Saint by Zoe Dawson
1
Off the Coast of Somalia
The first delicate flicks of sunlight danced off the water as the heavy churning of engines pounded in Zach “Saint” Bartholomew’s head.
He and the team had flown from Camp Lemonnier, a United States Naval Expeditionary Base adjacent to Djibouti-Ambouli International Airport in Djibouti City. The Combined Joint Task Force—Horn of Africa, U.S. Africa Command, made Djibouti City its home. The Republic of Djibouti was part of the African Union, United Nations, Non-Aligned Movement, Organization of Islamic Cooperation and Arab League, along with maintaining close ties to the governments of Somalia, Ethiopia, France and the United States. The Republic was a strategic location for many foreign governments to maintain their presence, as it was close to Bab-el-Mandeb Strait that separated the Gulf of Aden from the Red Sea, which controlled access to the Suez Canal.
He peered out the side window of the Black Hawk chopper to the Indian Ocean. Saudi Arabia to the north and Africa’s landmass to the east were nothing but brown blobs. Below him was the watery domain of pirates who had only recently started more attacks, alarming the chain of command all the way to the White House.
The Somali Coast, as long as the East Coast of the United States, was one lengthy ribbon of white sand against aqua water and coral beds. A beautiful sight in the midst of ugly human suffering, a failed state that existed with an ineffective government, famine, disease, piracy, militant extremism, and frequent external intervention.
With Somalia in a civil war and the Somali Navy disbanded, illegal fishing by foreign vessels spiraled out of control and pushed the Somali people into extreme poverty. Desperate for food and unable to compete with the larger, heavily armed boats, local fishermen banded together to fight for their right to fish the waters. By banding together and using small boats, they had held some larger boats and crews for ransom. Unfortunately, it became so lucrative, it ran rampant. There was a crackdown, but piracy was never eradicated.
In tough times desperate people did desperate things.
Like him.
Saint was desperate to rescue Special Agent Aella Mikos.
Mogadishu was under siege and had been since troops had been pulled. Special Operations were being conducted by the US out of the Mogadishu Airport, but even the Americans were in an untenable situation, as there were signs Al-Shabab were planning to launch an attack against the meager Somali forces. Their team was hoping to get in and get Aella out before that happened.
Someone shook his arm, and he turned his face away from the view to shout, “What?”
“Are you all right, man?” Hemingway asked, his voice tinny through the mic.
“Yeah. Why?”
“I called your name a couple of times, and you didn’t answer.”
“I was focused on the mission,” Saint lied. He was focused on Aella and what she could possibly be going through on the ground, in the clutches of Axmed Omar, one of the warlords who had been rumored to be aiding Al-Shabab in reclaiming the city. His stronghold in the eastern part of the city was already a hotbed of rebel activity. There had been several crackdowns, but Al-Shabab were like rats, scurrying right back after the troops were gone.
He felt it in the air and across his shoulders. There was something amassing, something waiting and watching, ready and willing to give everything.
What that force didn’t comprehend was that Navy SEALs stood firmly between them and their target. The SEALs would go beyond everything to secure that objective.
For a second, his fear for Aella washed over him. Anger quickly smothered it. He couldn’t do that, let his fear for her safety affect him. There was only one thing on his mind. Find Aella.
There was a small—very small—window of opportunity to free her, and Saint was impatient to get to the ground and move out.
He swore he could feel the ghosts of two Black Hawks that not only haunted the city, but the minds and hearts of the American people. Americans had died here to fight tyranny and injustice as a populace starved for the edicts of war. Aella was part of that fight, and they were here for the same reasons.
As the chopper banked, he caught a glimpse of the eastern section of the city where their mission waited. Where she waited.
Somewhere…inside that cesspool, Aella fought for her life.
He had no intentions of letting her down.
The chopper headed straight toward the western side of the city where the spec ops base was located at the airport. The chopper dipped as it came in low over the airport outbuildings until it touched down on the helipad.
As soon as the bird was down, they all started to move. Eight men, dressed in camouflage, bristling with gear and automatic weapons. A force of eight.
The heat hit him like a blanket, but he’d been in worse situations, even wetter and hotter heat.
He closed his eyes for a moment before stepping out onto the tarmac. He could almost smell her. Almost taste her on his mouth still. God, the woman could kiss. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed a woman with such intensity. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept with a woman with Aella’s power.
Those other women had faded away.
An aide greeted his CO, Fast Lane, and they followed the man into a building and a briefing room. As they settled into their chairs, a woman came into the room. CIA. She went to the front. She was a slim, striking brunette with brown eyes and a take-no-prisoners attitude.
“Hello. I’m Rose Sinema. We’ve got what we believe is a solid location on Agent Mikos.”
He didn’t like the uncertainty in her voice. What was she not telling them?
“But?” Saint piped up.
“Omar has a habit of moving his captives. She was there eight hours ago.” She pushed a button and a building popped up on the screen. There was a woman flanked by four men, a black bag over her head being escorted into an apartment complex. Determination rippled through him as he straightened.
“That’s her,” he confirmed, and Rose turned to look at him, her eyes dark and haunted. He could only imagine what she’d seen over here.
Rose nodded. “She’s going into a fight. Omar’s been having them regularly since she was captured. He is known for being brutal.”
Saint’s gut clenched, memories of her flooding him. She had been as relentless as a SEAL in pursuit of their two missing teammates back in Bosnia—Neo “2-Stroke” Teller, his teammate, and Chrysanthe Steele, their CIA liaison officer.
He wasn’t here for a romantic interlude or to second guess his decisions. When he left her in Washington at Walter Reed with a broken leg from their last mission, he’d known she wasn’t the type of woman he was destined to marry. He needed a wife that shared his values, who was strong enough to hold down the house and take care of their family while he saved the world. He wanted—no, needed—someone who’d be there when he returned from a mission, not one focused on her career. It’s too bad his heart didn’t understand that—and that when he allowed himself to think of the future, she was the star of his daydreams.
Concern poured through him again, part of him ached to know a woman as fast on her feet as Aella, but she was an HVT, and they were her only hope.
“Get some rest,” Rose said. “You’ll be going in as soon as it’s nightfall.”
They filtered out but Fast Lane snagged his shoulder. “I want a word with you.”
“Yes, sir,” Saint said as Hemingway looked at him sheepishly, then disappeared through the door. He swore softly to himself.
“You all right?”
“I’m ready to go, LT.” It was all Saint was willing to say. Concealing his feelings for Aella was all he could do. If Fast Lane knew that there was nothing that was going to hold him back from going after her, he might bench him. Reckless behavior from one of his teammates wouldn’t be tolerated. There were no lone wolves in the Teams.
But Saint couldn’t accept defeat here.
Fast Lane eyed him with his special leadership voodoo, his face like granite, his eyes flinty. “That’s not what I asked.” He crowded Saint into a corner. “Is it?”
“No, sir.” Saint stood a little straighter, focused a little harder. Fast Lane wore his authority like he wore his body armor. He brooked no disagreements, no secondary agendas with a no-questions-asked mindset.
Fast Lane’s eyes narrowed, and his scrutiny was like being that mouse with a hawk’s predatory gaze piercing through everything. “This woman means something to you. That type of regard tends to make a man lose his focus on what’s priority. Tell me you understand that this mission is governed by my orders, not yours. You and the men on this team are my responsibility. Is that all clear, Petty Officer Bartholomew?”
“Crystal, sir.”
Fast Lane frowned. Damn the man was much too perceptive for Saint’s good. “This is still the Navy, there is still a chain of command. Don’t break it.”
Saint took a soft breath. “I won’t, sir.” Didn’t mean he wouldn’t bend it and stretch it to the maximum while he avoided crossing the line. But if he had to choose? If Aella’s life was on the line? He didn’t know what he would do in that situation. They’d all gotten a sharp reminder of the UCMJ when Dean Teller, 2-Stroke’s brother, had disobeyed orders and now he was out of the Navy.
Fast Lane rubbed the back of his neck and frowned deeper. “Doesn’t mean I’m not open to alternatives as long as I approve that alternative. We all know things can get hairy in the field. The best laid plans are just that—plans—until they’re executed.”
“You feel it, too.”
Fast Lane looked out the small window. “Yeah, something is brewing here. The tension in the air is making me twitch. The history of this place haunts us all.” He looked toward the door, inclining his head. “Get out of here, get some sleep and then grub.”
Saint didn’t hesitate.
He recognized his vulnerability where Aella was concerned. Apparently, his LT recognized it too no matter how much Saint thought he had concealed it.
None of it mattered. Her life was on the line.
He had no intention of failing.
* * *
Fast Lane watchedSaint exit the building and head toward the barracks they were assigned. Something was sticking in his craw, and it had everything to do with his medic and Special Agent Aella Mikos. He didn’t need anything more. Aella had proved her mettle in spades. He was keen on rescuing her because, as far as he was concerned, she’d become part of the team.
And, once again, Zasha Vasiliev and her boyfriend, Darko Stjepanić, had a hand in a mission his team was executing.
Or maybe it was the mission briefing he’d received that had him twisted up. Anytime Zasha and Darko were involved, a clusterfuck was imminent. What did they want with Somalia? Why were they here? Who had they pledged their black souls to?
It still worried him that Zasha and Darko had close ties to Muhammad Angar Said.
He was a forty-five-year-old most wanted terrorist in the world right now. Pakistani, he was born in the Waziristan area, a hotbed of tribal rebellion and terrorism. He was the leader of a fledgling organization called Al’Irada which translated to The Will. A Bin Laden 2.0 and extremely dangerous.
They might not have heard much from the terrorist leader, but that didn’t mean he had gone away. Angar Said had to be especially angry with the interference from his team, namely Oliver “Artful Dodger” Graham and his fiancée, CIA Officer Anna Keegan. They had completely foiled Angar Said’s five-pronged plan to attack the West and its allies.
Zasha had been in pursuit of Fast Lane for a long time. She’d kidnapped, injured and tortured people close to him. The last time she had been posing as CIA agent Kelly Sparks, whom Zasha had murdered in her own home.
The CIA was trying to plug that hole. He was all right with his team being part of the solution. But he’d rather fight an enemy he could predict than deal with the assets of traitors. Former CIA spooks with too much knowledge and too many places to hide were impossible to trace.
He walked through the doors and started across the tarmac. As he approached the living quarters, he heard his name.
“Ford?”
He whipped around. He’d know that voice anywhere. He’d left his blood and sweat on all seven continents for Uncle Sam, but there was only one place where he’d lost his heart, and he’d never gotten it back.
He dragged in a deep breath. With this on-the-razor’s-edge op he was definitely not going to go there now.
“Solace,” he said, cursing himself for the involuntary way his voice dropped an octave. Chief Warrant Officer 3 and badass Night Stalker helicopter pilot Solace Eden Mitchell, formerly Nixon. His ex-wife.
She flew helicopters for the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, a special operations force of the United States Army and manhandled thousands of pounds of machinery under the most harrowing circumstances, usually in the deepest, darkest night.
But her professional life aside, she was a delicate woman with curves to spare in her flight suit. She had a slightly upturned nose, long lashes, her dark hair pulled back into a severe bun at her nape. Her eyes were a clear, defined, and vibrant green.
When it was clear she realized it was him, there was a definite level of tension stiffening her up, the old fight-or-flight reaction. They’d done their share of fighting mostly because he was a contrary bastard, and he’d wanted it his way. What he got was major push-back, and he ended up losing the love of his life. Maybe it was his youth, or his stubbornness, or maybe it was just plain, gut-wrenching fear of losing her.
It didn’t matter. He’d lost her anyway.
“Wha—what are you doing here?”
“Mission, Solace. It’s always a mission.”
“In Somalia?” She started to nod to herself. “That’s why we were put on alert. They didn’t tell us anything else.”
Their marriage had culminated down to a special ops mission that had left the SEALs, an injured pilot and Solace on the ground surrounded by forces they couldn’t win against. The chopper had been hit while flying the SEALs for insertion to take out a warlord in Nigeria. One who had been brutally and forcefully recruiting children and causing country-wide health issues by stopping humanitarian aid during an Ebola outbreak.
It had been nothing but black pain, terrifying, blind horror, and a failure he would never get over.
Never.
When they had gotten back to safety with only he, Solace and four of his eight-man team, he had ordered, without mercy, that she get out of the Night Stalkers. Challenging her had gotten her back up, and she’d accused him of undermining her career and making demands that weren’t his to make. There was no communication, no conversation, only his adamant pressure that she quit. When she refused, he walked out in a black rage that left him bereft. The incident had destroyed their marriage, a marriage that had been hanging by a thread for a long time due to their deployments, distance, and disagreements.
He’d lost five men on that mission, the only time he’d ever lost lives in his career. He’d gotten a medal for getting them out on sheer guts and unrelenting determination. He wasn’t so sure it had anything to do with the brotherhood or the mission, and more to do with the woman he loved beyond reason.
He regretted those deaths, all in the line of duty, but he would have sacrificed his own to save Solace.
“They didn’t tell you because this is highly classified and need to know. It’s not going to be pretty.”
He squeezed his free hand into a fist to stop the sudden trembling. He wasn’t prepared for this right now. He was going on little sleep and food. His hope was to recoup both before this mission executed.
She set her hands on her hips, hands that flew Black Hawks, Chinooks and lethal, heavily armed Little Birds. There wasn’t any condition she wouldn’t fly in—bad weather, tricky terrain, enemy fire. After Nigeria, he couldn’t handle knowing that she was in that kind of danger. After Nigeria, he was bitter and angry, and it had taken him years to put all that anger in perspective.
“We both know it never is, Ford.”
Someone called her name. A man who was standing on the flight deck.
The twinge of jealousy sparked through him and brought anger, but he tamped it down, paid attention to his duty. She didn’t belong to him anymore…if she ever had. Solace was her own person, independent and headstrong. They did nothing but clash, except in the bedroom. There, they ignited.
He focused on her sweet mouth. The anticipation of kissing her riddled through his blood like a burning fuse on its way to detonation. When he met her gaze, the hot look in her green eyes told him she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Fast Lane’s gaze narrowed, irritated with that still. Waving to her co-worker, she held up her finger. Fast Lane sighed. She walked toward him, stopping when she reached him. “Good luck with whatever you’re here for, Ford.” She took a step, then turned back. “The years look good on you, you bastard.” Then with a self-satisfied smile, she walked away.
Feeling like a man tottering on the brink of insanity, he scowled. With a soft curse, he turned on his heel and headed for chow and a bunk. What he needed was sleep and food, and to get his head on straight.
What he wanted…what he dreamed of and craved was his ex-wife.
* * *
Aella hit the ground hard,dust rising at her impact.
Get up! Get up! Get up! The mantra thundered in her head, even as she shook off the dizziness of the blow. That voice in her head sounded way too much like Zach “Saint” Bartholomew. That was a man who never gave up, and she couldn’t either.
It wasn’t her own life and virtue at stake anymore. That bastard Omar had made sure of it. He was always upping the stakes. The three days she’d been here, he’d finally gotten impatient and sent her into the ring with two men. She’d beaten every opponent to Omar’s disgust.
The bonfire lit up this area of the city near a courtyard surrounded by tires that doubled as their fighting ring. His rebels surrounded her in a circle, betting, yelling, catcalling. She was at their mercy and was well aware it would only be a matter of time before she lost.
Omar would see to it.
She pushed off the ground before a bare foot could crush her head. She rolled, transitioning right to her feet.
Warm blood pooled in her mouth. She spit it out, and the man smiled. His tag team partner laughed from behind him. The moan slid back down her throat, denying him that victory. They would enjoy her scream, but she offered no sound except her struggle for air.
She kept her head tucked, her hands up, shielding her face.
Between his feet scraping in the dust and his macho posture, she listened to his indrawn breath and watched his eyes. It’s where his attack would come from.
Her stomach coiled noisily, acid simmering on nothing. Food was a memory, and she closed the mental door and kept in position, waiting for another strike. She would get to eat soon enough, her captivity meaningless stretches between bouts.
She envisioned the man’s face to be Darko’s, the other one Zasha. Their visages fueled her anger and determination to fight until she couldn’t fight anymore.
“Stop stalling and finish it,” Omar said, his accent scraped along her nerve endings with a guttural sound. His words more a threat than an order. These two men, her combatants, knew what was in store for them if they lost.
She wanted to kill Axmed Omar. He knew it. His demands were more frequent and theirs was a twisted relationship. He talked and tried to grope. She barely spoke and fought him off. She wondered if his nose still hurt.
He sat at the apex of the circle with the girls around him, like his mini-harem: Hani, twelve, Idil, eleven, Khadiija, nine, Sagal, thirteen, Yasmiin, fifteen, and Uba, six. They had arrived on the second day of her imprisonment. Tiny, beautiful little girls kidnapped from their village. Her protective instincts mingled with her fighting instincts. There was so much at stake here.
Young lives, their honor and innocence in her hands, in her battered senses and body.
Her closet opponent clasped his hands together and cracked his bruised knuckles. It had to hurt, but he didn’t seem affected. Her face throbbed where his fist had connected. She hoped he hadn’t broken her cheekbone.
Then he moved and she waited. He feinted at her, and she reared back, successfully dodging the left hook she had expected him to throw to the side of her face. The feint was to knock her off balance, but she was a seasoned MMA fighter, and it would be a cold day in hell that some amateur rebel fighter could do that.
As soon as his left hook sailed harmlessly past her face, she stepped into him and executed three jabs to his face, then she set up for her right uppercut. She had to be quick and brutal here. Her goal wasn’t to gain points in a match, but to knock him out and eliminate him from the fight.
Her fist connected, and his head recoiled with a satisfying snap. He dropped to the ground onto one knee, and she grabbed his head, brought up her thigh and slammed her knee into his face. He went limp like a rag doll, then hit his back, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. One down. One to go.
She bent over, her sore hands on her knees. He’d let her bind her hands, but not with the boxing tape she was used to. This was just cotton and not strong enough to protect her knuckles.
The second man moved forward, and it was clear Omar wasn’t going to give her time to catch her breath or allow her water like he’d done in the past. Fairness had gone out the window.
The man gave her no chance to even move back into a fighting stance. He launched himself at her. She backpedaled, almost lost her footing, but recovered, crouching as his wild punch drifted over her head.
He was an undisciplined fighter, young and wild. It would be to his disadvantage.
Still in a crouch, she turned twice to get some distance, popped up and with all her remaining strength, twisted into a roundhouse kick, her heel hitting his face a stunning blow. He staggered and almost went down, but he righted himself and shook his head. With a malevolent look, he pierced her with his glare.
He ran at her, and she struck, once in the throat, the nose, then a hit under his arm. The man folded, then hit back three times in a beat down that took everything Aella had to fight off. She landed a blow under his jaw and the man staggered, collapsed. Aella lurched back, poised to strike, but the guy dropped into a squat and swept her leg, clipping her behind the knees. Aella fell, her back smacking into the hardpacked dirt. She didn’t think or try to catch her breath. If he got her pinned, it would be over. But she was a fraction too late, he tumbled his weight on top of her. She felt her ribs give. She clapped his ears, stunning him, then rolled hard, gripping the bastard’s arm and getting him into a wrestler’s choke hold. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she squeezed his neck as hard as she could with all the pressure she could muster.
She heard a crack, and he went limp. She scrambled out from under him. Her body and face throbbing from the blows and the take down.
She knelt in the dirt for a moment, refusing to be cowed or beaten. With deliberate movements, she rose to her feet and stood there, bloody but defiant.
For a moment she panted and met Omar’s shocked, then admiring gaze, giving him a smug look.
He wiped it off her face when he motioned a fresh man into the ring.
The next thing Aella knew as she woke with a start was that she was inside a room. She had fought two more men, but the last one had the advantage. She was exhausted, starved, dehydrated and injured. He’d knocked her out when her reflexes had slowed down. After a blurry, bleary moment, she recognized it as the place where she had been imprisoned.
With a sinking heart, she understood she had finally lost.
Her head throbbed and her jaw ached like hell. She clenched her teeth, wondering if she still had them all, relieved when there was pain but everything seemed intact. The inside of her cheek was shredded, but physical injuries would heal.
The six girls were scattered around her, the youngest snuggled up to her supine body. Aella reached out and smoothed her hand over the child’s wiry hair. She mustered as much reassurance as she could at the remaining five terrified faces above her.
The door jiggled, the lock releasing, then Omar came through. “You are a formidable fighter, my amazon, but you have lost and now you must give me what you bargained with.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You are a cheating, dishonorable monster,” she spat out, knowing that her and the girls’ sexual abuse were days if not hours away.
“You will be given time to heal. Then you will be mine along with your young allies. Heal well. You will need to be at your best for what I have in store for you.” He came close and said, “Her. The oldest one. Take her.”
One of the guards grabbed Yasmiin, but Aella put herself between them and fought him off. Omar laughed and motioned in another guard. He came to Aella and hit her in the face twice, then pinned her down. All the girls started to cry and huddle together, holding on to Yasmiin with their small arms and hands.
“Aella!” Yasmiin screamed as they dragged her out of the room.
“It is time you all learned your places,” Omar said, then with a swirl of his robes, he was gone. She held back hot tears, wishing Saint were here. He would never have given up.
The girls rushed to her as she gathered them close.
If it was the last thing she did, Omar would die regardless of what he did to her.
She vowed it.