The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(4)
Thea stormed after them, heart and rifle on full auto. The rebels dove for shelter as she and Brown laid down covering fire. She shouted at Brown, “Chopper!” She wanted everyone in the Hughes before she would jump aboard.
The three of them ran for the clearing as another hail of bullets peppered the surrounding trees. She used a large mangrove for cover and returned fire, giving Rif time to help Johansson board the chopper.
She zigzagged across the open field. Her ride was in a valley over three hundred feet away. The other Hughes carrying Team A and Sampson lifted off into the rain behind her as she ran. Bullets whipped by. A sharp sting flared in her left arm as she plowed into thick underbrush. She ignored the pain and ran faster.
She scrambled down the gorge and dove into the chopper. Johansson, Brown, and Rif were already on board. She ripped off her night-vision goggles and grabbed her headset.
“Go!” she yelled at the pilot.
“Hold tight.”
The winds gusted from the east, which meant they would have to power up while heading straight for the barrels of the rebels’ AK-47s. The rotor blades strained as the group of armed men ran toward the Hughes. Come on, come on. Her fingernails dug into her palms. The chopper plunged into live fire like a flying pi?ata.
She kept her gaze straight ahead, willing the chopper to reach sixty knots so they could turn. Seconds felt like hours as they finally accelerated and swerved away from the camp. She glanced into the cockpit. The pilot’s shirt was soaked with sweat.
Rif glanced at the blood on her sleeve. “You hit?”
“Just a graze.” She stared at bullet holes in the fuselage, realizing how close a call it’d been—and how Rif’s changing the plan mid-mission could have cost her teammates their lives.
“Is Sampson okay?” After all this, she prayed the hostage was alive.
“He’s dehydrated and a bit roughed up, but he’ll make it.”
“Amen for that.” Saint Barbara had done her job again. Thea slumped against the fuselage, grateful the rebels didn’t have an RPG. She checked her phone. As expected, the intense stress had sent her blood sugar levels skyrocketing. But rapid-acting insulin would counteract that soon enough.
She inhaled a deep breath. Another hostage safely returned by Quantum International Security. Looked like she’d make Papa’s party after all.
Chapter Two
Quantum International Security headquarters, London
November 28
3:00 p.m.
Thea studied the physicians gathered around the conference room table for their pre-travel briefing. If she could prevent just one kidnapping through these educational sessions, then the effort was worthwhile. Every group was different, but she always tried to predict which individuals would fare best if they were kidnapped and tailor the talk to those who probably wouldn’t cope as well. She’d been a response consultant—the industry term for kidnap negotiator—for seven years, long enough to understand how different personalities dealt with captivity.
She smiled at the doctors, who were headed to Culiacán, the narco-crime capital in Sinaloa, Mexico, for relief work. “Let’s talk a little physiology, which should be right up your alley. Ordinarily, if you’re confronted with a traumatic or threatening situation, your hypothalamus triggers a fight-or-flight reflex, which propels your body into a state of hyperalertness, right? Blood surges to your extremities to prime the muscles for action. This makes you want to battle or bolt. But in a kidnapping, either of those actions could be counterproductive—and potentially deadly. And updated research includes a third reaction, which is freezing. Also not good.”
The doc in the Zegna suit admiring his manicured nails emanated superiority and boredom. But was that mere bravado, masking fear? Likely. He’d certainly make a perfect target. And Mexican kidnappers would instantly deflate his overpuffed ego with the customary “welcome” battering they deployed to dominate hostages. Strip this guy of his Rolex and other trappings of wealth, and he’d be huddled in a fetal position, begging to go home. People with a titanium core, not a cream-puff center like his, were the ones who survived without permanent damage.
“When you’re a captive, you’re stuck in an anxiety-ridden purgatory that might last hours, days, months—or even years—with no control over your fate. To survive unbroken, you need to override the fight-or-flight reflex and avoid freezing. Instead, you must summon up survival qualities like patience, optimism, and discipline.” Thea indicated a fit, middle-aged woman who sat near the front, her name written on her binder. “For example, Annie here would probably weather captivity well. She chooses sensible shoes over stilettos, which demonstrates practicality, and, judging by the crossword-puzzle book tucked into her briefcase, she has the required mindfulness and patience needed to endure both boredom and apprehension.”
Annie gave her a small smile.
“But I hope none of you will have to find out how you’d cope. We’re here today to minimize your risk of being kidnapped.”
She paced the boardroom. “Most abductions take place on weekday mornings, and seventy-eight percent of them occur within two hundred meters of the hostage’s home or workplace. How can you protect yourself? Become a hard target. But what does that mean in practical terms? Don’t take the same route to work every day, maintain an unpredictable schedule, and always be aware of your surroundings. Remain alert and attentive. No texting or talking on the phone while in public. Instead, make careful note of any suspicious vehicles or individuals lingering around.”