Trust Me, page 2
Bibi was a small but important cog in the system. Diana had approached her with the ruse of having artifacts to sell in an attempt to infiltrate the supply network. Taking out the suppliers would be far more effective than recovering artifacts one at a time after they’d been sold and illegally imported into the US. Only if they took out the supply line would they be able to stop millions upon millions of dollars from flowing into terrorist pockets and thereby funding attacks throughout the world.
Diana was a hidden soldier in the War on Terror. Her plan had been ambitious, and now…it had failed.
She’d killed Bibi and probably herself.
“I’m sorry, Morgan,” she whispered into the phone.
“Diana don’t do this. Stall. A security team is on the way.”
“He’s got a knife to Bibi’s throat.”
Morgan cursed loud and long. In a different situation, Diana would be impressed with the woman’s creativity. “How long ago was your subdermal tracker replaced?”
Diana kept her gaze fixed on Bibi as she did the math. “Three weeks, two days.”
“Good. So there’s no recent cut to identify where it is under your skin. If they take you, don’t trigger it until you know you’re at your final destination. Once triggered, it only lasts four hours.”
Diana had been schooled on this when the tracker was first implanted in her arm, and again when it was replaced in a different spot to keep the battery fresh, but she understood why Morgan needed to say it.
Panic would be so easy right now, and once upon a time, the same kind of subdermal tracker had saved Morgan’s life.
“I won’t panic.” Not unless they’re about to kill me. Then all bets are off.
“Freya’s on the line with the Pentagon now. They can scramble a team from Rota or maybe one of our forward operating bases. Someone will come for you, Diana.”
Yes, they would, but the odds these men were going to simply abduct her for ransom were slim. No. They probably wanted to know about her work for FMV and how much Bibi had revealed about their operation.
And then they would kill her.
All at once, Bibi kicked the man with the knife in the knee and dove to the side.
With Bibi no longer in his grip, Diana turned and ran, darting between people who hadn’t spotted the drama playing out at the far end of the aisle.
She ignored the pain in her ankle and ran like she’d never been in the accident. Her life depended on her ability to run fast, so she would find a way.
She heard curses and shouts, but didn’t dare look back. The man would be chasing her. Her mad dash would give Bibi a chance to escape.
The arched gate was in sight. Maybe the security detail would be on the other side.
She tucked her phone into a hidden pocket in her head covering and ran full out for the gate. She crashed into a man, knocking him to the ground and nearly going down herself, but didn’t pause to apologize.
She reached the gate just as a shot rang out.
She prayed her pursuer had shot into the air and there would be no casualties among the Friday market visitors and vendors.
She cleared the gate.
Was it possible she was free?
She scanned the street. There were pedestrians milling about, and a block away, she spotted Oman from her security team, standing next to a car parked at the side of the road with the passenger door open. He waved toward the open door.
Thank you, sweet Mother Earth.
She reached the vehicle and dove inside. The door slammed behind her, and the car pulled away from the curb, leaving Oman behind.
She grabbed her phone from the pocket and managed to gasp out, “I’m free,” to Morgan between heaving breaths. “I made it out of the market and the security team had a car there. We’re heading away from the market now.”
“Oh thank god!” Morgan said. “But how did security get there so fast? A minute ago, they said they were stuck in traffic. According to my map, they’re still several blocks away.”
For the first time, Diana looked up at the men in the front seat. She glimpsed the driver’s face in the rearview mirror. He didn’t look familiar. Nor did the man in the passenger seat.
But it had definitely been Oman who’d waved her into the vehicle.
Oman, who was supposed to pick her up today, but had supposedly been sick.
The security company had claimed her escort had been canceled. Something Oman could easily have done himself. That wouldn’t even require hacking.
The passenger grinned and pulled out his gun, pointing it at her face. “Give me your phone, Dr. Edwards. Where we’re going, you won’t be needing it.”
Chapter Two
USS Dahlgren
Mediterranean Sea
Lieutenant Chris Flyte took his seat at the back of the briefing room, his heart already pumping with energy at the prospect of a mission. The other members of his sixteen-man SEAL platoon took their seats, their faces showing the same curiosity and adrenaline he felt. Even though he’d been a SEAL longer than most in this room, Chris was the newbie here, having transferred from a Coronado-based team to a Little Creek team in July.
His new teammates ranged in age from twenty-one to his own thirty-five. Chris was one of three Black men on the team. One man was Filipino American, another a Native Hawaiian. Four were Hispanic and the remaining seven were white.
He’d had six weeks to train with this team before they’d been deployed to this aircraft carrier for a lengthy rotation as it cruised through the Mediterranean. They’d been on Dahlgren for only a few days, running drills, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice if needed.
Now it appeared they were needed. His first op with this team.
The leadership of Naval Special Warfare Command entered the room. Everyone stood at attention, then quickly resumed their seats so the briefing could begin. A white male Navy captain directed all eyes to a large monitor mounted to the wall that showed the NSWC logo. The captain clicked the remote to change the slide.
A larger-than-life image of a woman’s face and upper torso filled the screen. Lightly tanned white skin, dark hair of indeterminate length as it was pulled back in a tight bun, mottled green-and-brown eyes. Thin nose and pointed chin. Her attractive face wore a serious expression. It was obvious this was a professional portrait of some kind.
The captain began without preamble. “Twenty-five minutes ago, Dr. Diana Edwards was abducted just outside the gate of a public market in Amman, Jordan. Dr. Edwards was working for a local university as a guest professor leading an excavation on a site in the desert with a team of archaeology students from Amman. In her free time—and separate from the dig—she was providing intel for Friday Morning Valkyries, a US Army contractor tasked with gathering information on the theft and sale of Middle Eastern artifacts. FMV coordinates with the Army’s Cultural Heritage Monitoring Lab. Together, the teams are working to recover or stop the looting of art and artifacts in the region. The Valkyrie group is made up of a coalition of archaeologists, historians, and art experts intent on disrupting the supply chain of artifacts being sold by the Taliban, ISIL/ISIS, al-Qaeda, and others to fund their terrorist activities.”
The senior lieutenant and leader of Chris’s new team, Lieutenant Commander Randall Fallon, spoke. “FMV is the group run by Dr. Morgan Adler and ex-CIA SAD operator Freya Lange.”
“Yes. It was Adler and Lange who notified us of the abduction,” the captain confirmed. “Until recently, Delta Force provided security for FMV’s operatives in the field—including Dr. Edwards—but authorization for that detail was cut nine weeks ago, forcing Adler and Lange to hire local contractors. It appears the hired guns had a traitor on their staff.”
Curses were muttered around the table, most vehemently by Fallon. Chris assumed he knew one or both women. This mission would be personal for him, which could get him removed from the op if he didn’t do better at hiding that fact. Clearly realizing this, Fallon straightened and asked, “What’s the current situation for Dr. Edwards?”
Chris focused on the image of the woman again as the captain answered. He’d guess she was in her midthirties. “Lange still has the instincts of an operative and connections with her former CIA colleagues. Weeks ago, she asked one of her former associates to plant an additional tracker on the vehicles used by the new security contractors. A wise move, because as far as we can tell, the company’s own tracker was magically disabled. Thanks to the secondary tracker, we know Dr. Edwards is currently on a circuitous route through the city of Amman, generally heading south. Lange believes they will connect with the historic route known as the King’s Highway and disappear into the desert.”
“What if she’s no longer in the initial vehicle?” someone asked.
“We’re working on getting a drone in place for more accurate information, but so far, the tracker has indicated the car hasn’t stopped long enough for any kind of switch. For now, our ace in the hole is that they don’t know we’re tracking the vehicle, so there’s no reason for them to ditch it.”
“So what do we do? Scramble a team to take a position on the King’s Highway? We’re what—forty-five minutes from Amman by helo?” The question came from a woman high in the ranks of Naval Special Warfare Command.
“We’ve got two Seahawks on standby. We’ll divide the platoon into two Squads, one on each bird. Fallon, you’ll lead the first, Flyte the second.”
Chris nodded in response.
“We expect she’ll be taken to a remote camp. The best-case scenario would then have her abductors making a ransom demand, giving us plenty of time to execute her exfiltration.”
“But you don’t expect a ransom demand,” Fallon said.
“No. We don’t believe Dr. Edwards was targeted for a ransom exchange.”
“What if Dr. Edwards remains in the city?” This question came from one of the brass.
“We are preparing a statement for the government of Jordan and will hope we don’t need it.”
Chris laid higher odds on asking for forgiveness, not permission. The US and Jordan had a decent relationship, but that would change if a team of SEALs was sent into the heart of the capital with a population of over four million people.
Amman’s own police or military would want to be part of this rescue. However, given the nature of Dr. Edwards’s work—it sounded like she was using her credentials as an archaeologist to act as a spy—that wouldn’t be possible.
If Amman’s finest was sent in, Dr. Edwards could end up being the one sent to prison.
“Right now, we’re gathering intel,” the commander continued. “Our first priority is extracting Dr. Edwards. Other objectives may come into play if she is taken to a terrorist stronghold.”
Whoa. The commander had just said the quiet part out loud. They were hoping Edwards would lead them to a big fish in the terrorist sea.
Sure, the US military wanted to stop the sale of artifacts to cut the funding to the various groups, but that wasn’t the primary reason for this oh-so-fast military response. Was it even a coincidence his SEAL team was on this aircraft carrier just waiting for a mission at the right time?
Ordinarily, he’d blow off that idea. This wasn’t his first time hanging out on one of the world’s biggest boats with his team on a just-in-case deployment, but the events of last winter had revealed some cracks in Naval Special Warfare Command. Plus, there was that little tidbit about Freya Lange being former CIA.
Had the former SAD operative used her own contractor as bait for a terrorist?
Chris had learned long ago to never trust a spy. Even when they left the business, they remained ready to stab you in the back and claim it was for the greater good.
The commander dismissed the team. They would remain on the carrier, ready to be dispatched within minutes when the order came. On the way out the door, Chris signaled Fallon with a nod. He had questions for his SEAL team leader.
They stepped aside as the others filed out of the room and into the narrow corridor. Between the two of them, Fallon was the senior lieutenant and Officer in Charge (OIC) of their platoon, while Chris was the Assistant Officer in Charge (AOIC). Chris had been in line for a promotion to OIC at Coronado, but when he opted to make the move to Little Creek, all they could give him was a lateral assignment, which was fine with him. More often than not, they split into eight-man Squads or four-man Fire Teams anyway, and he was always senior officer in those situations. Best to get the feel for his Little Creek team after years in Coronado before he took command of his own platoon.
“You know Dr. Edwards?” he asked his OIC.
Fallon—a large white man with blond hair, blue eyes, and a jaw so firm and square, he’d be a casting agent’s wet dream for the role of Navy SEAL in an action movie—shook his too-perfect head. “No,” he said. “But I know Morgan Adler and Freya Lange. Dr. Adler single-handedly saved a bunch of SEALs from an ambush a few years back when we were in Djibouti.”
Chris had heard about that op. It had been whispered about among special forces in all branches of the military and had moved into legendary territory given the number of tangos taken out and young girls rescued. The legendary part was that special forces had barely been involved. Most of the work had been done by one woman with the aid of a captive who was among the rescued. “You’re shitting me. Operation Icarus?”
Fallon nodded. “Three Green Berets went in and cleaned up after we were called back. Adler is married to one of them. Lange another.”
“But can we really trust Lange?” Chris didn’t bother to hide the derision in his voice. The woman might be married to a Green Beret and business partners with the woman who’d been at the center of the Icarus raid, but neither of those things meant they could take the word of a person who’d spent years in the spy game, spinning lies and turning human beings into assets.
“I’d trust her with my life. I have trusted her with my life, and she’s never let me or any of our teams down. Something went down with her and the CIA when she left Djibouti. I don’t know what because, well, CIA. But I do know she’s still affiliated for the purpose of aiding her consultants, even though there’s no love lost there.”
Chris was still getting to know Fallon, but he did respect the man and knew he could trust his OIC’s judgment. So at least they didn’t need to worry they were being sent in to save a woman who’d been set up by her own boss.
He hated cleaning up other people’s messes.
“What else do you know about Adler and Lange?”
“I’ve kept in touch in the years since Icarus. The Friday Morning Valkyries are well trained, and they take their work seriously.”
He wanted to ask what was up with the weird name, but that could wait. “When you say well trained, what do you mean?”
“Physical training—with weapons and hand-to-hand combat. Morgan is a crack shot and has studied martial arts for decades. She teaches those skills to the Valkyries herself. Pretty sure they all do a SERE course too.”
Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape, better known as SERE, was a cornerstone training program for military personnel, DoD civilians, and government contractors deployed to hostile environments. “Good to know. We need to brief the team on the off chance Dr. Edwards might take it upon herself to join the fight.”
Fallon nodded. “Doubtful, though.”
He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Still need to be prepared.” Chris, more than anyone, knew how horrifically an op could fall apart when the hostage being rescued behaved in unexpected ways.
The skin where the subdermal tracker was implanted itched. Diana knew the feeling was psychosomatic; her brain’s way of begging her to signal for rescue. There was no reason for her arm to itch there and only there, yet it did. Beckoning her to rub the spot for ten seconds to trigger it to reach out to the CIA or military or whoever it was programmed to ping.
She wouldn’t touch it, though. Triggering it now could be the worst mistake of her life, killing the battery before she reached her final destination. Plus, the tracker was useless if, during the four hours it actively attempted to transmit her location, there was no working cellular or satellite signal to jump on. If there was no phone to provide connectivity, the battery drain would be for nothing. An SOS that went into a void before fading into nothingness.
So she would wait. She wouldn’t blow her get-out-of-terrorist-jail-free card by playing it too soon. But then there was the ever-present fear…what if she waited too long?
It would take time to get a team together, even more time for them to travel to wherever it was they were taking her in Jordan. And what if they crossed the border into Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia, or Israel?
She kept her gaze fixed out the window, ignoring the throbbing pain in her ankle and the itchy spot on her arm. They were out of the city now, and there was nothing but sand for miles. They’d taken her smartwatch, so she could only guess they’d been driving for about two hours, but her sense of time could be skewed.
Fear did that.
Even in the air-conditioned vehicle, looking out over endless sand made her thirsty. She wasn’t to the point of desperation, but it could be worth it to try to engage with her abductors again, who’d said nothing after binding her hands behind her back and securing her bound hands to the built-in child car seat hooks mounted next to the seat belt.
Abductor number one had then climbed back into the front passenger seat of the moving vehicle and proceeded to fall asleep.
“Water?” she asked in English.
The driver just grunted and ignored her. She considered trying again in Arabic but wasn’t sure how much these men knew about her. Did they know she was nearly fluent? It seemed like a good idea to hide her language skills. They might reveal something they wouldn’t otherwise.
After winding through the city, they’d gone south on the King’s Highway. Historically, it was an important trade route that went from the Sinai Peninsula in Egypt to Damascus and the Euphrates River in Syria, while the modern King’s Highway in Jordan was a winding and scenic road that connected Amman on the Mediterranean Sea to Aqaba on the Gulf of Aqaba.
