that. Urgency bit into Cass, along with the whispering excitement she got whenever she sensed something really big going down.

Sam yanked open the driver's-side door, but Cass clamped her hand on his arm. “Speak to me, Sam, or I'm not coming with you.”

It was a bluff. He knew it, too—Cass never shied away from potentially breaking news. But for the first time he was angry with her for the very lust that had driven them both to cover one breaking piece after another for the past thirteen months.

“You're just thinking of the story now,” he snapped. “I can't
give you any details, not yet. You must first help me get Gillian out of the country.”

“Why?”

“It must remain a secret.”

“Come on, Sam, this is
me,
Cass. This is
you,
my camera guy. Nothing's changed—of course we're after the story. We're a team, right?”

“This is about Gillian, boss!”

“Okay, okay, walk me through it. But you have got to tell me what's going on, or I won't know how help you.”

He lifted his head to the sky for a moment, gathering himself, and that's when Cass's suspicion was confirmed—Sam Sekibo was in love with Gillian Tsabatu. When he lowered his head, gave her his eyes, they gleamed with emotion. “Boss, if I tell you, you must swear on your life that you will not use this story. Nor can you tell a single soul what I am about to reveal to you—not until Gillian is safely out of the country.”

“Sam—”

His eyes narrowed. “Make me that promise.”

As he spoke, Cass caught sight of Jack marching down the driveway towards them with all the purpose of a Mack truck. Anxiety rippled through her body. “Look, Sam—” she spoke fast “—this is my job. It's what I do. It's why I am here.”
It's all that keeps me going.

She flicked another glance at Jack in the distance. He was going to try and stop her leaving, she could see it in his posture, his stride.

“I'd never do anything that would jeopardize Gillian's safety, Sam. Or yours.”

“You jeopardize your own safety all the time, boss.”

“Trust me, Samuel.”

Trust me.

She'd used those words before to get a story, and not honored them. She'd done it to get one of the biggest scoops of her life while working in the Middle East. And now she felt a little ill, conflict twisting inside.

He hesitated, sucking in breath, chest expanding. “You'll
help get her into the compound? You'll help get her on that chopper?”

Cass glanced at the small crowd gathering on the other side of the gate—Kigalis seeking asylum as violence spread. She did not have the sway to get Gillian into the enclosure, or onto that Black Hawk, any more than those folk had hope of getting into the United States. “I promise I'll try my level best, Sam.”

He held her eyes for several long beats. Out of the corner of her eyes Cass saw Jack approaching and her chest tightened with urgency.

“King Savungi and the entire Kigali royal family have been slain,” Sam said, quietly. “It happened an hour ago.”

“
What?
Are you
sure?
Can you verify this?”

“It's not for a story,” he warned. “You promised.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Christ, this was big.

“The sole survivor of the massacre is King Savungi's youngest son. He was at a relative's home during the attack. The boy's mother was the king's youngest wife, Gillian's cousin. She phoned Gillian to go save her son just as Zuma's men broke into the palace, mere seconds before she was killed.”

“General Charles
Zuma
did this? The king's own cousin?”

He nodded, speaking fast. “Zuma's mother is of the Hinti tribe. Zuma apparently used this to rally the majority Hinti in his bid to seize control of the country, and he's got the new Liberian government on his side. When it gets out that Hinti killed the Vendi king, this will escalate into ethnic slaughter like you've never seen,” he whispered urgently. “It will be just a matter of time before they learn the boy is still alive, and that Gillian is harboring the new king of Kigali. We have to get them out before that happens.”

“Oh jeez,” she whispered, dragging her hand over her hair, damp, thick with the fine dust that had blown up with the chopper. “The Deputy Chief of Mission needs to be apprised of this, Sam.”

“No!” Sam gabbed her arm, hard. “You promised, boss.”

Jack was nearly on them. Cass heard another chopper coming in for landing.

Conflict churned inside her. Sam was asking her to help smuggle the new king of Kigali into U.S. protection, to change a political outcome. He was asking her to break a journalistic tenet—that of observing and reporting news, not making it.

But she couldn't turn away from Sam, or Gillian. Or a little boy whose entire family had just been massacred. Maybe she could find a way to both keep her promise to Sam—save Gillian—and exploit the story later. Do an inside color narrative, a feature on their escape…on the run with a small king. Excitement braided into her conflict.

“Cass!” Jack's voice boomed over the increasing roar of the incoming chopper and the rustling, churning palm fronds.

Cass closed her eyes. “All right, Sam,” she said. “Quickly, tell me how you want to handle this.”

“We take the news Jeep, and you help me bring Gillian and the boy back here, into the compound—”

“They won't let them in, Sam! Not if I don't tell Swift who the boy is. Even then, the United States will not interfere with—”

“You can make up something, boss.”

“Look, just quit with the boss thing and call me Cass!” Irritable, she swiped sweat from her brow. “Okay, we'll go get them. Get in the Jeep quick, before that soldier tries to stop us. And believe me, Sam, he
will
try.”

“Cass. Wait!” Jack barked over noise of the now slowing rotors.

The sound of his voice jolted down her spine. Oh, crap. She couldn't seem to think straight for a moment, a sudden, irrational panic mounting in her that had zero to do with the Zuma-king situation and everything to do with facing Jack, and their past. She couldn't bear another fight. “Come on, Sam, get in!” She moved around the vehicle. Yanking open the passenger door, she climbed in. “Drive, Sam. Go.”

Sam fired the ignition, but before he got the Jeep into gear,
Jack's hand slapped down on the hood. “Where in hell do you think are you going?”

Her heart thudded. “Nice to see you too, Jack,” she said with a saccharine smile. “So what brings
you
to Kigali?”

He moved around the front of the Jeep, hands fisting over her door. His face tight, eyes sparking daggers. “I don't have time for games, Cass. My team is spearheading the U.S. evacuation, and I need you to stay in the compound.”

His voice was low, gravelly. He bent close as he spoke and Cass's heart beat faster. She began to shake inside, suddenly insanely desperate to feel his arms around her. Her eyes grew hot, prickling with hurt.

“You show up on the day of our wedding anniversary, and this is the hello I get?” she whispered, the surge of her emotions catching her by the throat.

Something ripped through his face, then was gone. But his tone softened slightly. “Cass, I've got a job to do, and you need to—”

“It's none of your business where I'm going, Jack. I've got a job to do, too—something you never quite managed to acknowledge. Now please step aside before Samuel runs you over. Drive, Sam,” she said through her teeth, glaring straight ahead, past him. “Go to the gate.”

Jack reached for his sidearm, his eyes threatening Sam as Sam revved the engine.

“Don't do this, Cass,” Jack barked, losing his patience, urgency mounting him. “I am
ordering
you to remain on this compound, understand. You will be evacuated with the—”

“You have absolutely zero authority to order me anywhere, Bannister,” she said very coolly between her teeth. “Nor do you have a right to threaten my cameraman. I know the drill—there is explicit protocol to be followed in embassy evacuations. I'm not a State Department employee, nor am I family of one. Swift is the one in charge here, not you. She calls the shots, not you. And if any one your men dares try to stop us leaving through that compound gate, you're going to hear about it from much higher up, understand?”

Jack glowered at her, literally vibrating. “You're going to kill yourself chasing your the next big story, you know that, Cass.”

“Then that's my choice. Because I sure as hell don't have anything else to live for.”

Her body language, the emotion glittering in her eyes, belied her words. Cass was fighting herself—Jack could see it. Compassion sliced through his chest. “Cass, let me help you—”

“
Help
me? What—you want to save me from myself? Get off your high horse, Jack. I don't need a white knight—what I needed was a husband who could compromise, work as a team.”

Desperation surged through Jack. He wanted to grab her, hold her, claw back the lost years, the terrible mistakes, and for a moment he seriously considered knocking her out cold and hauling her like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder and onto the next chopper, for her own damn safety.

“You know what you're doing, Cass, you're running. You won't face me, because you can't face what happened to—”

“Shut up and go to hell!” She spun round in her seat, turning her back on him. “Drive, Sam! Go. Now.”

“Don't think of coming back, Cass. We're going to clear out of here within hours.”

Revving the jeep engine, Sam wheeled around, tires spinning as they headed down the driveway.

“You need a goddamn intervention, you know that, Rousseau!” he yelled after her. “You're your own worst enemy. You're—”

Jack swore, kicked at the gravel as the jeep spun toward the compound gate, kicking up stones in its wake.

She was right—he had no legal tool to force her. It was insane even to begin to think he could control Cass. Let her chase her next damn story. Let her go down in a smoking ball of wretched glory if she wanted to.

He had a job to do.

He spun around and stalked back up the drive to Swift's
residence. But Jack could not tamp down a spark of fear, a cold sense of foreboding.

She had no idea what she was in for out there.