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“Did the company contact you?” Easy asked, unable to take his eyes off the photo that had flicked up on the screen. The woman, with the exotic name, pronounced Uh-stray-uh, had an oval face with a strong, squared jawline, almost masculine, making Easy think of her as more handsome than beautiful. If her nose hadn’t turned up pertly at the tip, she would have suffered from an unapproachable austere countenance instead of an unattainable regal one. She looked as if she was as sharp as her high cheekbones: sharp mind, sharp wit, and sharp tongue. Her sexy I-dare-you mouth with its peaked cupid’s bow drew his eye again and again, reinforced by her straightforward denim-blue eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes. Her curly below-shoulder-length caramel-brown hair framed that striking face. Her skin had a smooth, but luminous pink glow to it, and looked much more touchable than her eyes or mouth wanted to admit.
“No, it was the hostage’s housekeeper—” Amanda looked down at her notes. “—a Rosa Montoya. She wouldn’t stop calling and when that didn’t get the response she wanted, she showed up at the State Department and made a big deal about Miss Devers being held in Venezuela. Miss Montoya is a former resident of the country, and she was adamant that Miss Devers was completely innocent of any kind of charges.”
Amber spoke up. “That concerned the secretary of state, and she assigned Diplomatic Security Service Agent Brian Cole, working out of the Overseas Criminal Investigations Division of the State Department to investigate the matter. It seems that there have been reports of US citizens being held on bogus or flimsy charges.”
Easy glanced over at Dagger. Brian Cole wasn’t only Dagger’s role model, but decade-older half-brother whom he worshipped. His smile, after Brian’s name was mentioned, told Easy he was thrilled to be working with his sibling. Cole was a legend in the Teams, and although he’d hung up his spurs, he was very active in special ops. Easy and the team had worked with him during the dog days of Afghanistan. He’d earned Easy’s respect when he’d been a SEAL and Cole had showed him what it meant to dominate downrange. He was a tough son of a bitch.
The very beautiful Devers’s picture disappeared, and a spiraled dome building filled the screen.
“As you know, she’s being held in El Helicoide, a failed tribute to modern times by a once rich and optimistic dictatorship during the 1950s. This building’s spiral structure can be seen from anywhere in the city, and before Venezuela’s bankrupt dreams and faltering democracy, was originally going to be the first drive-through shopping mall.” She put up an aerial picture of the building. “But instead of boutiques, galleries, and a hotel, it served as a homeless shelter, but now has been converted to a prison. It sits above slums with more than two miles of ramps in an interlocking helix controlled by the government and houses the headquarters of the Bolivarian National Intelligence Service. The notorious SEBIN.” Amanda took a heavy breath. “There are rumors of torture, terrible crowding, and horrendous living conditions. That place is not only a political prison with businesspeople and bankers accused of fraud, but houses some of the worst offenders in Caracaras, like drug traffickers, hitmen, and dissident police and military.” She blanked the screen and turned back to them. “The good news is that the guards are easily bribed since the economy is in a terrible flux and money always talks. The bad news is there are often protests and they can pop up swiftly anywhere in the city, including El Helicoide, snarling roads and making it extremely difficult for any kind of vehicle traffic.” She turned to Tex. “Lieutenant.”
Tex said, “Wheels up at 1800. We’ll be doing a parachute landing into the Caribbean and infilling to shore.” His voice turned grim. “Venezuela went from hostile to grudgingly polite to the US, and they have no knowledge that we’ll be in-country. This is a black op; no mistakes. In and out in one-hour tops. We headed to US Forward Operating Base in Curaçao.”
“Just like old times,” Bondo said. His wife Cameron was now working in their shop, handling their equipment, and doing an outstanding job of it. As a team, they had been deployed to the aircraft carrier for a shakedown voyage with SEALs interacting with Big Navy. It had gone extremely well and Bondo had found himself a family.
“Get your gear and your shit together,” Bondo said. Easy rose and headed for the room housing their cages to make sure he’d tagged all the gear he wanted to take with him on this op.
Twister came alongside him. “How you holding up, Easy?”
“Good, Twist. I can take deep breaths now and diving is no problem.” The fact that Twister wasn’t the only one to ask him about how he was showed him that he was part of a team who cared. Tex had a long chat with him when he’d gotten back from Williston. He appreciated that Tex ran a tight ship. He expected his LT to set goals and standards, see that they were met, and follow through with decisions affecting the Team. It’s what made him an exemplary boss.
“You have a good time with your family?”
Easy chuckled. “It’s always good to go home. My family is awesome. My mom insists on doing my laundry and feeding me to bursting. I had to do extra PT,” he said, his love for his mom washing over him. “My brother Logan is getting married.”
“Nice. Congrats to him. When’s the wedding?”
Easy blinked a couple of times as the edges of his mind went a little gray. He took some deep breaths, pushing the vision away. “In two months,” he finally answered, fast enough that Twister didn’t notice his lapse. He stopped in front of the door and punched in the code to get inside. Twister followed.
He made quick work of going over all his gear, his next stop home, a quick shower—he was never sure when he would get another one—some sleep, then it would be over to the airfield by the allotted time.
He was ready to deploy on this mission. He hadn’t had flashbacks in a few weeks. Someone needed them and they were going to answer the call. He couldn’t imagine how terrified Astraea was locked up in a foreign prison without representation against, not only the brutality of those places, but her basic human rights.
The memory of her arresting face came unbidden, a vibrant, capable woman. What was she experiencing right now? What atrocities were unruly and lawless men subjecting her to? Torture, sexual assault, dehydration, and malnutrition were all viable answers, and he wrangled with the urgency rising in him. He never knew where this feeling came from, but he’d had it all his life. It was the main reason he’d joined the SEALs.
He found it extremely interesting that it was her housekeeper who had pushed for an intervention from the State Department. Who was this woman’s family, and why hadn’t they been concerned for her? Or her place of business? She’d been doing her job under their umbrella. Why weren’t they advocating for her with at least inquiries and/or a lawyer?
It felt that this woman got left out to dry, and his immediate sense of protecting the underdog rose up. This was where the rubber met the road, where SEALs stepped up to safeguard their citizens. When all was lost, they were the last resort.
His head was in the game, his emotions banked. He made a mental note to stow a few extra things in his pack—power bars, T-shirts, socks. Who knew what kind of shape she would be in and what she might need. Nothing but the mission mattered from here on out.
He would not fail Astraea Devers.
* * *
El Helicoide,Caracas, Venezuela
Jack huddled in the corner of the cell, and that was a stretch. This room with the bars at the door looked slapped together, as if it hadn’t been on the original construction list. At least in American jails, prisoners were treated humanely, with food, water, and a cot. All she had here for weeks was a smelly bucket and two rats who sadly couldn’t even find scraps in her cell. She’d named the chunkier one Mickey and the smaller one Gus Gus.
A female guard had taken what was left of her clothes and her shoes. She’d admired her Choos from the moment Jack had been put in the cell. In their place was a rough cotton shirt and pants with a tie at the waist and canvas slip-ons. All of it ugly. The material had once been white but was now dingy. Could dingy be considered a color? Regardless, the fabric abraded her skin—she was used to silks, lace, all designer, but in here she was just a lost soul, a nonentity who had been forgotten by anyone decent. No representation, no list of charges, no court, and no way out.
Those shoes were more than just footwear, and she was determined to get them back. It was all that she could think about from the moment she woke up, until the time she fell asleep. Who had a clue what it was like to sleep on the dusty, dirty floor? She couldn’t have anticipated the sheer pain of the trigger points in her hips, shoulders, and especially her neck. It was damned uncomfortable to go without a pillow.
But the thirst and hunger added to the torture. She had no idea how sick she would feel without good, solid food. The door rattled like Jacob Marley’s chains, and she braced herself for more, “Hey,chica, you wanna do me?”
A guard appeared. They all seemed to look alike, wrinkled uniform, the abundance of facial hair, and the lack of soap anywhere near them. Except for one decent dude. Juan Acosta. When he was on duty, he slipped her a few more helpings of whatever crap they passed off as food here. Her current guard pressed his face against the bars.
“Enjoying your stay and Resort El Helicoide, America?” That’s what they all called her—America. She wasn’t even a human anymore. He laughed roughly, and she wanted to kick his balls in, blow this place, and find the first pizza joint.
