Friday, November 8. Hotel Basaroutou, Ubasi
“They’re gone, Jacques. The entire science team had left by the time I arrived at the hotel about two hours ago.” Emily spoke in low tones on her encrypted satellite phone from her hotel room, hot wind whipping through the ragged banana leaves outside her window. “Le Diable’s militia has ordered all foreigners out of the country before curfew.” She glanced at her watch. “Which is now.”
It was already getting dark out, night descending like clockwork so close to the equator. There was also a thunderstorm brewing. “He seems to have shut down the borders in retaliation to the U.S. State Department advisory issued earlier.”
“The State Department is worried about hostility against U.S. citizens,” said the FDS boss. “No one has any idea those murdered Americans were operatives. They were deep cover.”
“You think he’s preparing for some kind of military strike?”
“Could be. I’ll keep you posted. Our men can extricate you within two hours from when you sound the alarm.”
“Apparently there were also five hostages taken from Nigeria by his rebels early this morning. That’s the word here at the hotel,” Emily said softly.
“We’re on to that,” Jacques said. “Looks like three of those hostages are U.S. nationals, and two Nigerian. They were taken from the security barracks of an oil outfit. Apparently Le Diable’s rebels are transporting them into the Purple Mountains and heading toward the Ubasi border. No ransom demands. Not yet.”
“Unrelated incident?”
“I never assume anything on this continent, but it could be. It’s a common enough occurrence. In the meantime, it’s fortuitous your papers were confiscated—it gives you a legitimate excuse to stay in Ubasi and defy the evacuation orders. See how long you can play it, and keep us updated.”
“Gotcha.”
“And, Carlin…stay safe.”
Emily signed off, and bolted the louvered shutters against the hot storm wind, anxiety tangling with emotional fatigue in her body. Perhaps she wasn’t ready for this after all.
01:27 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Hotel Basaroutou, Ubasi
The night was intensely humid and close. Tattered leaves slapped at her shutters while Emily tossed and turned in fitful sleep. She’d swapped her T-shirt for a skimpy camisole, and still she was soaked with sweat.
Her dreams that night were of Le Diable—dark, sultry images full of smoke and heat and pulsing drums, his green eyes piercing the blackness, his hands touching her in ways she shouldn’t even begin to imagine. Her body was hot with desire—and panic. She was breathless. Running. Trying to escape. Someone was yelling at her, screaming that she must flee, that she was in danger. She awoke abruptly, confused, drenched.
She opened her eyes, trying to gather her senses, and realized with shock that the screaming was real. Emily jolted upright in bed, heart slamming against her breastbone.
Someone was banging on her door!
Before she could even think of grabbing her sarong and getting up, the door splintered open and crashed back against the wall.
She shrank back against the headboard as soldiers armed with Kalashnikovs burst into her room.
“What…what do you want?” she demanded.
They said nothing. One tore back her mosquito netting, motioned with the barrel of his weapon for her to get out of bed. Another scooped up her phone, computer and camera—all her communication equipment. Without it she was totally cut off.
“Allez!” The big soldier pointed his weapon to the door. “Go!”
Emily was suddenly horribly conscious of the fact she was wearing only provocative lace panties and a sheer camisole that stuck to her breasts with perspiration. She held up her hands. “Just…just one second, okay? Please? One second. Comprends? S’il vous plaît?” She reached cautiously for her sarong, watching their eyes as she spoke. She covered herself as she slid awkwardly down from the high bed. She tied the sarong tightly over her hips with shaking fingers as she mentally scrambled for where she’d left her sandals and knife.
“Allez!”
“Okay, okay. My…my shoes—”
They grabbed her arms and shoved her barefoot toward the door, through the hotel and out to a waiting battery of Jeeps. That’s when she knew she was in trouble—serious trouble.
02:03 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Ubasi Palace
Laroque paced slowly round the massive eboyawood table that sat squarely in the center of his cavernous war room. There was still no electricity—the room was lit by flickering torches that sent shadows to shiver and crouch in corners.
Thunder boomed in the distance, making his dog growl and edge nervously up against his leg. Laroque reached down and patted Shaka’s head, studying the wood pieces he’d laid out on the table in the style of old generals to mark the positions of his allied rebel troops, and pockets of resistance fighters—pockets that were growing mysteriously.
He frowned. His spies had informed him that Souleyman had set up camp in the jungle beyond Ubasi’s eastern border. He was once again amassing power, but where his weapons and financing were coming from was an enigma.
At first Laroque had suspected the CIA. He knew Washington—along with the rest of the world—would be eyeing the massive oil reserves he’d recently discovered. And because of his rebel alliance, they would be seeing him as a serious threat in the region.
But if it was the U.S., and if those dead men were in fact CIA agents—their murders made no sense. Something else was at play here.
Anger bubbled through Laroque’s blood. Again he cursed himself for not killing Souleyman when he’d had the chance.
His father would have.
His father would have seen Laroque’s mercy as a mistake. And it was.
Souleyman had overthrown Ubasi’s King Desmond Douala in a violent coup eight years ago. The king and his family had fled to France, the former colonial power, and Souleyman had declared himself leader-for-life, running the country by a process of extortion, bribes, torture and corruption, instantly silencing any political opposition with his notorious death squad.
It was how he had silenced Laroque’s sister, and her children.
Laroque clenched his jaw. The mere notion that someone might be helping that bastard back into power filled Laroque’s mouth with bitter repulsion.
He swore violently, strode to the huge arched windows, and glared out over the black jungle. Thunder rumbled again, and a gust of hot wind lifted the drapes.
It was for the love of the women in his life, the women he’d lost, that Laroque was doing this. He owed it to them. To his sister. This was her dream. And now that he’d started down this road, there could be no turning back.
But as he stared into the stormy blackness, it was the image of another woman that crept into his mind—the one he’d seen in Basaroutou. A strange hot frisson ran through him.
His general had told him that a U.S. national who had entered Ubasi with the science team had defied his orders to leave the country by curfew. Laroque had an odd feeling that the woman he’d seen in the street might be that person.
The hot wind gusted again, and anticipation rustled through him as he caught the scent of the coming rainstorm. He checked his watch. It was just after 2:00 a.m.
He’d find out soon enough who she was. They were bringing her to him this very moment.
02:17 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Ubasi Palace
The soldiers threw open