“Never happens. Every mission we take has a clear objective. We don’t always solve the larger problem, but we sure as hell put a huge mother fucking dent in it.”
Jordan looked out into the inky-black night. What would that be like?
The skids touched down gently, with the slightest jar. He twisted the release on his harness and waited for Rocco to shut the engine down. Grabbing his gear from the back, he followed Rocco into the hangar. A gray C-130 aircraft filled the large space, the crew stairs down and waiting for passengers.
Rocco led him to the second briefing room where Westin, two guys, and a leather clad, bombshell of a woman stood around a conference table. A bank of computer monitors hung on the wall at their backs, various maps with mission planning overlays displayed on two of them. He set he gear down as Westin caught his eye.
“Jordan Grant, this is Colby Winters and Cash Garrison.” He exchanged head nods as Westin indicated each man. “They’ll be on the team with us. You met our pilot, Rocco. This is our weapons specialist, Sugar and Parker’s on VTC somewhere.”
“I’m here.” A disembodied voice sounded from the computers. Seconds later a face appeared on the middle of the five screens. “We ready?”
“Go,” Westin said.
“Emmeline France. Goes by Em-ee. Thirty-one years old. Undergrad from UNC-Chapel Hill, M.S. as a family nurse practitioner. Briefly married at twenty-three but divorced two years later. She worked three years at various hospitals in the Carolinas and Virginia before she began working for the NGO Medical Relief United in 2014. Six months ago MRU was contracted by a larger, global NGO to run the women’s clinic in Gao, Mali.”
Various pictures flashed on the far right screen during Parker’s narrative. Jeez, little Emme had grown up. She had the same eyes as her brother, but hers were more golden than brown and shone bright in her sweetheart face.
Parker continued. “This was the proof of life al-Murabitun sent a few days after they raided the clinic.” The next picture showed a bruise high on her temple with blood matted in her hair. Dark circles hung heavy under her eyes and the twinkle, so evident in all her other pictures, was missing.
His gut clenched. His breathing increased and he had the overwhelming urge to beat the ever-living crap out of something. Or someone.
“Jesus,” Sugar said. “When was that picture taken?”
“Two weeks ago,” Parker said.
“Nothing since?”
“No.”
“Shit,” she whispered. “How do we know she’s still alive?”
Westin slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “The group is still trying to negotiate as if she is. They’ve made threats of sending body parts, which is why the family contacted us.” He pressed his mouth against her temple.
The moment was intimate and he felt intrusive and uncomfortable watching. No one else seemed to find it out of the norm, however.
“One way or the other, Baby Cakes, she’s coming home.” Westin released her and said, “Parker, let us know if there’re any updates,” before turning back to the group. He looked at Jordan. “You good?”
No. He was not good. All he could picture was the gangly little girl who used to tag along after him and Doug. Planting his feet, he crossed his arms. “What haven’t you told the Frances?” He glared at Westin.
Westin matched his stance. Jordan refused to break first. He wasn’t going to kowtow to anyone. He didn’t give two shits what kind of reputation they had.
Sugar decided the outcome when she smacked Westin on the chest with the back of her hand. “Quit it and tell the man what he needs to know.”
Westin leveled a flat ‘we’ll talk about this later’ look at her. Sugar winked in response and Jordan looked at his boots to hide his smile.
“Emme France may have been targeted.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“She maintains a blog,” Westin said.
“Okay.”
“She’s passionate about women’s issues.”
He raised his eyes to the high ceiling of the hangar. “For fuck’s sake, spit it out.”
Someone started choking on a cough. “Sorry,” Winters wheezed. “Dot went down the wrong pipe.”
