members of Congress, business leaders, at least one prime minister. Jail terms all round.”
“Wasn’t Denniston the company set up by—”
“Senator Hyland, yes. When he left the marines, that’s where he made his money. Officially he’s sold out of it, but unofficially he still calls the shots—in Denniston and al-Thawra.”
“Isn’t he the guy running for—”
“President. Yep. If Denniston goes bust, he loses everything—including his liberty. The one thing that’ll save them is a lucrative multigovernment contract, and soon.”
Whoa. It was like having his own live news service. “And they’ll get this contract if there’s another war?”
“Bingo. Things aren’t profitable right now, with troops withdrawing from Iraq and Afghanistan, and the US and its allies wary about getting mired in another conflict. So Denniston and Hyland and his buddy Sara invented al-Thawra and Hamid, and she masterminded the LA attacks—using foot soldiers who genuinely thought they were martyring themselves in a jihad—and made it look like Somalia was sheltering the terrorists. This invasion would not only get Hyland out of the crap—it’d make him look good.”
“The presidential candidate was behind an attack on his own country? Bullshit.”
“You think al-Thawra kidnapped me just because of my profile?”
“Hey, I was kidnapped and I don’t know about any of this.”
“I’d just verified enough evidence to run with the story and, bam.” She gestured at the room.
Okay, the fact she was in an al-Thawra dungeon might back up her story. “Does anyone else know?”
“My producer knew I was chasing the story, and my crew, but I had to keep it contained—many people would do anything to prevent this getting out, or find a way to discredit it.” She chewed the corner of a fingernail. “I don’t know what happened to my translator—we were separated when al-Thawra sprang. The cameraman was killed.”
“The translator—Somali guy?”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
The woman was in her last days—did she need the details?
She swore, and rubbed her eyes with the fingers of one hand. “Oh God. Really?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I could see it in your face. Dead?”
Very. “Afraid so.”
She tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling, her shiny eyes reflecting the light. His gut twisted—he knew the pain and guilt of losing buddies. Hell, he might have just lost all the friends he had.
“So all this stuff about them kidnapping you because you offended Islam...?”
“As you so eloquently put it? ‘Bullshit.’” She lowered her head and stared at a stain on the mattress. “Hamid will play the publicity for all it’s worth, then kill me, live—so to speak. She’ll want to generate more anger in the States, so Hyland can stir up the political will to get over the line in Somalia.” She lifted her gaze. Strength had returned to her eyes, cut in with new anger. “She’s also eager to pull France into her game. Your execu—your capture could tip them.”
Subtle she wasn’t. “Hamid will assume you’ve told me all this, that I know her secret.”
She winced.
“Guess I was dead anyway,” he said.
“Didn’t want to say it.”
A clink and a squeal—the door upstairs. Footsteps crossed the floor above. Dirt drifted down between the boards, lit by slits of weak light. One soldier, by the sound of it.
“I’m just pissed I’m going to die before I get this story out,” she added.
A grin tugged at his mouth. Smart, gutsy and hot. If he could have chosen one person to share his last days, it might well have been someone like her. As the room lightened she was looking paler and more fragile—but there was fire in her, for sure. He twitched with competing urges—to fold her into him and hide her from all this, and to tease that flame out of her in a far less honorable way. He stayed rigidly still.
Above, one bolt shot across, then another. She gripped the mattress, knuckles blanching.
“Tess, look...” he whispered, ignoring the burn in his ribs as he leaned closer. He stopped short of making it Tess Newell, as he’d heard hundreds of times on TV. Tess seemed incomplete. “Them kidnapping me buys you more time. Sounds like they plan to kill us together, and if your theory is true—”
“It is true.”
“—they’ll want to drum up anger about me in France first, right? That’s got to give us a few days.”
“You’re a real comfort,” she said flatly, but her knuckles returned to a normal color.
“I’ll find us a way out of this.”
She smiled, sadly—acknowledging his attempt at solace even if she didn’t believe it. Well, damn, he’d just have to prove her wrong.
The hatch yawned open. He tensed. Or he could be wrong about the whole time thing. One burst of fire down that hole...
A rope lowered, from the hands of a woman in gray camo gear and a hijab. Flynn shuffled in front of Tess but she exhaled, pushed to her feet and hobbled past him.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“Trust me, we want to cooperate with this.” She grabbed a yellow bucket from the corner of the room and hooked it up.
“That what I think it is?”
“Hey, at least they change it twice a day. Otherwise I guess the smell would float up.”
“Real hospitable.”
The bucket rose and disappeared. Something fell. Before he could warn Tess, it clonked her on the head. Another bucket. Clean, at least.
“You okay?”
“Peachy,” she said, rubbing her head. She ducked as a brown plastic packet thunked onto the dirt, then another. She threw one to Flynn.
“An MRE?” he said.
The hatch dropped and was bolted.
“The finest field rations Denniston produces. They earn a dollar in profit from every meal, and they supply dozens of forces around the world—sometimes both sides in a conflict. And that’s only one of their contracts. They might not be making the bombs but they’re sure making the money—or they were. Most countries have a stockpile of these things now, so they’re not renewing their contracts.”
He ripped open the plastic, went straight for a brownie and bit in. Scam or not, he was as hungry
