Finding Fate: An Intense, Fast-Paced Romantic Suspense Novel Page 6

  Embarrassment morphs to shame at what I allowed to happen. Tears stream down my warm cheeks as I shove my laptop into my backpack and turn toward the exit, all without looking up at Lauren.

  The moment I’m out and the cold morning air hits my face, I suck in a deep breath and lean over the railing to vomit rainbow cereal into the empty street.

  Chapter 7

  Fate

  Before

  Oh wow.

  I’m... normal.

  The processed blonde lock of hair between my fingers flicks back and forth as I stare at my reflection, attempting to recognize myself.

  It's a good thing the general wants his victims young. Like this, I can pass for a twenty-year-old easy. Guess all the time I spent inside on the computer instead of lying out in the harsh Texas sun worked in my benefit. After the facial this morning my porcelain skin appears flawless, minus the tight cluster of light brown freckles scattered from one cheek bone to the other. My pink hair, my beautiful pink hair—the one part of me I’ve always maintained—now shines back in the mirror, bright blonde and gold.

  Wonderful. On top of putting my life at risk, I'm a basic bitch. As basic blonde-haired, blue-eyed American as you can get.

  I hate it. But I loathe the general and Jace more. So until I’m back from Africa with the general in tow, this boring look stays.

  A knock at the door draws my focus away from the woman staring back at me in the mirror. As I approach, I smile at Dobby who’s already there, pawing at the crack.

  There’s only one person besides me that he gets this excited to see.

  Mac.

  Dobby’s black, wet nose shoves through the sliver of space as I pull the door open, eager to greet his long-lost friend.

  Mac's broad shoulders angle through the cracked door into the apartment.

  "Good to know he made the move," he says as he scratches behind Dobby's ears. "I think he's picked up the weight you've lost." The corners of Mac’s lips turn up in a smirk as he looks up from where he’s crouched on the floor in front of Dobby.

  "Of course he made the move. He's the only family I have left," I admit. The weight of those words rests heavily on my chest. Rubbing a hand against my breastbone to ease the growing tension, I avert my solemn gaze from Mac to the large bay window.

  "That's not true. You have me. I never gave up on you. You shoved me out."

  Nope, not getting into this now. With as many tears as I've shed the past week, I'm near dehydration. No need to add to it. Besides, tears and sadness do nothing to bring the people I love back. It keeps you locked in the memories, prohibiting you from moving on. Unlike hate, which drives you to move on, creates a razor-sharp focus on hurting those who hurt you.

  "What are you doing here? Did I miss a deadline or something?"

  Disappointment or hurt flashes behind his dark eyes as he huffs and stands from the floor. Striding to the couch, he falls onto the worn cushions and leans back with an arm extending along the back. The memory of our first meeting with him sitting just like that but on Mom’s old couch flashes through my thoughts. I was scared as hell that he’d come to arrest me for hacking. Little did I know that night my life would be changed, for the better, forever.

  "Just checking in. Wanted to see if you've changed your mind. But based on this normal appearance, I'm guessing everything is still a go."

  "Yes. Of anyone, you—"

  He raises a hand to stop me. "Fine. You're still going. But the CIA had their conditions, and I’m here to explain my own. I've trained you, mentored you on everything computers. But you have zero experience with anything that will help you survive over there. I've hired a trainer for the next week. He’ll give you basic arms and physical training before you leave. It's nonnegotiable," he adds when I frown. "If you're set on going, then give me this. Give me the peace of mind that you're going in with more than a tracking device and a prayer."

  The shake in his voice, the soft plea in his tone, warms my cold heart.

  Damn, I miss him. Miss having a friend. Maybe, if I come back, we can repair our broken friendship. It's not severed—he wouldn't be here if it was—just a tear in the fabric of us.

  We can make it through. If I come back.

  When I come back.

  "Okay, a coach. A hostage, guns, mental toughness coach. Anything to prepare me for those four—"

  "Four?"

  "Four."

  "No."

  "Yes. Four."

  "Why the fuck four weeks?"

  I sigh and pull my soft hair up into a makeshift ponytail. "I explained this to Matt too. Don’t worry, he was just as pissed about the time frame. The general enjoys forcing his victims to wait before claiming them. After Destiny...." Breathing turns difficult at her name. I grip the couch’s armrest to keep upright. "I’ve monitored his patterns with other recent victims. Between the two- and four-week mark, he’ll come for me. Mac, I've got this. It’ll be fine."

  "You’ve no clue how not fine you'll be over there. Right now you’re focused on luring and capturing the general. What I'm terrified of is you’ll land in Africa, then come to the realization I’m right and this is a terrible plan, but it’ll be too late. Once you’re on the plane, I can't help you."

  Silence fills the living room as those dark brown eyes of his stare into mine. "Do you want them to kill you?" he whispers.

  I swallow hard and slink beside him onto the couch. "I don't. I really don't. But I can't keep living like this either. That day in Mom’s apartment, my life stopped. It's time for me to do more than just survive, and this is my chance. I know justice will be the turning point I need."

  Shifting on the cheap fabric to face him, I wedge my bare feet between the cushions and wrap my arms around my shins. "I have a favor though."

  There’s zero hesitation in his response. "Anything."

  "I don't want... in case I don't come back." A shallow, shaky breath in, I steel my resolve. "I can't stomach the idea of Dobby being in a kennel or with someone I don't trust. Will you take care of him while I’m gone? I know it's asking a lot. He’s not small and—"

  Mac’s large hand wraps around my thin arm and urges me to him. Curling his muscular arms around my petite frame, he gives me a tight squeeze, holding me snug against his side. "Of course, Fate. Anything. You know I'd do anything for you. Just promise me you'll come home. Every second you're over there, fight to make it home. Promise me."

  I want to say yes. Mostly because if I do, then the fear and pain in his voice might fade.

  But I can't.

  I don’t want to make a promise I’m not positive I can uphold.

  AND I THOUGHT MY PINK hair caused people to stare. Moving through the airport, the blatant hateful stares and sneers at my head to toe covering follow me each step closer to the terminal. The not-so-quiet whispers prick at my already frail self-esteem. However, minus the death stares, the veil does offer the perfect shield against common social interactions expected in the bustling airport.

  Each step down the Jetway sends my pulse racing faster and builds nervous tension in my gut, making me nauseous. Hate has brought me this far, but I must channel the type of courage I admire in my favorite fictional characters. Courage will bring me home.

  The row before mine, a fat elbow swings out, nailing my thigh. I stumble forward and turn expectantly for an apology only to receive a middle finger instead.

  Right. Damn tool. Hope he chokes on his free peanuts midflight and no one comes to his rescue.

  Situated in the middle seat of the large international plane, I click the seat belt and close my eyes as exhaustion from the past few brutal hours sink in. Getting everything prepared for the long-term departure proved more of a challenge than I expected. At least airport security was a breeze with the legit passport, courtesy of the CIA, with Faith’s fake name.

  Saying goodbye to Dobby and then sobbing on the hardwood floor after Mac closed the door behind them wasn't something I’d expected, but it happened. When did I become
such a crier? Was I a crier before my revenge mission and just don't remember?

  After he left, a few items still needed my attention. The most important to secure my files.

  What I told Matt about the file was partially truthful. I downloaded everything I’ve gathered on General Hammar and Jace to an encrypted online file, with a video embedded for Mac, translating the data and how he can use it if I’m not around to help. And before leaving for the airport, I embedded the file into Mac’s computer. Hidden well enough that he won’t know it’s even there until the parameters I created around my fingerprints trigger, which will start an autodecryption and alert Mac of my whereabouts and the file.

  Pretty clever, if I do say so myself. It covers all the bases in case I don’t make it home.

  I sigh and attempt to think happy thoughts to get through this next hurdle of my journey. Get through the thirteen-hour flight. My first flight. Ever.

  At least someone thought about this first stumbling block. Mac turned into my drug-dealing savior, leaving two sleeping pills on the kitchen counter with a nod and frown before taking Dobby.

  Good ole Mac.

  So attractive. So nice. So smart.

  So not my type.

  An instructional video plays on the seatback in front of me. My eyes grow heavy as the woman’s voice mimics Charlie Brown's mom, mumbling incoherent words.

  Not caring about an emergency water landing scenario and exit protocol on the useless-looking rafts, I give in to the pull and fall asleep.

  LAGOS CUSTOMS IS A chaotic and scary-as-hell scene. Hulking men in fatigues stare down every man and woman who process through customs from their high perches, almost flaunting the intimidatingly large guns strapped across their chests. Another win for my veil and covering, as it now hides the near-debilitating fear shaking everything from my shoulders down. My legs operate on their own accord, projecting me closer and closer to the exit. Through those doors, it’s official—there’s no backing out.

  Four weeks.

  Five feet from the automatic doors, my feet suction to the concrete floor.

  I stare frozen in place as the door slides open and shut. Men and women shoulder around me, eager to escape the small cage customs must feel like to everyone else. But my cage lies outside those doors.

  Four weeks.

  What the hell was I thinking? I can't do this.

  The thin material from the veil sticks to my now-damp cheeks. I thought I could, I really did. Thought I was strong enough to avenge Destiny, but I’m not. I'm not strong. I'm weak and disappointing.

  Through my swirling fear-laced breakdown, a man accompanied by an armed guard approaches and demands my passport. Behind the thin netting covering, my blue eyes dart from the irritated man to the other holding the gun.

  Trapped.

  Not wasting time, his rough hands snatch the passport booklet from my trembling one and flip it open. After a quick scan of the inside, he nods to the armed guard and turns. The guard grips my shoulder, directing me through the crowd and out the automatic door into a busy parking lot. Warm humid air strangles each breath I attempt to drag in while sweat builds along my covered brow. I’m yanked to a stop behind a parked, battered canvas-covered truck. Rusted metal bites at my knees and palms when I'm shoved into the darkness of the truck bed. The tailgate slams shut behind me, followed by an ominous clang of the lock.

  The metal beneath me rattles and vibrates as the truck lurches forward, but I don’t really notice. Everything is frozen. My hearing’s gone, my vision blurred, and if I can’t slow down my breathing, I’ll pass out sooner than later. I need to get a fucking grip.

  An unexpected abrupt stop rocks me off balance. I extend a hand to protect me from hitting the hot metal, but instead of landing on the truck, my palm presses against something soft. It takes three deliberate blinks to clear the haze from my vision in order to inspect what I’ve fallen on.

  Only to discover it’s not a what but a who. Wide-eyed, I scan the large full bed and quickly realize I’m a self-centered asshole.

  Seven.

  No, eight.

  Eight other women accompany me in this shitty situation. As my eyes adjust to the meager light penetrating the heavy canvas cover, I take in every detail I can. All eight wear some kind of covering, but not head to toe like mine. Their gazes avert from mine as I look around. Hell, these women can’t be over twenty by the look of their full faces and innocent eyes.

  No one speaks as the truck speeds along a bumpy road, jostling us from side to side. With the roar of the wind and the local music blaring from the cab, I muster some courage to get to know the girls. "Well, this isn't what I expected," I blurt. It's honest and awkward. Might as well show my true colors now.

  "None of this is," says a Caucasian girl with sad eyes to my right, her voice quaking. “I want to go home.” Tears spill down her cheeks.

  Like I would’ve done with a young Destiny when she was scared, I pull the girl to my chest and hold her head close to my heart.

  "I know. I know.” Fuck do I know. “We’ll figure it out, okay? How old are y’all?"

  Each girl answers.

  Eighteen.

  Sixteen.

  Eighteen.

  I can’t choke back a devastated whimper when the girl still pressed against my chest whispers, “Fourteen.” Even younger than Destiny. These men, their evil and destruction of young lives must be stopped. Remaining coals of anger flare, lighting and solidifying my resolve, my reason for being here, burning through the earlier fear and dread.

  Is this scenario similar to what Destiny initially experienced? Not sure why, but knowing she wasn’t alone helps. Maybe she made friends during the journey to who the hell knows where we're going. The militia’s campsite moves too frequently to ever pinpoint exactly where they’ll be on a given day, which is why this particular militant group has skirted the CIA for so long.

  Soft, even breaths tell me the girl resting against me has fallen asleep. Warmth blooms in my chest knowing I’m the reason she feels safe enough to do so. Gripping the locket around my neck, I squeeze it so tight the warm metal bites into my palm. I will get out of here. I will help these girls get out too. And now more than ever, my resolve to stop this evil from happening to more innocents solidifies into something resembling courage.

  We jostle around in the back of the truck for hours. Insufferable heat dissipates to a cool wind cutting through the canvas tarp as the late afternoon sun fades and night falls. I'm between dozing, head resting against the wheel well, three of the girls snuggled against me, when the truck slows to a stop.

  Now wide awake, I listen to the rumble of men laughing and talking outside the truck. I focus on the tailgate, waiting for it to open and allow us a glimpse at our surroundings.

  But it doesn't.

  Several minutes pass of us listening to the men move about, but no one comes for us. A young blue-eyed girl, leaning against the tailgate far out of my reach, whimpers before shouting a plea to use the bathroom. My mouth opens to warn her against drawing unnecessary attention to us, but she calls out again, louder, before I can.

  The talking and commotion go silent outside the canvas, leaving only loud chirps of some kind of nocturnal insect.

  Slow, deliberate footsteps stomp along the side of the truck, stealing all our attention to track the movement. The flap lifts, allowing a man in a more formal uniform than the other men’s fatigues to peer in. Dread strangles the breath from my lungs, and I fight against the urge to shuffle as far away as possible from the evil eyes surveying our group. This terrible man’s face haunts my dreams. As General Hammar’s second-in-command, he manages the army during the general’s long absences. Which makes him almost worse than the general, as this man is just as evil and has something to prove.

  The blue-eyed girl whimpers again, begging for the opportunity to relieve herself. The back of his hand whips across her petite face lightning fast, the force sending her tumbling aside. The other girls clamber behind m
e, eager to get away from the now-sobbing girl and the man who inflicted her pain.

  "Out," he commands and unlocks the tailgate, letting it fall open with a resounding bang. "Now."

  But the girl doesn't move. Clearly annoyed, he reaches inside to grip her shoulder and hauls her out of the truck, sending her tumbling to the dirt. With the canvas flap still pushed aside, I stare in horror as the second-in-command drags the screaming young girl toward a small fire. Men circle her like prey stalking their next meal. The unnerving silence has the girl’s pleas shredding my heart with each distressing cry.

  I don’t understand the brief statement from him to the men, but based on the responding leering smiles on the men's faces, it’s clear what's been said. The urge to bury my face in my lap and cover my ears is fierce but I don’t. Can’t. Somehow, looking away would be the same as walking away, leaving her to fight this alone.

  A soldier wraps a hand around her veil, then drags her into the darkness, kicking and screaming, as he grins the entire way. The fact that I haven't eaten in several hours saves me from vomiting all over the truck bed. Instead I gag, dry-heaving beneath my covering as discreetly as possible to not frighten the other girls any more than they already are. I need to be strong for them, and maybe for me too.

  Her high-pitched screams for help will forever be branded in my memory.

  My shoulders prematurely sag in relief when the man who dragged the girl away saunters back to the fire. But to my horror, the debauchery continues when another strides toward the shadows where the other vacated.

  Tremors rack my hands up my elbows to my shoulders as her screams turn to loud, desperate sobs.

  My previous boiling anger goes cold, leaving only true heart-stopping terror in its place.

  We never see the blue-eyed girl again.

  Chapter 8

  Nash

  Today

  The crunching of approaching footsteps against the gravel grows louder as I stare at Raider, processing his words. Tex stares out the door, smiling, as the other visitors climb the front porch steps.