Camp Citron, Djibouti

Late May

Savannah James didn’t bother to look up from her computer screen to see who’d entered her office without knocking. A tingling in her neck told her Sergeant First Class Cassius Callahan had arrived. The physical reaction was triggered by something subliminal and unknown. His scent? The sound of his footsteps?

Whatever the cause, the reaction irritated. “I take it you’ve spoken with your XO, Sergeant. For the record, you weren’t my first choice, so don’t whine at me.”

He pulled back the visitor’s chair and dropped into it, then propped his feet upon her desk in a clear demonstration of disrespect.

Lovely. He was going to be a joy to work with.

She closed the lid of her laptop and finally met his gaze, and there was that small, maddening flutter in her belly that always followed the tingle in her neck. He was the most achingly handsome man she’d ever met. He had the deep, dark brown skin of his Congolese mother combined with the tall, thick build of his Irish American father. Heavy brows capped warm brown eyes. His broad nose and square jaw could give several Hollywood heartthrobs a run for their money.

“You spooks just can’t help lying, can you?” He held her gaze. “According to my XO, you only asked for me.”

She smiled. She was a professional liar for Uncle Sam and would never apologize for that. He couldn’t goad her by calling her what she was. But in this instance, she’d spoken the truth. A CIA operator would be easier to work with than the handsome sergeant who was congenial and charming to every person on this damn base but her.

“I asked the CIA to send a Special Activities Division paramilitary officer, but SAD can’t send someone right away, and timing is crucial, so I was forced to go shopping in Camp Citron’s Special Operations Command catalogue.”

“Am I to take that to mean I’m the right color and gender?” His voice held a hard edge.

“Exactly. Plus you speak French and Lingala.”

His eyes narrowed, lowering those thick brows. His head was shaved bare, and he sported a trim beard. He effortlessly exuded masculine energy that triggered a hunger she couldn’t bury deep enough, no matter how hard she tried. He was her only option. He was here, spoke Lingala, and SOCOM said she could have him as long as he agreed to the mission.

“I’m not the only one at Camp Citron fluent in Lingala. I can think of two other guys who speak it, and one of them also speaks Swahili, which you also might need in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, assuming that’s where your mission is headed.”

Lord, she hoped they wouldn’t have to go into DRC. “But they’re both intelligence officers. Glorified translators. I need an operator.”

His full bottom lip caught her attention. He signaled he noticed her stare by flashing perfect white teeth. “You saying you need a real man, Savvy?”

She rolled her eyes even as her belly fluttered at his use of the nickname. She ignored the ridiculous reaction. It wasn’t as if Savannah was her real name, so the nickname shouldn’t feel intimate. “I need an operator with native fluency.”

He dropped his boots to the floor, grin firmly in place. He obviously knew how handsome he was and that even she, coldhearted spook that she was, wasn’t immune. But then, he’d never lacked ego.

She stared at his perfect smile, her confidence in her plan fading. He’d never pass. His teeth would give him away. Too much orthodontia, too little khat. “You need to grow a longer beard. You need to look less like a broodingly handsome Luke Cage and more like an unkempt, hostile drug lord looking to enter the diamond trade.”

“Seems like my body armor—not my beard—will give me away.”

“No body armor, no Army uniform where we’re going. You’ll be sheep-dipped and trade in your M4 for a Kalashnikov.”

“You want a covert operator, grab a guy from Delta.”

She stood, walked around her desk, and closed the office door. It was time to tell him what she figured many on base suspected but few at Camp Citron knew for certain.

“What I’m about to tell you is classified. I’m not a CIA case officer. Nor am I an analyst.”

He snorted. “No kidding.”

She couldn’t help but smile. She’d done little to protect this secret with Special Operations Command. It hadn’t been possible or necessary. She crossed back to her desk. “I started as an analyst, went through case officer training and was one for a while. When I find someone I think would make a good asset, I let the case officer at the embassy know.”

“It’s Kaylea Halpert, isn’t it?”

She didn’t miss a beat and just rolled her eyes. “You think you’re the first person to try the guessing game on me?” He wasn’t, but he was the first to guess it in one try. Most assumed the case officer was a man. Few soldiers looked at Kaylea and thought she was CIA. Usually they were too distracted by the beautiful black woman’s curves.

Unlike Kaylea, whose cover as an embassy employee hid her true job, Savvy worked directly with SOCOM and, like the soldier who sat before her, was prepared to deploy on special ops alone or with a team at a moment’s notice.

Savannah James’s official cover was civilian public works liaison for Camp Citron, which gave her access to Djiboutian ministers and the right to come and go as she pleased from the base. But she wasn’t Savannah James, and she was hardly a public works liaison. She worked with a degree of autonomy that was rare in the intelligence community but completely necessary to be able to react quickly when opportunities arose to gather intel on particular individuals or organizations.

“I don’t run spies, but I’m privy to the intel they provide. I handle top secret tech like subdermal trackers, but that’s not my main job either. My actual title is paramilitary operations officer for the Special Operations Group within SAD.”

Cal looked skeptical. “I thought SOG officers were recruited from the military? Special Forces, SEALs, Delta. You aren’t military.”

She wasn’t, while he was US military through and through. He probably bled Army green. Worse, Sergeant Callahan had more than made it clear he was no fan of the CIA.

“Most do come from the military, but a few are recruited from within the CIA—especially the women.” She flashed a smile. “Special forces isn’t exactly a bastion of equality, and some jobs—like this one—require a woman.”

She cleared her throat. “Unlike other special units, SAD/SOG operatives are trained to operate with limited to zero support. When I’m working a covert op, I don’t carry or wear anything that connects me to the CIA or US government. If compromised, the US government will deny all knowledge of my existence.”

Special Operations Group was considered the US government’s most secretive special operations force, with good reason. Missions—conducted by teams or singly—included raids, sabotage, and even targeted killings, hence the need for the US to have plausible deniability of their covert operatives’ actions.

She rested her hands on her desk. “I won’t force you to help me in this operation. You can say no and return to your A-Team. But I want you to know, I wouldn’t ask for your assistance if this weren’t important. The intel we recovered from Nikolai Drugov’s operation is time sensitive. We have a chance to strike a major blow for Team Democracy and take out the kleptocrats and warlords who have been preying upon the Democratic Republic of the Congo since before Mobutu changed the name to Zaire.”

This part made her nervous. If Cal said no, she was screwed. He didn’t like her, but his mother was from DRC. She’d left the country when it was called Zaire under the rule of Mobutu Sese Seko. For Cal, this could be personal, and she would appeal to that.

His lengthy silence had her sweating, despite the air-conditioning being set to frigid.

Finally, he said, “Seems like I should know what I’m agreeing to before I commit.”

She nodded. “I have intel collected from Drugov’s yacht and found information that another Russian oligarch, Radimir Gorev—a rival of Drugov, but also a business partner—is hosting an event on his yacht in Dar es Salaam next Friday. A gathering of warlords, drug smugglers, corrupt government officials, and wanna-be oligarchs. A nasty, old-fashioned cabal. Drugov compiled quite a bit of information on the other guests, including the fact that Jean Paul Lubanga will be there.”

“Who is that?”

“In my opinion, he’s the biggest threat to the relative peace of DRC.”

“Then why haven’t I heard of him?”

“Lubanga is quiet. Stealthy. And shrewd. After witnessing the mistakes of Mobutu, he’s doing his best not to draw attention to himself.” She grabbed a file from her desk and pulled out a picture of the man. “At present, he’s a government minister, the ultimate power in DRC’s vast mining and mineral rights industry. Analysts believe he’s working toward gaining the loyalty of the military, and once he has that…”

“He’s planning a coup?”

“It’s our job—my job—to find out. I think Drugov hoped to get Lubanga out of his rival Gorev’s pocket and into his own. The oligarch who can bring Russia the riches of DRC would be the second most powerful man in the country.”

“And why do you need me?”

“You’re my ticket onto Gorev’s yacht. Into the heart of the cabal. It’s an evening of business negotiations, sex, and drugs. Sex and drugs give him the kompromat he needs to keep his associates in line, while the business deals keep everyone rich.”

“And how do I get you ringside seats to this shitshow? Because I’m assuming you don’t plan to watch from the sidelines.”