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Didier was related to one of the most popular prime ministers in Haitian history and represented the poor of Haiti. He’d grown up impoverished but had put himself through school. Gregory Laguerre represented the wealthy Creoles. He’d beaten Laguerre by a fair margin as the people’s choice, but Didier realized he needed the wealthy, the business owners and landholders on his side. That’s why he appointed Laguerre as prime minister. The two of them balanced out the seat of power.
But it was dawning on him that Gregory hated him. Didier was sure of it. Hated him for usurping the position he coveted. He didn’t feel safe here, even in the presidential palace surrounded by guards.
The only person he really trusted was the ambassador to the United States, Clay Towson. Now this was a man who understood the political push and pull of Haiti and wanted to see democracy as the driving political force for the country. He had been overjoyed when Didier had won the recent vote, quieting the political unrest and soothing the populace that had been ready to rebel at any moment. In fact, his daughter, Madeline had been close friends with his wife Fabrice when they were teenagers. His wife’s mother, Gaelle, had cooked for the Towsons.
Clay had been adamant that to get the populace what they needed, free and fair elections for the country's governing body was paramount. Didier wanted to see his country pull itself out of the terrible and volatile financial, economic situation it was in. Most of the country was desperate and the poor clashed with the wealthy in what he feared was like a tsunami crashing into Haitian shores, overwhelming and unstoppable until it had played itself out.
And he, his wife, Fabrice, and their infant son, Kenzy, were in terrible danger. He could feel it in his bones.
With the advice and support of the ambassador, he had just decided to lower the prices on food to alleviate the widespread suffering.
A knock startled him, and he quickly moved back to his desk. He didn’t need Gregory’s snide comments about him studying the plants again out of the window. He called, “Come in,” as soon as he was settled in his chair.
The door opened and Gregory came in flanked by two guards. Didier was aware that he had come up in the ranks. Highly trained and ambitious, he was deadly. Not in his skill but in his cunning use of power. Gregory worked several sides of the box at once.
“President Baptiste, I think it’s ill-advised to lower food prices at this point. Our constituents won’t see it favorably.”
“What constituents would that be, Prime Minister? Your wealthy friends who want to make a profit off the hard-working backs of the poor?”
“You ignorant, fucking upstart,” he growled through gritted teeth, his outburst volatile and sudden. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, and you are in the back pocket of the United States. This ends now.”
He nodded to the two guards, and they rushed toward his desk. He tried to rise, but they each grabbed his arms and forced him back into his chair.
Gregory approached and said, “Open his mouth.” They forced it open and one of them grabbed his tongue and pulled it up and away. Terror coursed through him as he saw a hypodermic needle in the prime minister’s hands. Then he felt the prick.
Moments later, he couldn’t breathe and suddenly darkness overtook him. His last thought was for his wife and child. Who would protect them now?
6
By the time Shark arrived back at the residence, his body was drenched in sweat, the muscles in his legs were protesting, and his lungs were on fire. He had pushed himself hard the last mile, hoping that a grueling pace would keep his mind focused, and would keep him from thinking.
That questioning in the car had thrown him for a loop, his first instinct was to close up like a drum. He didn’t have those kinds of stories about his past, no idyllic towns, no parents to speak of, just pool hustling, robbery, and grand theft auto. He’d gone to juvie three times and the third time he’d been given a choice.
That choice had saved his life.
It was clear Maddy understood that he was holding back, but there had been something in her stillness that had made him ache. And he had to wonder if it was an ache he was going to regret.
The same feeling tightened his gut when he thought of his teammates. They didn’t know his past because by the time he got to BUD/S and threw his whole self into becoming a SEAL, that became his past. The rest of it was nothing but the pain of being overlooked and neglected. He embraced the Navy because the Navy embraced him. He loved the discipline, the work, even polishing brass. It was all a team effort to keep everything in order.
Slowing to a walk, he swore and used his edge of his T-shirt to wipe his face, anger surging up in him. He needed a punching bag, and he kind of hoped there would be one in the gym. He couldn’t get Maddy’s face out of his mind. Her compassion was right there in her eyes, her expression. Twister and Brawler were used to his brooding, monosyllabic responses. But Maddy, she made him feel raw just from those looks of hers. He was feeling things he didn’t want to feel, and he had no business dumping his mopey, lousy mood on her. She was upbeat and he swore she glowed, like sunshine to his shadow.
Frustration bordering on anger churned in his gut, and he went to the outdoor shower, turned it on, and rinsed off his face, arms, and legs. After stripping off his soaked T-shirt when he entered the house, he walked to the right where the gym was. He found the door and opened it, glancing inside made him smile. The ambassador never skimped on anything. There, to his delight, was a punching bag, complete with gloves and tape. Several wide windows looked out to the pool, the blue water so inviting. He thought a nice dip after all this activity sounded really good.
He went inside and found a dry towel, draped it around his neck, and grabbed up the tape. He wiped down his hands, then started to wind it around his palm and knuckles, he ignored the gloves. He should put them on, he needed the dexterity to manipulate his weapons, but he wanted a bit of a sting.
He needed the pounding to get his mind clear and all the anger stored in his gut to go away. His shoulders were tense, and he shook them out. He warmed up with some light punches to the bag. The anger was dissipating, but then he happened to glance out the window, and it built right back up again.
Maddy came into view, and he almost swallowed his tongue. She was dressed in a black swimsuit with ties at the shoulders, a tropical sarong wrapped around her waist. The anger he’d worked out came screaming back. She untied the sarong from around her waist, the black of the swimsuit clinging to her curves, leaving her supple thighs bare and showing all that enticing skin.
His gut churned and wham. He hit the bag with a snapping blow, making his knuckles sting a bit. It fed the need.
The woman was dressed to kill, even when she wasn’t wearing much.
He danced on the balls of his feet and—bam—hit a bit harder, giving it a combo.
It was clear the woman had class. She had grown up under the ambassador umbrella.
The impact buzzed up his arm, but keeping it loose, he hardly felt it.
