The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(2)

A moldy stench flooded Thea’s mouth and nose, the residual effect of endless rainy seasons. The team huddled in thick, dripping bush while the other Hughes dropped off Jean-Luc and the two Scots. She scanned the area. The roar of the choppers faded into the distance, their faint but peculiar silhouettes briefly showcasing their modifications for stealth.

Normal local night sounds returned: crickets chirping, water gurgling in the nearby riverbed, the ominous roar of a hippo, the splashing rain. She checked her GPS, signaled Rif, and moved forward through the dense foliage. Forty-two minutes to execute the rescue, rendezvous with the helicopters, and get the hell out of there. She circumnavigated the heaviest brush, then froze.

A sound. Scuffling in the bushes. Her hands tightened on her M4. A sentry so close to their launch point?

She glanced over her left shoulder. Rif’s large frame crouched two feet behind her. Brown and Johansson squatted beside him, while Team A covered the rear. The shrubbery to their left rippled in the brisk breeze.

Silence. A mosquito implanted itself in her neck. She ignored the sharp sting.

Then a twig snapped. Crunching footsteps. A small, shrill cry.

She flicked off her assault rifle’s safety. She scanned left and right. Her finger hovered beside the trigger.

Then movement flashed directly in front of them at ground level.

A porcupine scurried across their ingress route, its quills in full attack mode.

Thea exhaled a long breath and gave Brown a half smile. Dammit to hell. She’d almost shot the prickly creature, which would have blown their cover. Brown touched the rabbit’s foot he wore on a chain around his neck and nodded. Good luck charms were an operational must. She always wore the Saint Barbara silver pendant her father had given her on her twelfth birthday. It hadn’t let her down yet.

The two teams silently traversed the unfriendly terrain, minimizing any disturbance of the bush. Animal sounds punctuated the night, the rainfall a constant backdrop. Thea scouted the path, moving cautiously in the darkness. At the edge of a ridge, she looked down. Faint flames from a fire kicked her heart into overdrive. The outskirts of the MEND camp lurked below.

She squeezed Rif’s arm, signaling him to lead Team A down the escarpment. They’d have a rough time of it. The earth was thick, muddy, slick.

Thea remained on the curved ridge. As commander, she needed a bird’s-eye view. Brown and Johansson flanked her, positioned to counter any patrolling rebels.

She cloaked herself in shrubbery and settled into her hide. They’d mapped all the major landmarks from satellite images: the rebels’ weapons hut perched beside the acacia trees, a large shelter to the west sequestered in the jungle, and five small buildings rooted in the camp’s southwest quadrant. Outbuilding “Tango” held their hostage, a quarter mile away.

She waited and watched for what seemed to be an eternity, the rain seeping into her shirt mixing with her sweat, leaving her skin clammy and cold. Her mind went to the weirdest places during missions—she pictured this sodden landscape as an ideal backdrop for a waterproof-mascara ad.

A tiny shiver darted across her shoulders. The world seemed preternaturally still, quiet—as if death had arrived. Twenty-five precious minutes had elapsed since Rif and the others had headed into the camp.

Thea nestled her rifle into the overhang. Her breathing slowed. She scanned the area below her, pursing her lips, the familiar taste of camo grease comforting her.

A soft hiss whispered in her earpiece; then Rif came on. “Going for the Eagle.” Team A hovered on the outskirts of the camp.

Muffled laughter echoed in the distance. A few rebels huddled by the campfire, undoubtedly trying to ward off the dampness with some kai-kai, the local palm liquor.

“Six hostiles by the fire with AK-47s. You’re good to go.” Her voice was barely audible. They had to assume MEND had guards posted. Double-crosses dominated the rebels’ lives, making them especially paranoid.

Footsteps sounded nearby. She froze. Definitely a human cadence. The soft glow of a cigarette caught her eye. A lone rebel was up on the ridge, headed straight for her.

Time for cocktail hour. She eased her hand into the pack and pulled out the tranquilizer gun, her fingers brushing the ballistic syringe loaded with an immobilizing drug.

The rebel cleared his throat and continued his patrol, oblivious he was walking straight toward her position. She waited, keeping her breath even, her body motionless. The man stepped into range. In one motion, she twisted her body, lifted the tranquilizer gun, and fired. The rebel grunted and swiped at his neck, as if swatting an insect. Seconds later, he slumped to the ground.

She scrambled over to him and poked him with the toe of her boot. No response. She crushed his cigarette into the wet earth and secured his hands and feet with plastic cuffs, slapping a strip of duct tape over his mouth. Her team should be long gone before he woke.

Thea’s skin was slick. Rain continued to batter the earth. She glanced at her stopwatch—another four and a half minutes had passed since Team A had entered the camp. Glancing to the southwest, anxious to hear the code word “Gusher” in her earpiece, meaning the hostage had been found, she waited for Rif and his team to either signal or return.

Minutes ticked by, and nothing. Her nerves were tighter than the strings on a Stradivarius.

Her earpiece buzzed. Rif’s measured voice came through. “Dry well. The Eagle isn’t in Tango.”