“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m sitting on the sidelines, Colonel Miwanga.” Cade ran a frustrated hand through his overly long hair, having reached the end of his patience. Hell, he’d reached the end of that about ten minutes after learning Anya had been kidnapped by Anti-Balaka forces.
He still remembered sitting in the mess tent, eating the thing that passed for food that day, as the only television on the makeshift base had shared the world news. He’d barely looked up at the mention of the Central African Republic, having grown accustomed to reports of violence there. It was only when the anchor mentioned the organization for which Anya worked that he’d set down his fork.
Two minutes later, his life had altered drastically when he’d heard her name, along with two others, who had disappeared in what peacekeepers were sure was a kidnap by Anti-Balaka. Somehow, the cogs of the Army had turned more quickly than usual, and he’d gotten leave and been on a plane for Bangui by that evening.
Since then, he’d spent a tireless, but fruitless, two weeks accompanying the unit of peacekeepers assigned to find his stepsister. The group holding her kept changing locations, but they had narrowed it down. Two days ago, Etienne Francois had staggered onto a main road, apparently freed by a bargain Anya had made with the Anti-Balaka force, though he had no details of that.
The next day, Tom Andrews had been found ten miles to the south, clearly dumped en route to their next base. His massive head bleed had left him in a coma, thus preventing debriefing.
When he had seen those around him starting to give up on Anya, Cade had pushed and prodded. He had demanded they keep searching, and when that had failed, he’d stolen a Land Cruiser and gone on recon himself. Now that he’d found where they were hiding Anya—though he hadn’t seen her personally, a large contingency of Anti-Balaka militia members gathered in one spot offered their best lead—there was no way he wasn’t going in with the liberation force.
“You are a gigantic pain in my ass, Jackson,” said Miwanga, but with more tiredness than heat. “Very well. Get yourself killed. It matters not to me. You are not my man, and the Army can clearly do without you, since you are still here.”
He nodded tightly, not divulging to the overworked colonel that his orders allowing him to be away from active duty had expired seven days ago. It was only a matter of time before the Army came looking for him, but he was going to make sure Anya was safe first.
***
A few minutes before midnight, Anya looked up from changing the dressing on Jacque Taramentu’s nicely healing gunshot wounds. A quiet thudding sound had caught her attention, and she tilted her head to identify it. Seconds later, the louder whomp of automatic weapons discharging covered whatever the first sound had been.
Almost used to the sounds of gunfire now, she bent back to her task. The leader of the Anti-Balaka group was improving daily, but there was still a low risk of infection. If he died, she died. It was only his patronage that had kept her alive.
For whatever reason, the older man had decided she was an angel sent by God to save him. She was more sacred to the superstitious man than his beloved amulet. His favor had offered her a great deal of protection and the power to negotiate the release of her coworkers.
It had also earned her an enemy in Esther Taramentu, the leader’s young wife and orchestrator of her kidnapping. She was jealous of Anya and seemed convinced the older man would set her aside to claim the nurse as his new wife.
Anya didn’t think Jacque harbored any sexual feelings for her, but she was still nervous about Esther’s supposition and what actions the woman might take against her. It had led her to remaining by the leader’s side whenever possible, which had only worsened the other woman’s jealousy. She was without a solution that ended in her continued survival, so she was enduring each day in a hellish limbo of uncertainty.
The gunfire grew closer, which captured her attention, as did the door slamming against the wall when Esther and a small contingent of young soldiers entered the room before barring the door. She shouted to them in Sango, and they formed a half-circle around the entrance as she strode forward.
Standing over her injured husband, she began to shout at him while gesticulating wildly in Anya’s direction. Though she couldn’t follow the rapid exchange, it seemed obvious the woman wanted to shoot her regardless of Jacques’ insistence that she be protected.
Anya tried not to scream when the gun in Esther’s hand swung her way. Instead, she met the cold black eyes of the fearsome harpy and prepared for death. Cade’s face floated through her mind, and she had to fight back tears that wanted to spill. If only things had been different. If she hadn’t been so insistent on him leaving the Army…if he hadn’t promised to and then broken his word…
Not quite brave enough to meet her fate with her eyes open, she squeezed them shut. A second later, the roar of a gun discharging in close proximity left her ears ringing, but there was no pain. Cautiously, she opened one eye, shocked to see Esther slumping to the floor in front of her, a gaping bullet wound in her forehead. Her sightless eyes stared at Jacques in an accusing fashion, though the dead woman was beyond reproaching anyone.
“You are my angel.” He spoke calmly as he lifted his handgun to point in the direction of the door, now under the onslaught of someone trying to break through from the other side. “You do not kill God’s messenger.”
“Um, right.” Feeling dazed, Anya slowly sank to the floor, hand clutching the silver cross. It wasn’t a faith thing, but more of a pragmatic habit she had picked up the past two weeks. It was to her benefit to have her “host” believe she was devoutly religious.
Suddenly, the door gave way, bouncing into the wall with a bang of metal against metal as the piecemeal corrugated wall, welded together from scrap, buckled under the force of the door hitting it.
Troops thundered into the room, and the boy soldiers lifted their guns. Many were technically children, but she had seen them commit all manners of atrocities the past two weeks and was under no illusion they wouldn’t shoot her rescuers.
Not that she believed they were here to specifically free her, a lone aid worker. Still, whoever was breaking into the hobbled-together house was surely after Jacques and would free her.
Unless it was Séléka, and then she was probably just as screwed as she had been in the custody of the Anti-Balaka. Maybe even more screwed, since she was an unmarried American woman behaving contrary to their fundamental beliefs.
Suddenly nervous, she waited for the smoke to clear enough to identify her rescuers. A surge of relief left her lightheaded when she recognized the peacekeepers’ uniforms. Convinced the experience had left her disoriented, she thought it must be a hallucination when a familiar face appeared before her.
Hesitantly, she lifted her hand to touch his cheek, rough with stubble. “Cade?” Even as she whispered his name, she let herself surrender to the wave of unconsciousness sweeping over her. It was all simply too much to process.