Play It Safe (The Safe House Series Book 2) (9 page)

Her channel alternated squeezing and spreading, accommodating his thick head more and more with each upward thrust of his hips. She wiggled her ass, an unabashed invitation to accept him to improbable depths. One tan, masculine hand gripped her hipbone for maximum control, the other reached between them and established a thumb-stroking rhythm against her throbbing membrane that, in tandem with his powerful width, threatened to shatter her.

“Nothing…left.
Please
.” Her words were ravenous, frantic, punctuated by gluttonous pulls of oxygen into her lungs, not from the brokenness of her body, but from the soaring realization that he had given her everything she wanted and more.

“Come for me, Angela. Don’t think, just let go.”

She hadn’t needed his permission, but she craved it. His request had no more left his lips than she stepped off the ledge that threatened to engulf her. Inside, her flesh clenched and rippled against his length. He slid inside her one final time, diving past any last fragment of resistance, one final probing invitation to an explosion that nearly ruptured every nerve in her body and carried her away to a place of convulsing surrender.

He came, right along with her, moaning and gasping for air. And when her limbs failed her, he reached his strong arm beneath her and held her to him until the soul-fragmenting waves subsided.

Immediately, a tide of regret washed over her.

She hadn’t stopped in her quest for pleasure to become a student of him—his turn-ons, his threshold for control, the places and strokes that detached his mind from his body, as he had shown her. Everything had been about her. And as grateful as she was, she found that making love to Samson had only increased her appetite to know more, do more, be more. With him.

Which was, of course, impossible.

He had all but told her he was a season.

Samson peeled back the coverlet and wrapped them up together, sheltered in the protection of his arms. This, she realized, was his most enduring gift of all. Five years ago, she had balled up her ripped, white tights, lowered her dress back in place and emerged from a dusty, chemical storage closet to find her teaching assistant grading papers.

“Lock the door on your way out, will you?” He hadn’t bothered to look up from his task.

Dust rose from the tracks their tires carved through the reddish-brown African clay. Despite the early hour, the earth baked with the promise of an oppressive day. A trickle of sweat plunged between Angela’s breasts, and her unruly waves spiraled around her face at the speed with which Samson had instructed their driver, Augustine, to carry them to Pamuromo, which translated to
mouth.
According to Samson, the word encapsulated the region—food, voices, song—and the most generous part of the river that saturated the valley with life.

Angela twisted in the Jeep’s back seat. She needed proof of where she had been. In the spring-worn seats—mercifully tethering her by a belt low across her lap—in the surroundings she had only ever discovered in the pages of a book, in the tribal Xhosa beat canting from a lone speaker mounted on the dashboard, she tasted a freedom she couldn’t have imagined mere days ago. Danger and uncertainty loomed past the fertile, tree-soaked horizon, but she had made it this far and found she had never felt more alive.

Samson traveled beside her, his arm lazed on her seat back. His chin was high, and his body absorbed the terrain of his homeland with ease. The quiet confidence from which he operated was never more evident than the moment he turned the driver’s reservations at traveling into such uncertain territory into a good-humored reassurance that he would be well-compensated. In a mystifying blend of English and local dialect that slipped from Samson’s tongue as if he had never left Africa, he had secured safe passage into the devil’s heart of regional conflict.

But that wasn’t the only safe passage on her mind.

They had passed the remaining flight hours in Julian’s bed, alternating sleep and love making at intervals she had once thought quite a feat for a guy, but that barely satisfied Samson’s mission to teach her everything about her body and the pleasure she had denied it in her quest to be cautious and safe. Near dawn, as darkness lifted and the planet cycled once more into streaks of cobalt and manganese pink, Samson confessed that he felt something close to whole again. At that moment, Angela opened a passage into her heart.

Neither pretended what they were doing was safe.

At an elevated clearing, a house came into view—mustard yellow, flat-roofed, as small as Samson’s gun closet. The Jeep’s engine protested the challenge. With a squeal of brakes, Augustine brought her journey to an abrupt end.

Samson was leaving her here.

The freedom she had so recently captured uncoiled from her gut and snaked back down the hill. No doubt the crew alerted Julian to her presence on the plane. Samson had to take her somewhere no one would find her.

“Fana will take good care of you until I return tonight,” said Samson. “She is well-respected, a maternal elder. The surrounding villages watch out for her. You’ll be safe here.”

“What about your safety?” Angela’s need for protection had never extended so acutely to another before Samson. That, more than being in a harsh foreign land, made her want to suggest they escape, run, hide. So long as it was together.

“Let’s just say my motivation to return is high, all systems fully intact.” His mouth took on a slight, mischievous curve. He kissed her full on the lips, a hot and heavy reassurance that rivaled the air against her skin and didn’t end until a crackling and cooing of female voices spilled from the house.

“How will I communicate?”

“Her daughter, Nahyea, in blue, lives here with her. Nahyea studied at university in Pretoria. She will translate.”

Three women, each a generational stepladder of the same physical traits—hair stretched tight into a high curl, prominently set eyes and the most beautiful cocoa skin Angela had ever seen—gravitated to Samson as if he were the messiah in brown camouflage pants and a ridiculously tight t-shirt. They were all hands and vigorous hugs, all words pregnant with joyful emphasis, and completely and totally adoring of her companion.

Samson beamed. He lavished the most attention on the elderly woman beneath the shade of the tiny porch, taking the time to drop down to one knee and kiss the back of her knotty hand. Her eyes shrunk to crescent moons; her lips parted to a snaggle-toothed smile. She uttered words that didn’t require translation—they already conveyed love in their notes.

“Fana, this is Angela.”

“
Engel
?” said the old woman.

He turned back to Angela, squinting against the morning sun. “Yes. She
is
an angel, isn’t she?”

Angela took the woman’s fragile hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. She couldn’t help but return Fana’s infectious smile. The remaining women gathered in the shade of the porch and exchanged words with Samson she didn’t understand. His expression turned grave.

The younger women nodded, their eyes drifting often to Angela. Being the subject of the conversation peppered with English words like
secret
and
danger
made her feel like she had donned a heavy parka in the stifling heat, so she sat beside Fana and preoccupied herself with the woman’s impressive collection of hand-hewn bracelets. To say this pleased Fana was an understatement. Her eyes alighted as Angela studied each and every facet as if she were studying the molecular sequence for an element named perfection.

When Samson finished his discussion, he corralled Angela’s hand again. She knew he didn’t want to leave her there. He’d had the same look countless times—at the plaza, when Julian’s men overcame him at his compound, the moment she presented herself on the plane and there was no turning back.

Words would have been trivial. They were far past any that weren’t silly placations in the face of enormous odds. Instead, his eyes transcended language.

“Umkhululi.”
He kissed her hand the way he had Fana’s then hurried back to the Jeep without turning around. She heard his strangled command—“Go-go-
go
” to Augustine, who nodded fiercely, turned the off-road vehicle inside a torrential dust spiral, and raced off down the hill.

Nahyea settled beside Angela.

“What does that mean?
Umkhululi
?” Angela did her best not to butcher the word.

“’Tis old Zulu.” Nahyea’s mouth stretched to a knowing smile. “It means
liberator
.”

***

The GPS coordinates in Julian’s instructions led to a school for young children. Samson and Augustine exited the Jeep and picked their way through the playground. Two steel swings twisted together on a wind gust brought on by an impending thunderstorm, scratching out a dry, repetitive sound through the inner compound. Littered at their feet: brick fragments from the bombed-out west wing of classrooms, broken window panes, weeds high enough to pass for trees. And clothing. Bloody, child-sized clothing.

Everywhere, insects swarmed and foraged and laid claim to the decomposition.

A wave of nausea boiled in Samson’s stomach. The black case felt like a goddamned armored tank in his hand.

“This can’t be right.” He checked Julian’s instructions again.

Augustine tapped his shoulder and pointed toward a glow of light in the east wing.

“Wait in the Jeep,
umngane
.”

“Wees versigtig,” said Augustine.
Be careful
.

Augustine returned the way they had come. Samson shuffled the case to his left hand, removed his Glock from his holster, and closed in on the lit window. He hadn’t traveled fifty feet when armed guards swarmed him.

“Hold it, hold it,” his words native and sharp. “Julian sent me.”

Without a further exchange of words, they led him at gunpoint through an east wing corridor. Lightning streaked the distant sky through the blown-out windows but did little to illuminate the dark hallway. What had once been an all-purpose room with glass near the ceiling and a small wooden stage at one end now housed a sophisticated bank of computers, tables lined with weapons and a cross-looking African in full flak who stopped pacing when Samson entered.

“You’re late.”

“Yeah, well, Julian should send a driver next time.”

“Papers?”

Samson reached inside his jacket. In a show of pure testosterone, the guards behind them performed an audible and totally unnecessary clip-loading of their semi-automatic weapons.

The African snapped something off in a dialect Samson didn’t quite catch. Something about
idiots
and
worthless
. The guards stared down their leader as if they wanted to shower
him
with a spray of bullets, but trickled away back into the dark hall.

Samson dropped the mustard-colored envelope Julian had given him on the center table. On takeoff, Samson had assessed the contents: closed-circuit security photographs that captured Julian and Samson in the same frame—presumably to prove alliance, copies of Samson’s passport and old military ID, Angela’s Podium Biotech credentials and lines of instruction written in code.

The African rifled through the contents. When he had satisfied every slip of paper in his mind, his gaze leveled Samson.

“I am Monde, your liaison to the team leaders at each site.” His accent was educated, westernized, not at all thick and gummy as most of the men in the region, similar to Nahyea’s after she had traveled on study visa to Europe for a term. Samson suspected Julian had given this accomplice the means to travel. Recruit, maybe.

“Why can’t I speak with them directly?”

“They don’t trust Americans,” said Monde. “
I
don’t trust Americans. But it is not my job to think. I take orders. And my orders are to disclose each site, determine the area of greatest need in operations, and deploy you to ensure plans are executed according to Julian’s specifications.”

“Julian promised to release the doctor, Michael McAllister, in exchange for my help.”

“First, the serum.”

A pissing contest. Each wanted something the other had. Serum. Information. In a show of faith, Samson lifted the case onto the table and clicked open the latches. Monde summoned another militant over, who donned black gloves, extracted the vials, and left the room.

“We do not have the resources to retrieve him at this time. He will remain unharmed until such time as transport can be made available.”

Bullshit
.

“I want guarantees.”

“There are few guarantees in warfare, Mr. Caine.”

“Your word?”

“You would take that, yet you do not know me? I suspect you do not trust me, as I do not trust you.”

“I’m guessing that judgment is beyond your classification. Shall we get on with it?”

“As you wish.”

Monde unrolled a crude topographical map indicating six sites already equipped to deploy the first line of weapons containing JNXN and a secondary back up of short-range missiles, targeted to the most populous and sensitive targets in the region—government offices, water treatment facilities, the hub of an electrical grid that was spotty at best. Samson surveyed the locations, recalling everything Angela noted about her video interactions with Mike under captivity: warehouse-like, gray walls, empty, clean. The only location on the list that fit that description was a train depot near the epicenter of the target zone.

“How much time do we have?”

“Detonation times are already coded, no override. 0-400.”

Christ
, that was less than six hours.

“Five vials are on the move as we speak for loading,” continued Monde. “You will accompany the sixth into the city. Your driver, Imari, has been briefed.”

No. Fuck.

If Imari alerted Monde, his cover would be blown. The drivers here were the weakest link. “Understood. And what of Emmanuel? Also part of the deal.”

“Manny? You will see him soon enough.”

Monde’s tone coiled into a tight ball inside Samson’s gut. Poison. Pure poison. The location was almost certain to be a trap.

“Channel 2. Emergency only.” Monde handed him a battered, two-way radio that had seen better days.

Great.
He had to find a way to slip away and alert Augustine.

Monde didn’t offer anything from the arsenal lining one wall. Samson wasn’t surprised.
You do not trust me, as I do not trust you.

He took leave, accompanied by Imari, and made a show of having to take a shit so the guy wouldn’t insist he piss in the courtyard when he used the restroom excuse. When Imari strolled away to light a cigarette, Samson sprinted to Augustine and told him the plan: get Angela, meet at the highest rise on the plateau road between two villages, two hours, lights on. Samson had barely cleared the restroom wall when his guard turned the corner, flicked his cigarette butt at Samson’s feet and crushed it out against the concrete floor.

Sweat drizzled Samson’s brow from the exertion. The guy made a smartass comment about the virile nature of the shit. Samson grunted, struggling to keep his labored breaths even. They climbed into the all-terrain transport vehicle and joined the dirt road, headed north.