“No fucking way can we rescue Brie and leave the kids behind.” Bastian paced in front of his team, his entire body shaking from what he’d witnessed in the market.

He had to get his shit together and get back there. He looked to Ripley, who had the satellite phone. “Call Cap. Get the rest of the team here.”

“We don’t have authorization to save anyone but Stewart,” Espinosa said.

“Fuck SOCOM and their orders. This market needs to be wiped off the map. Jesus. Savannah James knew about it, and no one did anything?”

“No Americans were in jeopardy,” Goldberg said.

“Well, an American is now. We’re here. We’re armed. We can take these assholes. They don’t expect Special Forces to come calling.”

He met Pax’s gaze, then turned to Cal. They’d understand. They were at Desta’s compound last month. They’d helped rescue the girls and smuggled them out of Somaliland. They’d caught shit for making the girls the US embassy’s problem, but the women who worked at the embassy had quietly thanked them for doing the right thing.

“We can rescue the children and get them across the river, into Ethiopia. Sort it out over there. Drop them in one of the refugee camps,” Bastian suggested.

“No way. The Ethiopian government will freak if we dump refugees on them. We could lose our Forward Operating Base,” Ripley said.

The stability of the FOB in Ethiopia was tenuous at best. They’d all be booted from Special Forces if they caused a troop withdrawal.

“Maybe we can get Jeffery Prime to drop a wad of cash on the Ethiopian government, as thanks for helping out in the rescue of his daughter,” Cal said.

“They’re estranged,” Bastian said.

“So what? Do you think it would look good if he didn’t make a donation as thanks after his daughter—who’s an aid worker—was rescued?” Cal responded. “The guy shits money. Plus they need good PR after those documents were leaked that showed how they’ve been suppressing global warming data for the last decade. Brie is his ticket to PR heaven.”

“There’s another possibility that wouldn’t risk our FOB and wouldn’t require Prime’s cooperation,” Pax said.

Everyone turned to the master sergeant. “What if the kids escaped…on their own? With a little help from an A-Team. We can lead them to the river. If we can round up some boats for them, they can hide out in the islands that dot the marsh and maybe make their way into Ethiopia.”

“We’d need a bunch of boats,” Bastian said. But the kids were small and far too thin. He’d bet they could fit ten in a dugout palm canoe. “Five at least.”

“There were several stacked in the village where the hostages were held. The rest of the team can grab them on their way south.”

“It would take time to get them in place. Brie could be auctioned any minute.”

“You’ll go in and buy Brie,” Pax said. “Cal and Espinosa will enter the market a few minutes after you to secure the kids. By the time they reach the river, the others will be there with the canoes.”

Cal and Espi were the logical choices. Black and Hispanic respectively, and both sporting decent beards, they were less likely to draw attention than if Pax, Ripley, or Goldberg attempted to blend. Pax’s skin might have a darker, southern European tone, but it was still obvious he was white, and the fact that his beard was only about two days old didn’t help matters.

“With Cal and Espi in position, after Brie is clear, they can trigger an ‘accident’ in the arms hut,” Pax said. “The kids can escape in the melee that follows. Then Espi can lead the kids like the Pied Piper down to the river, Cal covering their flank. The rest of us can move in and mop up, make it look like the kids did all the damage and orchestrated their own escape, taking out anyone who sees us. It’ll take at least two hours to get to the river, plenty of time to get the boats in place.”

“We’d need to draw some of the guards away,” Cal said, “so Espi has a chance to talk to the kids, tell them what to do.” The kids might not speak Arabic or English, but it was their best option.

“Cause a scene with Brie. Get all eyes on her,” Espinosa suggested. “Odds are, they’ll be watching her anyway. I don’t imagine she’s typical merchandise.”

Bastian’s nod was uneasy. It wasn’t a great plan—there were far too many variables that were beyond their control, but it was their best option. Worse came to worst, they’d gun down the slavers and set the kids free. At least with this plan, there was a chance they could make it to the relative safety of the islands hidden in the swamp. Maybe some would find their parents there, or make it into Ethiopia as refugees.

No matter what they did, his A-Team was going to be in a shitload of trouble with the US Army and SOCOM, but in the end, they were all in. Fuck the job if they had to turn their back on these kids. The dishonorable discharge would be worth it.

One by one, men entered the hut and circled Brie. They spoke in Arabic to the man who’d chained her, either assuming she didn’t understand or not caring.

They complained about her body to lower the price. Tits too small. Ass too big. Fat. Skinny. Ugly. It wasn’t like these monsters could hurt her feelings. She hoped they all found her as repulsive as she found them.

A few men spoke directly to her, asking questions in Arabic, which she pretended she didn’t understand. They switched to English, and she answered with a French accent.

She stared each potential buyer in the face. Memorizing his features. When she escaped—and she would—she would describe these men to the US military. They would be hunted down.

At least, she wanted to believe that. The truth was, the US military would probably avoid antagonizing South Sudan. No one knew who would win the civil war, and so the US continued to play neutral.

She clenched her fingers into a fist, the nails biting into her palms, making her glad she hadn’t trimmed them in two weeks. Her nails were her only weapon, and they were sharp.

She gathered from the words exchanged between potential buyers and the seller that the bidding would take place soon after all the private previews had been completed.

A Saudi man circled her. He touched her ass, and she flinched. The man laughed and grabbed again, this time pinching her.

She was chained at the throat, but her arms weren’t bound. She jabbed the man in the eye with a sharp nail, using a move Ezra had taught her. The Saudi howled with pain and lunged for her. His hands closed on her throat, above the metal collar.

An instant later, searing pain shot down her side. The man attempting to choke her recoiled with another yelp of pain.

The slaver had lashed out with a whip, hitting both the Saudi and her. Punishment for striking a potential buyer, or punishment for touching the merchandise?

The man was tossed from the hut, and she gathered from the shouts that followed, he wasn’t permitted to join the bidding.

Both, then.

Her left biceps throbbed. A welt formed along her arm and trailed down, curling around her side just reaching the top of her left buttock. She was certain to end up with a nasty bruise, but at least the skin hadn’t broken.

She was studying her wound when footsteps sounded on the dirt floor, and she looked up to see the next buyer. A jolt of recognition went through her. To hide it, she turned back to studying her welts.

This man worked for Druneft now, but once upon a time, he’d worked for her father.

All she could do was hope he wouldn’t recognize her. She was covered in mud, naked, bruised, with hair shorter than she’d ever worn it before. She doubted her best friend from high school could pick her out of a lineup.

She kept her face averted, attempting to look cowed, which wasn’t hard after just being whipped. He asked questions in Arabic with a bogus British accent. He then addressed her directly, in English. “Where are you from, my dear?”

It was possible he was here to help her, although the odds of that were miniscule.

She cleared her throat, her brain blanking on how to conjure the French accent. Her hip and arm throbbed. Terror had been slowly creeping up on her, and now she found she couldn’t speak.

The whip lashed out again, snapping before her nose, a warning.

She let out a yelp and answered, “Madagascar,” she said, naming her last USAID assignment. She knew the country and the French language to fake her way through this.

The man circled her slowly, tutting as he viewed her from behind.

She was naked and chained by the throat and was being threatened with a whip. As if she gave a fuck what this man thought upon viewing her ass.

He left. Her guard held the whip in front of her face. “You answer the questions, or you get more of this.” He spat into the dirt.

“Whip me, and you’ll drive down the price.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he wasn’t stupid. Badly injured, she’d sell for next to nothing.

Another man stepped into the hut, and Brie lifted her gaze to memorize another face. The man’s eyes flicked to hers, then dropped down, dismissive as he studied her naked form, then slowly he raised his gaze to hers again.

She wobbled on her feet as shock radiated down her body.

Chief Warrant Officer Sebastian Ford.

Bastian turned cold at the sight of Brie stripped and chained.

Jesus. He’d walked past a line of starving children to enter this hut, and in the hut next door, there was a guy selling an assortment of weapons.

This fucking country.

And South Sudan was only one of several African countries that trafficked in children.

This fucking continent.

But the truth was the US and other countries with power knew exactly what went on here, and did nothing to stop it.

This fucking world.

He’d witnessed atrocities in many places and forms. Hell, he’d grown up on a poor reservation and had seen crap go down there that had the power to make him cry even now. Yet humans could still shock him with their inhumanity.

But right now, he had to be a soldier.

No. Not a soldier. Right now, he was in the market for a sex slave, and the woman before him was just what he was looking for.

“Is she a good fuck?” Bastian asked the seller in Arabic. He was good at this, the blending. It was what Special Forces did. They infiltrated. Became one with the community. He could pass for a soulless slave trader who belonged here without breaking a sweat.

“Excellent fuck,” the slaver said. “Very tight pussy.”

Bastian used the anger the words triggered to feed his character. He wouldn’t consider what the answer indicated. His gaze swept down Brie’s naked body with cold indifference. “Does she fight?” he asked.

“No. No fight in her. She’s well broken.”

If he had a heart left, it would have seized. Outwardly, he shrugged and turned for the door. “Too bad. I like a woman who fights.”

Haggling over human flesh. An old Army jingle flashed through his mind. “Be all that you can be…”

“Wait!” her keeper said. “She fights. She blinded a man just minutes ago for touching her ass.”

Bastian turned back, and his gaze swept her body again. He gave no sign of recognition. No wink, no nothing to put her mind at ease, while inwardly he cheered that she’d fought back. The welt on her arm was likely the price she’d paid.

Savvy said Brie spoke Arabic, not fluent, but enough. He wondered if she’d hidden this from her captors.

He touched the welt, his fingers lightly tracing the raised skin. He wanted to find the man who’d touched her and do worse than blind him. But instead he needed to be just like that man. He grabbed her ass and squeezed.

She flinched but didn’t strike him. Her gaze met his. Her eyes burned with anger and unshed tears.

The guard snapped the whip. “No touching before the auction!”

Bastian raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. But I’ll pay more if I can have a taste first.”

The whip snapped again, this time dangerously close to Brie’s face. She yelped and jumped back, tripping over her own chain.

Bastian caught her by the shoulder, preventing her fall. His gaze met hers, and for a brief moment, his guard slipped. Her eyes widened in silent communication.

Fuck. If anyone caught the exchange, they were screwed.

He shut down his reaction and grunted. “Clumsy bitch.” To the guard, he said in Arabic, “You got any other women? I like bigger tits.”

The man reached out and grabbed her breasts, lifting them and squeezing. “There’s enough here.”

Brie swung out with her right fist, knocking the man’s head toward her, then she jerked her head as if she intended to head-butt him, but checked herself, muting the blow. Clearly, she wasn’t trained in fighting.

The slaver dropped back, hurt, but not as badly as he could have been. He lashed out with the whip.

She screamed, and blood sprouted on her chest; a thin line of liquid red crossed her right breast and curled over her shoulder.

In a flash, Bastian had the man pinned to the dirt floor with his knife at his throat. “You’re damaging my property,” he said in a low voice.

“She’s mine! You haven’t paid.”

“You will sell her to me, or you will die.” He shaved a chunk of beard from the man’s throat.

“You will pay—and pay well—or you will die.”

Bastian lifted the man from the floor, keeping his knife at his throat. He kicked open his duffel bag, revealing the stacks of hundred dollar bills. “That enough for you?”

The man nodded.

Bastian needed to seal this deal while the man was afraid and before he remembered his special buyer. “But you only get this if you give her to me now. No auction.” If this failed, he’d take out the slaver and make a break with Brie. “No one else will pay you this much.”

The man stared into the duffel. He hesitated a moment, then reached into the pouch on his hip and pulled out a key and handed it to Bastian.

“Take her.”