Mission: Out of Control (16 page)

“But I need a comb! And a toothbrush!”

He winked at her. “Right.”

So maybe she'd never be as beautiful as Savannah, or even Vonya, but at least she wouldn't frighten small children. She finally declared herself as presentable as she could be in a pink hospital gown and unwashed hair.

How unfair could it be that a couple of sleepless nights only made Brody more breathtaking? With his beard growth, his dark, mussed hair, his trademark black T-shirt, a pair of worn jeans—and bloodshot eyes.

He stood at the end of her bed for a long, terrible moment, shaking his head, and she just wanted to reach out to him. To pull him into her arms. But for all his dedication he seemed afraid to touch her. “Oh, Ronie. What would I have done if you had died?” His hands whitened on the bed and he looked down, drew in a breath.

“But I didn't. Because of you. You caught me, and you kept me alive. You saved me, Brody.”

“I nearly didn't.” He lifted his head, his gaze fierce. “I held you in my arms, and thought—”

“You thought I was going to die, just like Shelby.”

“No. Shelby's death took me apart, but yours…well, I would have crawled right into the grave with you.” He closed his mouth, his lips a hard line. “You don't understand. I didn't rescue you.” He took a breath and finally moved around the bed and took her hand in his. “You rescued me.”

“I don't understand.”

“I was just half alive when I met you. That night at the club, when I plowed through the crowd and found you huddling under a speaker, something sparked inside me. I would have never guessed it was my heart coming back to life, but being with you—you made me want to be more. Made me want to know you, to discover the real Ronie. And when I did…” He smiled. “It had to be you, baby, who turned my life from blue.”

“That's a terrible version.”

“Yeah, well, it's better than yours.” He leaned over and finally gently, sweetly kissed her. So sweetly, it could steal her already fractured breath from her. He ran his fingers down her face, and seemed to breathe her in even as he pulled away, kissing her forehead.

“So. You like me?”

She wasn't sure where the words came from, and didn't intend for them to be quite so pitiful.

“Yes. I like you. A little.” Then he shook his head. “Okay, more than a little. I'm crazy about you.” He swallowed, his beautiful eyes suddenly serious. “I love you, Ronie. Every side of you.”

He kissed her again, this time with a little more determination.

He tasted fresh, his touch full of grace. She couldn't believe this amazing, breathtaking hero belonged to her.

Yes, oh yes, Brody Wickham had caught her.

She smiled. “I love you, too, Boy Scout. You make me feel safe.”

“I do?”

She rolled her eyes. “I don't suppose you're available for my next tour?”

“Wonder Girl, I'm available for your every tour.”

He moved away then, something new in his eyes. “And don't you worry about Kafara anymore. I've got the whole thing under control.”

Of course he did.

“S
tay put.”

The last words Brody said to Ronie hammered in his mind like a heartbeat as he lay in the brush outside Mubar's training camp, hiding amid the tall grasses under a scrub mopane tree.

In the indigo darkness, under a too-clear midnight sky, the camp lay below, tin roofs painted black, shiny under a half-moon. Around him, the savanna rustled, the smells of dry earth in his nose, crickets buzzing, the occasional screech of a bird, mosquitoes in his eyes. He didn't move.

Bishop's information had better be good, or he'd track the man down again, and this time he wouldn't be civil. Sorry, but the CIA handler's answer of
national security
and
the government's best interests
didn't in the least satisfy Brody's questions. Brody wondered if Bishop ever had any intention of wasting time liberating Kafara or just intended to continue to milk Ronie for more favors.

He'd done the guy the favor of keeping him out of the hospital. In return, of course, for every last scrap of intel about Mubar's camp and Kafara's current location.

“All set, Wick, Artyom. Move in,” Chet said in Brody's earpiece. Some ten feet away, Brody could barely make out Artyom's form as the man proceeded toward the camp.

Brody followed his own route, past the two child guards, their AK-47s lying across their laps. They didn't have a prayer of seeing Brody as he slipped past.

He crouched behind a shed—one of the completely enclosed buildings that Brody had no doubt was used for weapons storage—then hit the ground and crawled toward the free-standing shacks.

Two days of surveillance told him that Kafara had a bed near the back—and that Mubar ran a tight, brutal camp, training true killing machines.

He'd had to put a lid on his fury—it had the ability to turn him inside out, or take him apart with the memories.

For Ronie, he'd do this.

For Ronie, he'd sneak into Hades and back, if she asked it.

“Set,” Artyom said, and Brody moved toward the structure. He stayed low next to the sleeping bodies, row after row of them, curled on ratty blankets, some with cuts on their pudgy dark faces, others shivering, the chilly savanna air finding their dreams.

Or nightmares.

Someday soon, he'd return with more than just the Stryker team, if he and Ronie had their way. Behind him, Artyom captured the entire thing on video. Perfect for an exposé and, hopefully, international pressure.

And if he happened to start a revolution to overthrow
General Mubar, well, that wouldn't exactly keep Brody up at night.

Kafara, dressed in an oversize army jacket and thread-bare pants, slept as if protecting himself, his body in a fetal position. How many of these kids were high? Too many times he'd seen children being forced to take drugs in order to make them more violent.

He clamped a dirty hand over Kafara's mouth and whispered in the boy's ear, speaking the words he'd memorized in Kafara's language: “Vonya sent me. Say nothing.”

The boy's eyes opened. He shook and Brody clamped a hand across his shoulder. “Don't move.”

Kafara stilled, probably terrified.

“Vonya sent me,” Brody repeated. Please, please let their intel be correct. What if Kafara lay across the room, or in yet another tent, or even buried under the rubble of a charred village?

The boy nodded. Brody had no time for relief. “Follow me. Quiet.”

Still, he held the kid a moment longer before he released his hand from his mouth.

Kafara took a breath. Brody held his. Then, Kafara rolled over, got to his knees and looked at Brody. He nodded.

Brody led them out of the shelter, running until they reached the shadows of the storage building. How he'd like to leave a little present—a couple of grenades, perhaps. But their only objective was to rescue Kafara.

“Stop.”

The voice could have shouted, could have alerted the
entire camp. But it came out a whisper, and that gave Brody hope even as he turned.

He recognized the boy as one of the three in Ronie's picture. He was dressed in ripped fatigues, a grimy T-shirt.

And holding an AK-47. He leveled it at Brody's chest.

“Chuma.” Kafara turned to him, speaking in Zimbalan. Chuma shook his head, his eyes on Brody.

Brody lifted his hands.

“I've got him, Brody,” Luke said quietly into Brody's ear. “Give me the word.”

“Hold,” Brody said softly. He looked at the kid, placing him at about thirteen. “Listen, Chuma, I hope you can understand me…” He took a breath, putting as much compassion into his tone, his eyes, as he could. “Come with us. Right now. Put the gun down and come with us. You don't have to stay.”

Chuma stared at him without blinking. Without moving.

Kafara glanced at Brody and spoke again to Chuma in a low tone.

The boy shook his head.

“We're running out of nighttime here, Brody.”

“Hold, Luke.”

Please, God, I'm trusting You…

He could reach out and grab the gun, turning it on Chuma faster than the kid could even take a breath.

And he could probably even take out a good portion of the camp before getting Kafara to safety.

How, then, would he live beyond that? He stared at Chuma, saw sweat beading on his upper lip, saw the way the weapon shook, ever so slightly in his hand. This kid didn't want to kill him. Not really. He just didn't want a
beating for disobeying orders, for being responsible for Kafara's disappearance.

And Brody couldn't live with killing another kid.

Not breaking Chuma's gaze, he lowered himself to his knees and held up his hands. “I mean you no harm. But you can come with me, and wake up a free man. You have a choice, Chuma. Right now.”

He could practically taste his pulse.

I trust You, God.

And, strangely, all fear left him. Just the last remnant of something he'd been hanging on to—perhaps fear of himself, even. But as he stared at Chuma, he suddenly felt…free.

“Stand down, Luke,” he whispered.

He met Chuma's dark, wide eyes. “Trust me,” he said.

Maybe the boy did understand English. Maybe it was Kafara, still pleading with him in Zimbalan, but suddenly something crumpled on Chuma's face. He took a shuddering breath and lowered his gun.

Brody pushed the barrel away from his chest and nodded to Chuma. “Let's go.”

Chuma released the weapon into Brody's hands. Then Brody turned and, motioning them to stay down, waited for the all clear from Chet to hustle outside the camp.

He crouched with the boys in the bush. They looked at him, fear on their faces. “Don't worry, boys. You're safe. Welcome to freedom.”

 

“Stay put? Does Brody have any idea what he's asking of me?” Ronie stared out into the jagged outline of the savanna, desperate for any sign of the team.

“Oh, I think so.” Mae sat in the door of the helicopter, her curly red hair tied back from her face, blending into the night in her black fatigues. “Be glad he let you come this far, especially with you still recuperating. In fact, you're supposed to be in the chopper.”

“I know you're ex-military and all that, but really, don't try anything.”

Mae laughed. “Oh, I get it, believe me.” She took off her gloves, got down and came to stand beside Ronie. “Don't worry. They'll be here. The Stryker team is a get-it-done bunch of guys.”

Ronie ran her hands over her arms. “I hate this. How do you live with the waiting?”

“I just pray. A lot.”

Ronie understood the praying part. She had a new appreciation for communication with God since Brody had caught her in Amsterdam. And lying in a hospital bed, counting her blessings, she'd learned a side of “God liked her” that she hadn't exactly thought possible.

But perhaps that was what real love felt like. Not deserved, but a gift. She suddenly realized she was humming.

“What is that you're singing?” Mae asked.

“It's a song I'm working on or, rather, honing. For a new album.
Ronyika Sings the Blues.
” Yes, that had a nice ring to it.

Mae raised an eyebrow. “What happened to Vonya?”

“I think Vonya has had her time.”

“I think you'll have an entirely new set of fans.”

Hmm. Maybe.
It seemed easier in the past three weeks to break free from Vonya a little more every day. After
the dramatic finish to her tour in Amsterdam, and her disappearance, all sorts of internet rumors emerged. She especially loved the abducted-by-aliens stories.

Mae lifted her night-vision goggles to her eyes, scanning the terrain. “I think I see them.”

It could spook a girl right through to her bones the way the team bled right out of the darkness. Their black outlines sent a thrill through her, especially when she made out the forms of—wait,
two
teenagers?

But she stayed put. Because Brody had asked her to.

He showed his teeth as he cleared the brush. “I brought you someone,” he said, and then, emerging from the darkness, she saw a wide-eyed Kafara, thinner maybe, still so handsome, his eyes shiny.

She couldn't move. “Kafara?”

“Miss Vonya? Is that you?” He wore an oversize jacket that nearly swallowed him, but when he grinned, there was the boy she'd fallen in love with.

“Yes, Kafara. It's me. The real me.” She reached out and drew him close. “I'm so sorry it took so long.”

He clung to her, his body beginning to shake as his breath caught.

“Shh. You're safe now. You're safe.”

She pulled away, cradling his face in both hands. “Want to come home with me?”

His smile was slow, as the words seeped into him. Then, he nodded.

She looked past him to his friend, at the confused look on his face. “I recognize you,” she said quietly.

“This is Chuma,” Brody said. “He…needs a home, too.”

“He has one.” She took his hand and looked up at Brody. “I don't suppose you can convince Bishop to get him a visa, too?”

Brody nodded, something dangerous in his expression. “Bishop still owes us a few favors.”

Mae had already affixed her helmet and was climbing into the cockpit. “Let's go.”

Chet climbed in next to Mae. Luke and Artyom helped the boys in and strapped them into the seats.

Ronie touched Brody's arm. “Are you ready for some real R & R now?”

He met her eyes, a slight grin on his face. “Can you promise me peace and quiet?”

She raised up on her toes, her voice low. “Oh, I sincerely doubt it.”

He laughed. The sound of it made her want to soar. Then, he reached down and swooped her into his powerful arms, pressing a quick kiss to her mouth.

He turned them toward the chopper. “I think peace and quiet are highly overrated anyway.”

“You're right. I can't seem to stay out of trouble. Maybe I should hire a bodyguard.”

He settled her inside the chopper, buckled her in and sat beside her as Mae maneuvered it into the air.

“Not necessary,” he said, close to her ear. “That job's taken.”