Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2) (3 page)

I crept along, hugging the side of the wall. When I got to the corner, I lay down flat in the sand, my cheek on the ground, my head facing the wall and edged forward inch by inch.

After a quick visual inspection, I saw only one soldier to guard two vehicles. Finally things were looking up. I surveyed the two vehicles, one
Mine Resistant Ambush Protected
RG-31 and one hard topped, open convoy truck. After I watched the guard’s pattern take him across the front and around one truck twice as often as the other, I deduced the MRAP had the weapons.

Jordan had been in Afghanistan. He had talked about performing surveillance on villages and known enemies from three hundred yards away. If the soldiers had snipers in the hills, I’d be dead before the shot echoed.

A pang of sorrow filled me.

I’d never told Jordan how much he meant to me. How much I was beginning to care. Now I wished that I had grabbed the courage to move our relationship to the next level.

I shoved aside the tender feelings. I could wallow later.

Slowly, I lowered my bundle to the ground. I ignored the weapons truck. I needed what was in the second truck.

I had sixty seconds before the guard would be around again.

As the guard rounded the MRAP, the one with the weapons, I moved.

Five
. I scurried toward the second, zig-zagging, trying to forget about snipers and Jordan, as I counted off the seconds in my head.

Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.
I put my right foot on the bumper, grabbed the handle on the open side, and pulled myself up and over the tailgate, stifling a groan at the sharp pain in my left arm.

Thirty, thirty-one
.... Carefully, I eased down and stretched along the floor, flat on my back.

Forty, forty-one, forty-two
.... I moved only my gaze, methodically cataloguing the truck’s contents. And there in the corner, mounted on the wall above my head, was my prize.

The red cross on the white box identified the medic kit.

Fifty-five.
Five seconds.

I couldn’t get the kit down before the guard’s next pass. With effort, I slowed my breathing. The exertion had taken more out of me than it should have. I needed water as well as medicine.

Outside the truck, the young soldier’s measured pace scuffed the hard-packed desert sand. The heat grew more intense as the sun rose in the clear blue sky. No rain today.

The guard was almost around the corner. An insect buzzed above my head.

Sweat--hydration I couldn’t afford to lose--rolled down my forehead, past my eyebrows to the bridge of my nose, and hovered there.

In my mind’s eye, I placed him mid-way around the tailgate. No further than thirty inches away from me. I closed my eyes, not wanting anything to draw attention to the shadowed interior of the truck bed.

The hard metal pressed into my back, the sharp blades of my shoulders pinched my skin. I’d always been fit and solid. Now I was neither. And the lack was agony.

I inhaled slowly, meditating on the covered top that offered cool shade from the already blistering sun.

I ticked off the seconds in my head and hoped the guard hadn’t noticed the wake of my burkha in the sand.

When I determined he’d rounded the corner, I counted out ten more seconds. I had to wait until he was far enough away from this truck before I moved.

I eased up gingerly, struggling with the effort needed to rise from the prone position. I lifted the kit from the hook and counted off seconds while I grabbed what I needed.

Eureka. My salvation.

Antibiotics.

I shoved two vials into my pocket along with a syringe, then swiped a roll of bandages and antiseptic salve.

I stared for a moment at the painkillers, Tylenol with Codeine then closed the lid with a quiet snap. I couldn’t afford to lose any more clarity.

A shout sounded--much closer than I would have liked.

Shit
.

I hunched back down. Landed on my injured arm. Pain, sharp and insistent, throbbed through me. The shout had triggered my flight or fight instinct. Adrenaline pumped through me, raising my blood sugar, depleting energy I could ill afford to lose.

I listened to the soldiers shouting. I could only hope they hadn’t found the half empty bag I’d just buried.

I struggled to switch over to English. The words, sounds were foreign me after several weeks of hearing and speaking Arab dialects.

“Riot, escapees, reacquire.” They repeated the words over and over, in English, Dari, Pashto and Modern Standard.

Wanting information from the warlord?

Think, Staci. Use your brain. Use your training.
I forced myself to focus on their words.

Escapee. That was me.

Riot? That wasn’t right.

Reacquire? A fancy word for putting me back in that jail...or worse.

Then their words struck me. Escapees? Multiple? Fariya wouldn’t have done that. Letting other prisoners go meant certain death.

The old man’s words came back to me. Sacrifice.

Shit. Shit. Shit
.

Moisture leaked from my eyes. Dammit. I couldn’t afford to lose any more. Yet tears continued to roll down my face. I didn’t have time for grief. I didn’t have time for this choking rage festering in my chest. I had to get out of here. Quietly. Silently.

Reacquire?

No fucking way.

Fariya had given her own life to insure I helped her, helped her village, helped her country. She had given her life for mine.

Someone had set me up. Someone engineered my capture. Someone wanted me dead.

I wasn’t going to let them succeed.

FOUR

September 6

Washington, D.C.

Staci is dead.

Jordan Ramirez stared at the official, high-level, high security clearance report from Afghanistan. A succinct, thirty-two word brutal recitation of her death.

Cigarette burns, barbed wire tearing of dermis, mole on her collarbone burned off, decapitated (head missing), skull found in ashes outside the prison. Body showed signs of pre- and post-mortem torture.

He couldn’t bear to look at the second page yet.

Photographs.

Frank McClellan, his boss, gestured to the two-page report he had just handed to Jordan. “An American woman we’ve been keeping track of was killed.”

The normal sounds of the office filtered through his consciousness. But the everyday murmur of conversation, the hum of computers and fax machines, the muted ringing of phones seemed distorted, far away.

The smell of coffee left too long on a Bunn warmer, the subtle mix of fabric softener, floral perfume, and the slight under-scent of perspiration twisted into a surreal throb behind his left eye.

Staci. Dead.

He refused to believe it. She had such life, such energy, such sheer presence. She couldn’t be dead. They weren’t done yet. He was still mad at her. She couldn’t fucking go away and not finish their argument.

He loved her.

When was he supposed to get that out? And why the hell hadn’t he told her instead of arguing with her for misleading him about her job?

And shit, didn’t that just say it all.

Inside his pocket, Jordan clenched her mother’s amulet in his left hand, running his thumb over the delicately carved scarab. Beyond shifting his thumb he didn't move, didn't twitch a muscle. He couldn’t have even if a sniper had a bead on him.

Something in Jordan’s very stillness must have given him away. “You okay, man?” Frank’s question ripped him out of his misery, and Jordan realized he'd been silent too long. And it was critical he not show any more reaction than he’d already betrayed.

No one knew about his relationship with Staci, and if they found out, he wouldn’t be able to access this report. Jordan dropped heavily into a chair at the lunch table, before his knees gave out. “Yeah. Touch of food poisoning.”

Frank took a surreptitious step back.

Jordan tapped the sheets of paper against the forearm of his Egyptian cotton shirt and forced himself to focus. He had to start asking the right questions. “What was she doing in that area of Afghanistan anyway?”

As if he didn’t already know. As if he and Staci hadn’t had the mother of all arguments when he’d discovered she was going there. And that had been before he’d found out she worked for the fucking C.I. of A.

“She was a do-gooder, working for United Nations Office for the Coordination of Human Affairs. Humanitarian mission for de-mining.” Frank snorted. “The land mines have been there for years. It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”

Jordan had nearly had a heart attack when he realized which region of Afghanistan she was in. Supposedly she truly had been on a humanitarian mission. But the enormity of her previous lies, omissions really, had made it impossible for him to believe her.

He’d been keeping tabs on Afghanistan ever since he found out she was going, surreptitiously reading the hourly updates his office received from the government’s shared intelligence network, Intelink.

He’d seen the carefully worded communiqué, a capture report that detailed the woman, her general description, the request for ransom from the Afghan warlords who oversaw the prison, and the known methods of torture they employed. And he feared it was Staci. He'd tried multiple times to contact her by email without success.

When he couldn't get hold of her, he was certain she was the woman in the report. He’d wanted to grab the first transport to Kabul armed with his Remington M24SWS sniper rifle and the intelligence to get her out.

Instead, he had assumed she would be quietly liberated and returned to the U.S. by the CIA. Because that's what the CIA did, they protected their own.

Dammit, he should have done more. But Jordan no longer did hostage rescue for the FBI. He didn't have the clearance or the manpower to get her out of that prison anymore.

Now he worked the other side, for the Franklin Group, a highly distinguished, well-connected think tank. Trying to anticipate problems before they happened. Analyzing data and generating reports to prevent this kind of incident from occurring. Advising the military, the government, anyone who would listen about the motives and operations of their enemies or even allies, and the possible repercussions of any U.S. actions.

He’d retired his ghillie suit and rifle in favor of thousand-dollar Hugo Boss and the weapon of knowledge. Now he was trying to protect and prevent, rather than react to, threats.

Most days, it worked for him.

But not today.
Dios
, not today.

Right now, his inability to act chafed. The need to be there, to be able to bring her body, Jesus, her body, home, was like acid burning in his gut. The carvings cut into the skin on his palm as he clenched her amulet too tightly.

Jordan couldn’t claim her even in death.

Initially they’d kept their relationship private. He’d almost gotten to the point where he thought maybe she was ashamed of him, of their relationship. Of course when he’d discovered she was CIA, her refusal made a lot more sense. And he couldn't jeopardize her memory or her standing at the CIA by acknowledging their relationship now.

It was a forbidden, opposite attraction because while their views on just about everything matched, their methods of solving problems contradicted on many levels. Yet, their passion for each other had overruled and overcome all the reasons why they shouldn’t be together.

She couldn’t be dead.

How would he live without her?

He forced his throat muscles to relax before he spoke again. “Are they sure it’s her?”

Frank shrugged. “Positive I.D.”

Frank didn’t care, didn’t know, that Jordan’s world had just imploded.

"The prison riot is being heavily covered by the press. It's only a matter of time before they figure out one of the dead prisoners is American. The guys on the Hill are freaking out."

“What kind of response do the politicians want?”

“They want a solid position on why this isn’t our government’s fault.” Frank ambled toward the coffee pot on the granite counter. “Senator Jordan of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence sent out the high-level transmission request. They’d like to keep it quiet as long as they can and get their ducks in a row.”

Senator Jordan and his committee. Wasn’t that just the fucking icing on his personal hell cupcake?

“Of course they want to deny any sort of responsibility.” Even as he spoke, he knew that wasn't fair. Jordan resisted the urge to smash the flat of his hand up into Frank's nose and break something. It wasn’t Frank’s fault politicians worried more about covering their asses and did whatever was politically expedient rather than acknowledging that someone had made a mistake.

“Well it doesn't look good to have American civilians and registered voters worried about traveling.” Frank grimaced, but then he forced a smile. “Even if the Travel Warning from the State Department has recommended avoiding Afghanistan for years.”

He knew that. He'd begged Staci not to go.

“Although...that region should be safe.” Frank stirred sweetener into his coffee.

Jordan watched the spoon go round and round, the clink of metal against ceramic tink-tink-tinking to the rapid beat of his heart. He wanted to wrap his hands around Frank’s throat and shake him until he spit out whatever he wanted to impart.

Frank did that--paused for dramatic effect--as if he could make people hang on his words. Most of the time Jordan ignored the tactic. But today, Jordan needed the information Frank had and if he didn’t get it soon, Jordan would be forced to ask again. He couldn't show undue interest, but he needed any information he could get on Staci's death.

“This particular area is basically controlled by our military. They are part of Operation: Rebuild. After the fiasco of just plowing under their fields, now we pay the warlord villages not to grow opium and we give them supplies.” Frank sipped at the coffee, then lectured, “Then we foot the bill to replant the fields with orchards, whatever, so they still have a way to make a living. The Franklin Group suggested the program.”