Anyone’s sex life or, in her case, lack thereof, was way down on the list of pressing topics. When she and Amina spoke of personal things, she simply said she had no one waiting at home. Technically true. She doubted Christie was pining away and would have plenty of women to entertain her among her rich and powerful friends. Of course, to be fair, Rachel had told Christie not to wait for her, and although Christie had been gracious enough to protest, she was sure Christie had moved on as soon she’d left for Mogadishu. At least she hoped she had.

If the circumstances had been reversed, Rachel would have done the same. She’d dated Christie Benedict exclusively for six months because she found Christie’s company preferable to the alternatives. Women who moved in her family’s circles—or more specifically her father’s—rapidly lost interest when they discovered she had no desire to swim in the shark-infested waters of Capitol Hill or, worse, pretended they didn’t care while subtly urging her to use her influence to further their personal agendas. At least Christie had her own access to influence and power. She was beautiful, cultured, and good in bed. She should have made a perfect partner, but even in their most intimate moments, Rachel never felt a spark. Not a flicker of true desire, let alone passion. She’d observed her parents’ perfectly serviceable marriage for twenty-five years—far longer than needed to recognize the signs of a union sealed not by love and passion, but by mutual convenience. Her father needed a wife to complete his image, and her mother needed a husband to fulfill her desire for family and status. They probably even loved each other, in some way, but not in the way she wanted for herself. Not with a fire that burned in their hearts. So leaving Christie had been easy and a secret relief. No doubt Christie felt the same.

“I’m sure you can handle whatever lessons he might need,” Rachel said as they neared the headquarters tent, the largest in the encampment other than the huge hospital tent. The smaller two-person sleeping tents ringed the flat central area where they took their meals and met with villagers and nomads who ventured into the camp for medical care or other assistance. In recent weeks, the stream of Somalis in need of aid had grown into a river of sick, injured, and starving people.

Amina sighed. “He does not like me doing this work, but I feel I must.” She swept an arm toward the dense jungle, rapidly darkening into a solid wall of blackness. Out there somewhere, thousands of men, women, and children were homeless without food or basic resources. “Who else will help them if not us?”

“We’re here and we won’t leave them.” Rachel squeezed Amina’s arm. “When you tell him how bad it is out here and how important this work is, he’ll understand.”

“I hope so.” In the light slanting through the netting covering the door of the tent, Amina’s face brightened. “But you’re right. We won’t abandon them.”

“No,” Rachel said, lifting the netting aside, “we won’t.”

“Do you want me to wait and walk back with you?” Amina asked.

“No, I’m fine.” Rachel wasn’t worried about being alone in the camp—she knew all the team members, and despite constant reports of armed rebels in the surrounding jungle, none had ever been spotted by the guards posted around the encampment. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Good night then,” Amina said and slipped into the night.

Rachel crossed the sparsely furnished sixty-foot square tent to the trio of folding tables that made up the communications center—a few laptop computers, a satellite radio hookup, a shortwave radio for communicating with the ATVs, and three metal camp chairs stationed in a snaggletoothed row. The sidewalls were high enough to accommodate her five feet ten inches without her having to stoop. Squares of netting formed windows at regular intervals and allowed enough air to circulate to counteract the faintly musty smell of well-used canvas. The chairs were empty, as was the rest of the admin center. She was likely the last one up and about other than the sentries on the perimeter and the medical personnel in the hospital tent. Someone was on duty there around the clock.

Satisfied she was alone, Rachel settled onto a narrow metal chair, plugged her secure laptop into the outlet in the generator under the table, and connected to the sat line. The signal strength was good for once. Low cloud cover. She hurriedly brought up the scrambled video link and typed in her password.

The screen flickered, and a few seconds later her father’s face rippled into view and settled into the familiar lines of his craggily handsome face, thick dark leonine hair, and bristling brows. He wasn’t at the office—no seal preceded his connection. That might not mean anything—he often called her at odd hours from some place he was traveling. She didn’t know his itinerary. Or he could be calling from an unofficial location because he didn’t want their conversation on record. She’d long ago ceased asking or wondering.

“Rachel,” he said in his deep baritone.

“Hi, Dad.” She hoped she didn’t sound as wary as she felt. A call from her father was rare. Usually any contact came from his assistant, and those messages were relayed through Red Cross headquarters in Geneva or the local counterpart in Mogadishu. In the two months she’d been in-country, she’d heard from him once. “Is Mother all right?”

“Your mother is busy with a fundraiser at the museum at the moment and perfectly well. This concerns you, and I’ll be brief. I’d appreciate it if you’d hear me out before arguing.”

Rachel’s chest tightened. So it would be that way, would it? Her father preempting any discussion with an order. That used to work when she was fifteen, but she wasn’t fifteen any longer. They didn’t have much time for the call, and rather than protest and waste more of it, she just nodded.

“Your location is no longer secure. A team is flying in to evacuate you before morning.”

“What? What kind of team? From where?”

Her father sighed audibly. “Navy personnel from Lemonnier. The details aren’t important.”

Rachel stared at the image of her father, flattened and faded by distance and time. His eyes were still easy to read—hard and certain and unswayable. Some theorized he would be president one day. He would probably be tremendous in the role, but she didn’t even want to imagine what that would mean for her. “Why?”

“That’s classified.”

“I think you’re safe in telling me—I’m hardly a security risk out here.”

His mouth thinned. “You are a security risk by virtue of who you are. I was against you taking a field assignment and this is why.”

“You’re saying someone wants to kidnap me?” Her voice rose as incredulity won out over anger. She’d used her middle name as a surname in all her professional dealings since college just so she could avoid special treatment or the presumption of privilege. “Oh, come on. No one knows who I am, other than I have diplomatic status like half the other Americans on the continent.”

“There are no secrets in our line of work, you should know that by now. If you were to be captured—” He shook his head as if annoyed he’d said too much. “There’s no point in having the discussion now. Just be ready at zero five hundred.”

“What about my team—and the others? Are they—”

“Plans are still being finalized, and until they are, any discussion with anyone could jeopardize everyone’s safety. You are not to disclose this information to anyone.”

She glanced at the timer on the lower corner of the screen. Just over two minutes had elapsed. Much longer and they ran the risk of their transmission being picked up by someone randomly monitoring satellite feeds.

“What do you mean no longer secure? What’s the emergency? I can’t just leave—”

“This is not negotiable. Your safety comes first. Please don’t argue—the decision has been made. Just be ready. I’ll speak to you again when you’re in a secure location.”

The screen went blank. Rachel could almost believe she’d imagined the conversation. She was on a humanitarian mission for the Red Cross—they were a neutral delegation protected by the internationally recognized agreements of the Geneva Conventions. She was safe, or as safe as anyone in the jungles of a nation that was ravaged by natural disaster and generations-long civil war could be.

Her father couldn’t honestly believe she was just going to walk away from her responsibility and her colleagues because he ordered her to, and if he did, he was very wrong.

Chapter Two

The bird rocked as the concussive blasts from rocket fire buffeted them like leaves in a windstorm. Flaming red tongues cleaved the night. The air, heavy with soot, tasted of acid and gasoline and terror. The pilot nuanced the lift and thrust and kept the rotors spinning, and they descended through billowing clouds of greasy black smoke into chaos. The armored truck, once tan like the desert sand, lay on its side, a mangled mass of blackened metal half submerged in a huge crater in the center of a narrow dirt road that twisted into the barren mountainside.

The Black Hawk lurched to the ground and wraithlike shapes raced out of the dark, faceless phantoms silhouetted against the pyre like refugees from a nightmare. Max jumped out and ran past the troops carrying wounded to the Black Hawk. She had to reach the truck, get to the survivors before snipers or fire beat her to them. Thunder roared and the earth shuddered. Max flew through the air and landed hard on her right side. Rocks and metal rained down on her. Head spinning, she picked herself up off the ground and stumbled across what was left of the road, tripping into holes and over smoldering bits of debris. Blood ran wet and warm down her cheek and she blinked the sweat and sticky fluid from her eyes. Automatically she felt for her first aid kit. The canvas IFAK still hugged her shoulders, although her numb hands could only register the bulk of it banging against her back as she half ran, half staggered toward the forms littering the ground around the burning truck.