“Of course. We’re happy to bring you anything you want.” He waved to an airman in camouflage behind him, a guy not much older than Ajaya. “How about a hamburger? An American hamburger, made right here by our own cooks.”
“Food would be nice,” Ajaya said, wondering if they would drug him like the pirates who’d taken him had, at first, until they had him so far away from the school he could not run anyway.
Jones smiled, showing off his perfect white teeth, no signs of hunger or worse. “And another soda? Although the fella over there calls it ‘pop,’ and Mr. Smith calls it ‘Coke.’ All depends on where you’re from. We have little quirks about the way we speak English. It is easy to make a mistake. Maybe you misspoke about something you told us.” Mr. Jones tapped him lightly with his outback hat. “But you could correct that mistake now.”
Yes, he spoke English very well, and he was not a gullible boy anymore. Gullible—a fancy word he had learned in school. Gullible—what he had been when a teacher introduced him to two men promising money and a job. “You think I am lying? I went to an orphanage school, with very good teachers who taught me how to speak your English. You can find out.”
He stretched out his story to buy himself time to plan, to escape. Because when this Mr. Jones and all his fancy suited friends finished with him, they would throw him away. No one here cared about him. So he had not told them everything then. And he did not intend to now. He needed information to ensure he would not end up unprotected again.
He had not meant to betray his friends at school. He had not meant for them to be taken too because of him. That had torn him apart for a long time.
But now, he would turn on all of them if that was what it took to get away.
***
Jose had twelve hours to sleep before he kicked the enemy’s ass—or not.
Towel tied low on his waist, he brushed his teeth after the first shower this week that had lasted longer than ninety seconds. How bizarre that this Mogadishu hotel room looked much the same as countless others he’d stayed in around the world before launching a mission. Brown tile bathroom, a few extra mosaics, and a few less breath mints.
Sleeping away what could be the end of his life seemed like a lame idea, but being anything less than one hundred percent tomorrow would be beyond a bad idea. Tomorrow afternoon, the wife of the vice president of the United States would step in front of the microphones to give a goodwill speech that would be televised live on cable news stations around the globe. On a regular day, people might not even pay much attention to her visit.
But if the world exploded?
The cameras would all be in place, and those small cable stations would have footage of a horror that would terrorize millions.
Unless their information was incorrect. Stella had explained she only had part of the code. They could be chasing ghosts. What if the times, dates, and locations were wrong? The bastards could be as tough to pin down as… toxic fumes.
Damn it, he never had doubts or questions before a mission. He always lived in the moment. Until he’d met Stella.
And he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight until he laid eyes on her. She’d been escorted by local security to the parallel hall, to the rooms for agents, while the military bunked along the other corridor. The best damn protected hotel in Mogadishu.
He tore open the bathroom door, and…
“Damn, Stella.” He grabbed his towel before it hit the floor since he’d loosened it reaching for his gun. “How did you get in here?”
Hands behind her back, she stood just inside the door, her hair damp and loose around her shoulders. She looked more like the woman he’d first met in her jeans and black T-shirt.
She held up a hairpin. “I have crazy good lock picking skills. Comes with the job description.”
God, he’d missed her. He pulled the toothbrush out of the corner of his mouth and tucked it in his gear bag. “You broke into my room to see me?”
Leaning back against the door, she shrugged. “It seemed a better idea than waiting out in the hall until you finished your beauty regimen.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” He scratched along his bare chest. “The whole calm before the storm feeling has me antsy. I wouldn’t have slept well, wondering about you.”
Her eyes lingered on his chest. “You sleep anywhere, like today on the flight over.”
“You watched me sleep?” He walked to her, thinking about their night in Egypt. How could he not? He stopped short of touching her. “Honest to God, Stella, I’m not in the mood to talk. I think I should get dressed and take you back to your room.”
She dropped the pin and reached to touch his chest, trailing one finger lightly back and forth, searing him clean through. “I’m thinking more about what I said earlier. The whole point that we could die a truly gruesome death tomorrow.”
“You’re really romancing me here, lady.” He clasped her wrist, stopping her before his erection dislodged the towel altogether.
“This isn’t about romance.” She stepped closer until they stood chest to chest, her pulse throbbing faster against his hold. “It’s about how if I die tomorrow, I’ll regret passing up the chance to be with you again.”
“And if we live?” He sketched her damp red hair back, his knuckles skimming along that vital pulse echoing in her wrist, a vitality he would do anything to protect.
“Then I deal with the fallout.” She angled closer, her words heating over his mouth. “Can you accept that?”