The pickup truck bounced along the dirt track, bruising Brie, who lay in the open back, with every pothole and rut they hit. She still didn’t know who had taken her, or why, but beyond binding her hands and feet and taking her pack, the man hadn’t touched her, which was a relief.

Her abductor bore the six parallel lines across his forehead—ritual scarring that indicated he was Nuer. The vice president of South Sudan, who was the leader of the rebels, was Nuer. The president was Dinka. The country had dozens of ethnic groups, and Dinka and Nuer were the two largest. Combined, they equaled only about twenty-five percent of the population.

Was this Nuer man aligned with the rebels? The only thing she was certain of, he wasn’t one of the two men who’d been searching for her. This man spoke one of the many local languages, but didn’t speak much Arabic. While English was the official working language of the Republic of South Sudan, Arabic had once shared that title, and it remained the lingua franca of the country. Her Arabic was passable—better than her captor’s.

The rain had stopped before he took her, and she’d done her best to leave as many footprints by the side of the road as she could.

If Ezra’s call had gone through, then surely the US military would send a team to liberate her colleagues. If so, hopefully they’d search for her and see those footprints—if another rain didn’t wash them away.

The truck hit a particularly deep pothole. Brie’s body floated in the air before slamming down on the truck bed. With her hands bound to a tie-down, she couldn’t protect her head. Her temple hit the uneven surface with enough force to see stars.

Nausea rose. Eyes closed against the bright sun, she breathed slowly and managed to keep the bile down.

Would the US send a team from Camp Citron? That would be the logical choice.

She thought about the implausible kiss and wondered if Bastian knew of the attack on the USAID facility. And if he did, would he think the pampered princess had gotten what she deserved?

Less than an hour after they arrived in South Sudan, seven scouts had been quietly dispatched from their positions in the marsh by Bastian’s team, ensuring they didn’t tip off the hostage guards. The signal was given, and the SEALs moved in. Shots sounded.

Bastian waited from his position in the marsh, ready to move, wishing he’d been in on the raid to free the hostages. Minutes later, a SEAL announced the hostages were safe and that four of the five guards had been killed. The remaining man could look forward to a long, uncomfortable interrogation back at Camp Citron.

For now, they could be satisfied that all twelve tangos were accounted for. These men had been no match for the combined training of a Special Forces A-Team and a SEAL team.

Boko Haram or the government or rebel fighters had to know the US military would crush them when they’d attacked a US government aid organization. So why destroy the USAID facility? What had they expected to gain?

Unease slid down Bastian’s spine. Maybe they did know who Brie was.

“How many hostages?” he asked over the radio.

“Three. Brie Stewart isn’t here.”

He made a beeline for the hut where the SEALs remained with the freed hostages. Several of his teammates followed.

Inside, Bastian scanned the three USAID employees. “Where’s Brie Stewart?”

Ezra Johnson, an American aid worker with skin so dark he could pass for South Sudanese if it weren’t for the lack of tribal scarring, studied him, his gaze landing on Bastian’s name tape. “You’re the asshole from Camp Citron.”

Interesting. What had Brie told the man? Savannah James said Brie’s coworkers didn’t know who she was.

“He’s an asshole who just helped save your life,” one of the SEALs said.

“Yes, but I’m still an asshole.” Bastian turned to Ezra. “Where. The fuck. Is Brie?”

“We don’t know,” Ezra said.

“She escaped before the fire,” said the other American hostage, Alan. “We stayed behind so she could get away.” He cleared his throat. “It doesn’t go well for the women.”

He was talking about rape. These men had sacrificed themselves so Brie could escape. Bastian gave a nod of respect.

“The men were looking for her,” the South Sudanese aid worker, Jaali, added. “They spoke of it, in a local dialect on their radios. I listened. They were searching, but not finding.”

“Where would she go?” Bastian asked all three men.

“There aren’t a lot of people she could turn to.” Alan’s face darkened. “She had three choices. Go to the Kemet Oil operation that’s about twenty miles to the north, the UN camp to the northwest, or follow the road south toward Juba.”

“What do you think she’d do?” Bastian asked.

“She’d choose Juba over Kemet Oil,” Ezra said firmly. “The company uses child labor and aren’t likely to help us.”

“Why wouldn’t she go to the UN camp?” Pax asked. “It’s closer than the capital.”

“She might, but it’s still pretty far, and the road will disappear in rain in the coming days,” Jaali said. “The main road to Juba is her best bet. The road is higher ground and lasts the longest when all the others flood.”

Bastian turned to his detachment commander, Captain Durant, who’d entered the hut along with the rest of their A-Team. “Permission to split the team in two and go after Brie Stewart, sir.”

The captain nodded for the team to step outside the hut where they could speak without being overheard by the USAID employees. Bastian followed the tall African American commander who’d been at the top spot on their team since the Yemen mission over a year ago. Outside, Captain Durant said, “Given who she is, we should consider using the full team in addition to several SEALs.”

“Too many people on this and we risk exposing her secret,” Bastian said. “Send half the team to check out Kemet Oil and the UN camp, while six of us search the route to Juba. Two teams of six can keep a lower profile. Any more than that, and whoever took her might start to wonder just how valuable she is.”

“They may already know,” Lieutenant Fallon said.

Bastian tipped his head in a slight nod. “But if they don’t, why make it obvious?” A-Teams were designed for this type of operation; splitting into two teams was a common practice. The only unusual aspect was that Bastian was determined to be the one leading the team that searched the Juba road.

Durant studied him for a long moment. “You didn’t disclose to SOCOM you know the woman.”

“We met briefly when she was at Camp Citron a month ago.”

“Long enough for her to know you’re an asshole,” Fallon said.

Bastian shrugged. “What can I say? My charm comes naturally.”

The captain held his gaze. “Did you fuck her?”

“No, sir.” He’d never quite figured out if he regretted that or not.

Durant gave a sharp nod. “Take Blanchard, Callahan, Ripley, Goldberg, and Espinosa.”

“We’ll search in the south, along the Juba road.” He held his breath, hoping the captain wouldn’t argue and send him to the UN camp.

Durant nodded. “Two days, Chief Ford.” He looked over Bastian’s shoulder and addressed the team assembled there who would accompany Bastian on this mission. “You need to find her within forty-eight hours. If you don’t, the US military will have no choice but to go all in. Gabriella Prime cannot become a reason for the US to become embroiled in South Sudan’s civil war. Be discreet. And fast.”

The members of his team nodded, and Bastian felt a surge of pride. His men were the best. Just weeks ago, he and Pax had been at odds, but after his encounter with Brie, he’d pulled his head out of his ass and salvaged what had once been an important friendship. And he had Brie to thank, in a roundabout way, for his mental extraction.

Back inside the hut, Bastian pulled out a map and spread it on the table. He grilled the three USAID workers on the route she was likely to attempt and the risks she’d face along the way.

Alan cleared his throat as Bastian rolled up the map. “Mr. Ford, you need to know about the market. If someone found her, they might have taken her there.”

“Market?” Bastian asked, spreading the map again.

“I’m not sure where it is—no one is, exactly. It’s not a place any of us could go and expect to return from. Somewhere deep in the marsh to the west, there’s a slave market. We think it formed sometime in the last few months, or at least, that’s when there was an uptick in children disappearing—more than usual. They sell other things at the market too—weapons, drugs, artifacts, anything that supports war and terror—but mostly they sell children.”

“And you think they’d take her there?”

He nodded. “It’s one of the reasons we made sure she escaped. Months ago, we noticed a decrease in the number of women and children who’d been raped and released. The slaughtering stopped too—we thought the war was winding down—but then we started hearing rumors of the market, and it became clear the economy had shifted and slavers were taking women and children who were returning home after taking refuge in the camps—for a while, no one realized they were missing, because no one knew they were coming home.”

“Why hasn’t this been reported?” Captain Durant demanded.

“It was. It’s why Brie went to Camp Citron a month ago. She told some woman there everything she knew about the market.”

Sonofabitch. Savvy knew all along, and she didn’t say a fucking word.

Need-to-know my ass.

They had needed to know. This might have nothing to do with USAID, nothing to do with the fact that Brie was a Prime. It could be about the market.

The rain clouds had dissipated, leaving a celestial canopy visible through the branches of the tree Brie was tied to. Something tickled the back of her neck. She squirmed against the rope that secured her hands to her waist. It must be an insect of some sort.

She should be sleeping, but that was impossible, trussed up as she was. She closed her eyes. And a different sky came to mind…

She sank back into the moment when she’d been trying to regain her composure and Bastian had found her staring at the stars.

It was too much to hope his or another Special Forces team would be sent to South Sudan to find her. But hope she did, because she had to hold on to something.

Not far away, her captor snored loudly as he slept on the hard ground. She still had no idea who he was or if he was associated with the men who’d invaded the USAID facility.

Nothing about working in South Sudan had been comfortable, but this was a new lesson in how good she’d had it in her aluminum-walled living quarters. For starters, she’d had a cot, and when the generator had fuel, they’d had electricity.

Tonight she lay on rocky ground, bound to a tree. No pillow, no blanket, no water, no food. Tied at wrists and ankles.

And she was utterly terrified.

A sinking feeling had settled in her gut when her captor had turned his truck around and headed west. The rough roads meant they were driving through the marsh, on tracks that had never been smoothed by any type of machinery.

They were in the no-man’s-land, heading toward the market. And she knew with a certainty that chilled her on a humid night that tomorrow she would be sold to the highest bidder.