Tuesday. Zeina Razqa’s Home Nouakchott, Mauritania.

Samba pushed open the car door and stood, leaving Lemine and the others to scramble out after him. The armed men at the front of the house didn’t move to stop him, which at least meant that the woman had some brains.

At the last moment, the man closest to the door opened it and followed him in.

“Zeina,” Samba bellowed. His voice bounced off the marble floors and tiled walls.

The Razqa family home was beautiful. Opulent even, speaking to their wealth handed down through the generations. It was widely known her parents had grown senile and out of touch with age, which was a large reason why their errant daughter was allowed too many freedoms.

“What is all this yelling about?” Zeina rounded a corner, her garishly bright, pink clothing drawing all eyes to her. She frowned first at him, then the others who’d followed him through the door. “Didn’t anyone teach you to knock first?”

“Where is she?” Samba demanded.

“Safe.”

“Why am I hearing about this now and not last night?”

“Why?” Zeina planted her hands on her hips. “Maybe because it wasn’t safe last night to transport her? These groups, these rioters, they make the streets dangerous. Did you know they almost attacked a ballistic truck? You’re losing your grasp on the situation, Samba.”

“It’s being handled.” Samba glared at her.

They hadn’t anticipated the people banding together and opposing them. It had never been done before. With enough show of force, they would fall in line, just like Zeina.

“The Davis girl. Where is she?” Samba demanded.

“Why should I give her to you? You can’t take the Presidential Palace. What makes me think you can take parliament or the military?”

“You can either do this willingly, or when I am president, I can take your fortune by force.”

That threat didn’t seem to faze Zeina at all.

“Fine. Get the girl and her guard. Bring them both.” Zeina turned and gave orders first to the men in black uniforms, then to her assistant. “You’d better start proving yourself, Samba.”

“Proving myself?” He barked a laugh. “Today is the day parliament will swear me in as president.”

That got her attention. Zeina’s eyes widened with disbelief.

She wasn’t the only one who could orchestrate events. Samba had been hard at work on those in parliament that hadn’t fled, and he’d secured the votes to grant him the presidency and all the power he could want.

Tuesday. Presidential Palace Nouakchott, Mauritania.

The red carpet extending from the entrance to the Presidential Palace was charred in places, but the building seemed intact. Jackie had only been there once, and it was an experience she’d never forget.

Samba Hamadi’s men marched their group up the carpet and toward the wall of glass framed by the iconic pointed arch. The Mauritanian flag was nowhere to be seen, and neither were the Presidential Guard. Instead, a man wearing the black and red uniform of the PPM opened the doors for their procession.

Jackie glanced around, taking in the changes. The curtains were drawn back to allow natural light into the building in place of electric since the power was still out. She’d known the new president had undertaken a project to renovate the palace, make it grander in places, less sterile. By and large it appeared untouched.

Another set of PPM guards led the way down the hall and into the most photographed room of the palace. The presidential receiving room was mostly as it had been for years. The floors were marble instead of carpet and the drapes were a geometric, shimmering fabric instead of solid gold. The long, stately sofas where heads of state and their delegations would sit facing each other remained, as did the two arm chairs reserved for the president and his equal.

The afternoon sun made the room seem to glitter from the ground up with the gold veined marble. It really was a lovely picture and well done. If anyone but Samba Hamadi were taking the throne.

Samba glanced over his shoulder as though to ensure all eyes were on him. He swaggered forward and turned to stand in front of what had been the president’s chair.

This wasn’t happening.

Jackie closed her eyes.

This couldn’t be real.

“Look, Zeina. See? You didn’t put me here. I put me here.”

Jackie couldn’t help but crack an eye. Samba had his arms spread wide and ever so slowly eased down into the chair. He grasped the arms and scooted back into the seat of power.

“Not such a bad fit?”

“What’s he saying?” Felix whispered.

“He’s gloating,” Jackie replied.

“What about General Taleb? What are you going to do about him?” Zeina strolled forward and sat in the chair opposite Samba.

He narrowed his gaze, but didn’t order her back in line.

“The girl will call her father. Her father will make the necessary calls. By nightfall, Parliament will appoint me the new president of Mauritania, and General Taleb will have no choice but to do as I say.” Samba grinned. He thought he had it all figured out that the old man general wouldn’t rally his troupes against him.

Jackie swallowed.

Dad wouldn’t do anything just to keep her alive. She didn’t matter that much to him. Hell, if she died here he probably had life insurance on her that would pay out a metric shit ton. Losing her would be acceptable if it meant keeping control of the mines and a friendly power in the palace.

She was going to die.

Felix kept saying everything would turn out okay, it would be fine, but it wouldn’t. She couldn’t trust him, not after he’d kept such a big secret from her. When the rubber met the road, she already knew where her father’s priorities were. He’d shown her his whole life. And it wasn’t as if she’d done anything to make him like her or value her life.

“Bring me a phone.” Samba waved his hand.

A man still wearing the green livery of the palace strode forward, a satellite phone in hand. Lemine intercepted him and snagged the phone.

“You’ll see that my plan worked.” Samba thumbed at his chest.

Zeina’s blank expression said more than words. Jackie wasn’t so sure Samba had thought of every angle. He’d certainly never realized that Jackie’s relationship with her father was strained.

Lemine handed Samba the phone which he pressed to his ear and eased back in the seat.

“Jackie?” Felix whispered.

“They’re calling Dad.” She swallowed. “Felix?”

“It’s going to be okay.” He reached over and took her hand.

“No, it’s not.” She turned to stare at him. Blood had dried, clumping his blond locks together. One eye was a bit swollen. A pang of guilt stabbed her. She’d enjoyed getting to know Felix, talking to him. She hated how things were ending between them. “Dad’s not going to agree to anything. They’ll kill me then, won’t they?”

“You don’t know that,” Felix said far too quickly.

“But I do. If you get home in time, make sure the necklace is buried with Mom?”

“Jackie—don’t say that.”

“Quiet,” Samba snapped.

“And Felix?” She opened her mouth, her wild, crazy words sticking to the back of her throat.

“Bring her here,” Samba said.

Lemine jerked her forward so hard she almost fell. The dick probably took joy in it, too. He hauled her next to the presidential chair, but didn’t let her go.

“Tell your father you’re still alive and well. For now.” Samba extended the phone toward her.

“I talk, Felix goes free,” she whispered in Arabic. Her father was barely conversant in this language, and hard of hearing to boot.

Samba stared at her as though he hadn’t realized she could actually speak.

“You do as I tell you, and he doesn’t die.” He leaned toward her, phone in hand. “Be a good girl. Take it.”

“You say that to all your bitches, don’t you?” She snatched the phone out of his hand and pressed it to her ear. “Hi, Dad. Don’t give this sick fuck anything.”

“Jackie—”

Samba stood and flung his arm out, the back of his hand connecting with Jackie’s cheek. She reeled backward, the existing bruises hurting more than the actual blow.

Hands grabbed at her and Lemine snatched the phone, giving it back to Samba.

“You heard her. She’s alive, for now. Call your friends in parliament, or I’ll behead her myself, understood?”

Jackie swallowed.

That went about as well as she’d expected.

“Take them down stairs. Now,” Lemine snapped.

Uniformed PPM guards dragged Jackie out of the room, Felix on her heels.

“Jackie? You okay?” Felix yelled.

“Yeah. He hits like a bitch.” Her jaw throbbed a bit, but he’d landed the blow in the same spot she’d been backhanded last night, and by someone who knew how to throw a punch.

Battery operated lanterns illuminated the stairs as they were escorted down at least one or two floors. In the semi darkness it was hard to tell. They walked for what felt like ages through a long hall, too long to just be under the main palace, and into what looked like some sort of dungeon from a bygone era. The walls were tan brick, ancient and uneven. Their guards shoved them into the first open door.

Jackie stumbled forward, hands out, but she felt nothing in the darkness.

Felix’s boots scraped the ground behind her.

“Hey—hey? You can’t leave us here.” Jackie whirled around.

The last guard yanked the door shut. Metal clanged against metal, sending shivers up her spine. She grasped the bars and watched the light fade away, down the long, arched corridor.

“I hope you rot in hell,” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls.

“Jackie—stop.” Felix grasped her arm.

The last of the light died, leaving them floating in a sea of darkness so complete it felt as though it were pressing in all around.

“Where are we?” she asked. Her voice bounced off the brick and stone, echoing to sound louder than it needed to.

“Some sort of fucking dungeon.”

“No, I mean—where? We walked for too long to still be under the palace, so where are we?” She could picture the palace grounds in her mind, but she had no idea what structures were around the main building.

“I don’t know.” He grunted. “Lock feels like it’s just an old, key entry.”

“Can you pick it?”

“Maybe? I don’t know.” Felix’s boot ground against the stones and the door shifted. “What the hell were you thinking to tell Samba to go fuck himself?”

“I thought, hey, I’m going to die. Might as well say what I think?”

“You are not going to die.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know that.”

“And neither do you.” He grunted and something pinged against the metal.

“What are you doing? What’s going on?” She held out her hands and shuffled toward the sound until she could grasp the cold iron bars.

“The key hole’s small. I need pins or something. If I could just see what the hell I still have in my pockets, this would be easier.”

“You have a hundred and one pockets—and no flashlight?”

“Not anymore.”

She leaned her forehead on the bars.

“Listen, Felix?” She blew out a breath. “Best case scenario? Dad refuses to play ball because it’ll cost him his gold source. They kill me. There’s no way my dad will risk losing his mines to save me.”

“No. You’re his daughter. He’ll—”

“If that ever mattered, don’t you think we’d have some sort of father-daughter bond by now? Felix, this is the man who would rather send one of his employees to my Father Daughter Dance than show up himself. He’s never going to value me on the same level as the business. End of story. We just need to accept that Zeina and Samba put the wrong eggs in this basket because Dad’s not budging. Which means they’re going to kill me.”

“No.”

“Yes.” She turned toward his voice, staring into the darkness so complete she could be alone. “Just—make sure the necklace gets buried with Mom? And tell Val to call my lawyer. She doesn’t know it yet, but she gets everything. I never told her because it felt weird and she’d say no, but...if anyone gets something from me, it should be her. God knows she’s put up with me enough.”

“Stop talking like that, Jackie.” Felix’s hand wrapped around her arm and he pulled her toward him. “We’re going to figure this out.”

“Yeah, but if we don’t—it’s okay. I got myself into this.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed, giving into the urge to hang onto him no matter what.

“Stop talking like you’re about to die.” He squeezed the back of her neck.

“I’m trying to be a realist here.”

“Yeah, well, your realism sucks.”

“I don’t want Dad to support Samba, because that means a whole country will be worse off. I wouldn’t want to live in a world where that happens. I don’t want that blame on my shoulders.”

“And I want your blood on my hands?”

“None of this is your fault.”

“And it’s yours?”

Jackie opened her mouth, but she didn’t have a good answer to that question. She knew her life choices put her in the path of danger, but so did Felix’s.

“You don’t get to be the martyr here. You die, I have to live with it. Me. If they’re going to kill you, they have to go through me first.” He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath stroking her skin.

“No. No, I won’t let that happen.”

“I’m not going to live with your blood on my hands.”

“You don’t get to die for me—”

“My job is to protect you with my life. I’ll do it, Jackie. If there’s a fighting chance to get you out of here, I’ll take it. And I don’t care what happens to me. Guys like me are a dime a dozen, but you? You’re something special.”

Tuesday. Presidential Bunker Nouakchott, Mauritania.

Val bit her lip and squeezed the syringe, plunging an extra dose of painkillers into the President’s system.

“That should do it, Mr. President,” she said.

Kossi Ould Maaouya had a kind face. He patted her hand and nodded, saving his strength for the moments to come. She glanced at the clock.

Shit.

Yenna had called half an hour ago about the forced vote and the narrow window of time they had.

“Is he ready?” one of the presidential aids asked.

“Yes. Be gentle with him. He’s going to be easily exhausted. In an hour, give him this.” She handed the man another syringe. Once they’d overthrown the coup, Kossi could have all the recuperation time he needed, but right now the people needed a strong leader.

“Thank you.” He took the syringe. “Malick is waiting to lead you down to the dungeons where they’re holding the others. God speed.”

“Thanks.” Val pushed to her feet and sprinted for the stairs.

Everything had to be timed perfectly.

Duke’s men had dispersed out to the refugee camps last night, spreading the word that the president was alive. That they needed to take back their city. Any minute now, those people would head straight for the Presidential Palace—where Duke would project a video of the president to inspire a patriotic uprising.

If Yenna couldn’t stall the vote, they didn’t know what would happen, but nothing good for Jackie and Felix trapped in the honest-to-God dungeons.

She reached the top of the stairs and pushed the door open peering out onto an alley.

“Come on.” Kyle waved her toward a truck, loaded down with his American reinforcements. “We’ve got to go.”

Val sprinted for the truck and prayed they still had time.

Tuesday. Presidential Palace Nouakchott, Mauritania.

She couldn’t fucking believe it.

Zeina propped her elbow on the arm rest and listened to Samba’s side of the conversation. Everything had been so carefully arranged and then Samba pulled a God damn magic rabbit out of the hat. How had he done it?

General Taleb was still a wild card. Samba didn’t have the manpower to stand against him, and the old man wasn’t going to support Samba. If Zeina had even the slightest idea, this would happen she’d have thrown her support behind the military.

Lemine stared at her, his lips quirked up. She wanted to slap that smirk off his face. She could still destroy him. Samba would not stomach the treason, no matter who it came from.

“Now, we wait,” Samba announced. He handed the phone to Lemine and eased back in his chair.

“Is Davis cooperating?” Zeina asked. It didn’t hurt to have all the information.

“He is. In a few hours, parliament will convene and appoint me president.” Samba grinned.

Zeina could feel her control of the situation slipping. Before, she’d had a reasonable expectation of her rewards for supporting him, but Samba appeared determined to do this on his own.

“Well, then, I must prepare an appropriate gift for our new leader.” She pushed to her feet. “To your victory, President Hamadi.”

Samba grinned, too stupid to realize it was all a set up.

She turned and strolled out of the room. Her mercenaries waited in the hall and followed her out the front.

A car idled at the curb, waiting for her. It wasn’t one of hers, but the driver was one of the mercenaries. She didn’t need to know where it came from, only that it would get her from point A to B.

“Where to?” The leader slid in next to her.

“Take the scenic route to visit General Taleb. And radio the others, tell them to pull back. We will no longer be supporting Samba Hamadi. If he wants to believe he put himself at the top, then he can keep himself there.”

Zeina could still get what she wanted. Papis desired a trophy. She could get him one and still keep her freedom.