Sanctuary: Delos Series, Book 9 Page 2

  Nolan flicked a look over at Matt. “You killed one of Sharan’s sons, didn’t you?”

  Matt nodded. “Yeah, I took out Sidiq in Afghanistan. Tal killed his other son, Raastagar, a year earlier. Sharan’s sworn a blood oath of vengeance against the Culver family and all the Delos charities around the world as a result. You know, of course, that that part of the world believes in ‘an eye for an eye.’ This past June, we asked each director of our charities to send weekly encrypted email reports to us on the political situation in their area, particularly on anything that might threaten them in the region where they are located.”

  Alexa leaned forward. “Nolan, we’ve also sent info on Sharan and the mercenaries he employs to do his dirty work to all eighteen-hundred charities. He’s specifically targeting Americans working for them, although he’s sworn to kill anyone who gets in his way. Uzan is an explosives expert. He’s blown up buildings, set fires, and created maximum destruction against his targets.”

  Wyatt put another photo up on the screen, this one of Kitra, the village that sat out on the red clay desert of Sudan. “We believe he’s in Khartoum to case Kitra and identify any Americans working there. And he’s looking to either kidnap or murder them. We have no actionable intel yet because Uzan was spotted only once. Ayman is sending out three of his most trusted men into the slums, undercover, to see what intel they can pick up on why this al-Qaeda operative is in Khartoum.”

  Cav broke in. “All of us believe Uzan is there to make a statement by attacking Kitra, one of our showcase charities. We’re trying to verify it, but until then, we need you to become a bodyguard for the American business administrator who helps run that charity.”

  “Her name,” Wyatt said, “is Teren Lambert.” He posted her photo on the other screen. “She’s twenty-nine years old, an information technology and business specialist, and she’s lived at Kitra since she was twenty-two years old. She’s single, has built an Internet store for the abuse survivors who were taken into Kitra, and taught them how to sew and sell clothing. Teren speaks Arabic and helps Farida, the director of this branch, with all the daily details of keeping a huge conglomerate like this on its feet and thriving. She’s from Somerset, Kentucky, smart as hell, and a computer genius. I talked with her via Skype two days ago. She’s now aware that we’re going to be sending over a security contractor to protect her.”

  Alexa said, “And we chose you for this mission, Nolan, because your prior Delta Force experience was in Sudan and Ethiopia. You speak fluent Arabic, French, and some local dialects. You know Sudan like the back of your hand. We need to put someone in there who has that kind of background, and you fit perfectly.”

  Nolan nodded, his gaze riveted on the photo of Teren Lambert. Someone had taken the photo in what looked like a barn; she was dressed in a sleeveless tan T-shirt and dark green trousers. This was no glamour shot—she looked sweaty, her brown hair piled messily on top of her head, long strands of it sticking to her high cheekbones. He saw sheep in the background. She had on a leather cuff around each of her wrists, a rope in her hands, and her attention was drawn downward. More than likely, Nolan thought, they were shearing one of the sheep.

  It was her profile that made his heart beat a little faster. She looked lean and tall, clearly athletic, judging by the sleek muscled firmness of her arms.

  It was the way her full mouth was tightened, those winged brows of hers drawn downward, that look in her stormy-gray eyes, that told Nolan this woman took no prisoners. It was the energy she radiated that said, “I’m not taking anybody’s crap,” that made his mouth faintly curve upward. This was a woman warrior, no question. Her eyes were large and filled with keen intelligence.

  His lower body stirred as his gaze settled on that full mouth of hers. Damn, she was sensual and hot-looking, despite where she was and what she was doing. Suddenly, Nolan felt like the heavens had opened up and he’d been given a gift.

  The pleasure thrumming through him as he absorbed Teren’s photo surprised the hell out of him. Since he’d lost Linda four years earlier, he’d been frozen emotionally, dead inside. But right now, he felt a river of ice beginning to thaw and slowly snake through him, winding upward and encircling his heart, awakening his feelings once more. His reaction to Teren was deep and intense.

  Nolan had seen his fair share of good-looking females in his life, but he’d never had this kind of reaction to any of them—and this was just from a photo!

  So what was it about Teren? Was it that aura surrounding her that the photograph couldn’t capture, but that he could feel with his now highly developed intuition? As focused as she was, her mouth gave away her woman’s sensuality in a heartbeat. Teren was earthy. Like the word “terra,” which meant “earth.” That was a mouth that could send him to heaven in a helluva hurry, and Nolan allowed the pleasure of drinking that truth into himself.

  Maybe he wasn’t dead after all. Nolan had given up the thought of feeling anything remotely like this again. Like all operators, he knew how to stuff down the darkness until it never reemerged. At the time of his wife’s death, he couldn’t allow it out of that kill box inside him, or he’d have felt an overwhelming avalanche of grief. It had been devastating to lose both Linda and the baby she’d carried. And four years ago, Nolan couldn’t deal with it.

  Now, Teren’s photo was popping the rivets off his sealed heart, triggering hope, fanning his sexual hunger and fascination for her as a woman. He’d always favored earthy women. How could one photo affect him this much? He’d never experienced that before.

  Now he scowled, fighting down these new feelings so he wouldn’t become distracted.

  Then Wyatt flashed another photo of her up on the screen and Nolan groaned inwardly, even more hooked on the woman than before. This photo was a three-quarters view of her face and slender, strong body. This time, she was standing at a dusty table with shearing equipment, white fluffs of sheep hair here and there across its expanse. It was her wide-spaced eyes, a color that he’d seen on the mourning doves near his Virginia farmhouse. Teren had warm slate-gray eyes with black pupils and a black ring around the outer iris, giving her a penetrating look.

  Nolan liked intense people. Operators were that way themselves. He tilted his head toward Wyatt, meeting his gaze. “Does she have a military background?”

  “No,” Wyatt drawled, grinning a little, “but she looks the part, doesn’t she? When I first saw these photos, I thought for sure she was ex-military. But she’s not. Teren is a civilian, with a two-year community college degree in computer repair and programming. I’ve seen some geeks who have the same look. She writes software programs for Kitra’s business admin needs, plus for their online store, so Teren is a highly focused, disciplined person.”

  “Intense,” Nolan murmured in agreement.

  “You could say that,” Wyatt said. “She’s a woman on a mission. She’s a type A whose word is her bond, and she gets things done. And she’s a real ass-kicker if she needs to be.”

  “You’d have to be,” Alexa added, “because Teren is the business hub and heart of Kitra. We need someone exactly like her there to keep all the balls our charity is juggling presently up in the air.”

  “Yes,” Matt told Nolan. “Kitra is more than just a safe house for women. While they take in women and children who have been abused, they have also created since its founding in 1959, a thriving community. It has its own vegetable gardens, a fruit tree orchard, two wells, an electric substation, and a school for the children of these women survivors. Sewing with a treadle machine was introduced by an earlier director, and over time, Kitra established a school to teach women from surrounding villages how to sew as well. Their goods are sold online around the world. Plus, there is a thousand-acre sorghum field that is tended and the sorghum sold annually, which helps continue expansion of all that Kitra undertakes to get these women back on their feet.”

  “Kind of reminds me of an Israeli kibbutz, making a Garden of Eden out of a desert,” Nolan said. The phot
o earlier had shown goats and cattle in pens with a nearby barn. There wasn’t a Sudanese village that didn’t have camels and these other animals as part of their livelihood. Sheep’s wool was used to weave into clothing, goats for milk and meat, and camels for transport—these were the fabric of Sudanese village life.

  “Kitra is in a class of its own within Delos,” Alexa added. “Most of our charities are not this huge, but some do grow in this direction, depending upon the country they’re in.” She motioned to his tablet. “In there is the history of Kitra. You’ll see how each director has added to it, expanded it, and how it has become a poster child for all our charities. Kitra shows what can be done with local help and great administrators running things. That’s why our Delos people are so important to us, and why we need to do everything we can to protect them from terrorism in the world we live in.”

  “I would imagine,” Nolan said, “that because it’s so affluent and has plenty of food, water sources, and animals, you have a lot of people wanting to come in and steal from it.”

  Wyatt grunted. “Yes, which is why Farida, the latest director, hired Captain Ayman Taban when he retired from the Sudanese Armed Forces. She gave him a yearly budget and he hired men he trusted. There’s twenty-four-hour security surrounding this village, and if Ayman’s people weren’t in place, the poor would rob Kitra blind in a day.”

  “Make that a few hours,” Nolan replied, knowing too well the squalor and starvation of the people in certain areas of Sudan.

  “Either way,” Alexa said, “Ayman has been there for us, and he and his men make a major difference. There are way too many people who would steal food, animals, or equipment from within Kitra and get money for it in Khartoum. It’s an ongoing issue.”

  Wyatt said to Nolan, “Ayman was a graduate of the Military College at Wadi Sayyidna, near Omdurman. It’s a well-respected military facility, and I’ve talked to Ayman a number of times about setting up this mission briefing. He knows the lay of the land, the issues, the challenges, and how to keep Kitra safe.”

  “And he was the one who also had his man spot Uzan?” Nolan said.

  “Precisely. Ayman is a real hawk—he doesn’t miss anything. We all feel you’ll get along well with him.”

  “He knows I’m coming?”

  “Yes. But to avoid tipping off Uzan or any of his paid spies about who might be in the area, we’ve asked Teren to pick you up at the Khartoum airport. You’ll be undercover as her employee, a second IT person coming into Kitra to help her. That way, it looks normal and won’t raise suspicions.”

  “Good plan,” Nolan agreed. He privately liked the idea of being close to Teren. Why? He hadn’t been interested in women except for spending one night in bed with them and then walking out of their lives. Nolan never led a woman on—he was up-front about the fact that he wanted sex for the night and that was it. In the morning, he left. It was all he could handle right now, because inside, he was dead.

  Sure, he could give a woman sexual gratification and pleasure, but he’d been unable to share the feelings he knew women wanted and deserved. He felt like a bank emptied of all its emotional currency. But when he looked at Teren’s photo, he felt as if he were looking at a treasure chest he wanted to open, touch, and explore. It was a crazy situation; one he’d never encountered before.

  “Questions?” Wyatt asked him expectantly.

  Nolan looked at his notes. “Weapons?”

  “Our people have cleared it with the Sudanese government. We already have a license in hand to give you so you can carry a concealed weapon at all times.”

  “Does their police department know about this situation?”

  “No,” Wyatt said. “There’s too much graft and corruption. Cav here has someone inside the government who’s a trusted individual. She’s the one who approved your concealed-carry license. She won’t talk. All this stays at a very high level of their government; it doesn’t trickle down to their police department.”

  “Good,” Nolan grunted, “because that place reeks of bribery and other crimes, and there are a lot of gangs in the area.”

  “That’s a given,” Cav confirmed. He was their expert on Asia and Africa. He took a folder and pushed it down to Nolan. “Here’s everything you need for weapons use, confirmation that you’re a Delos employee with proper credentials, and any other government-granted documents. There’s an electronic copy that’s been sent to your tablet, as well. You’re not going to get hauled into a police station.”

  “Good to know,” he said, taking the folder. Turning his attention to Wyatt, he asked, “What if we get into a firefight with Uzan?”

  “Ayman is already in touch with the Sudanese Army, up high with a general. He’s aware of the potential for conflict. And if Kitra gets hit broadside with an attack by Uzan and his mercenaries, the general will be sending in, by helo transport, a quick reaction force—a QRF—to protect Kitra and its people. They already have a detailed plan in place. That’s also in the intel that Cav sent to your tablet. Always go through Ayman for anything you need. Don’t go to the general directly.”

  “Got it. Is Ms. Lambert carrying?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “No, she’s a civilian.” Then he added, “But Ayman keeps weapons in the armory within Kitra. He’s trained her and she’s a good, solid shot. She has a license to carry but doesn’t. Ayman was a highly respected officer in the Army and he has a powerful network of friends whom he can trust, so Kitra is well off with him there.”

  “And Uzan? If I capture or wound him?”

  “Ayman will step in and take over. Uzan is a wanted man in Sudan for many reasons, and the government doesn’t want al-Qaeda operatives in their country. They’ve got their hands full with Darfur. They don’t want men like him coming in and stirring up trouble.”

  “And I’m to keep Ms. Lambert safe because she’s probably the object of Uzan’s focus?”

  “Affirmative,” Wyatt said. “Ayman agrees with our analysis. We figure he’ll try to kidnap her, demand ransom, and later, probably behead her, record the execution on video, and then put it across the Internet.”

  “And you want me to case Kitra for potential attacks? Work with Ayman if I spot deficiencies or weak points within the village?”

  “Yes. He knows you’re coming and he knows your skills. He’s looking forward to working with you. You’re one more gun in the fight as far as he’s concerned.”

  “Sounds good,” Nolan said, closing up the tablet. “I’m ready to kit up and take off.” And he was damn sure no one guessed how much he was looking forward to meeting Teren Lambert at the Khartoum airport.

  CHAPTER 2

  Teren waited patiently outside the customs area at the Khartoum airport. She had her cell phone in hand, scrolling through messages from her two office assistants. Her mouth tugged at the corners as she looked up at the double doors, expecting Nolan Steele to come through them at any moment.

  His color photo flashed on her screen. He had an oval face and large, hawkish marine-blue eyes that reminded her of the ocean’s depths. His mouth was something else—sensual, yet firm. He was almost painfully good-looking—far too handsome for his own good! He probably had an ego the size of Jupiter. She hoped not, because the moment the email from Wyatt Lockwood had appeared on her laptop, her whole body reacted to the stranger’s photograph. Those eyes…so full of secrets and, Teren sensed, pain. It didn’t appear on his unlined thirty-year-old face, but it was there.

  She was just a year younger than him. She thought back to when she’d been an idealistic eighteen-year-old, filled with hope and the belief that the world was essentially a good place. She found out differently later that year and after her own traumatic experience, Teren had quickly revised her views about men. From that time on, they had been creatures she couldn’t understand or relate to. She’d become gun-shy around them, and now, over a decade later, she still felt that way.

  But as she studied Nolan’s face, Teren felt her heart slowly begin to open, li
ke petals on a lotus. Not wanting to feel like this, fighting it, she clicked her phone’s screen off but left the phone on, because he had her phone number in case they missed each other here at the busy, crowded airport.

  A potpourri of spicy scents filled the air. Men wore either light-colored silk business suits or the traditional jalabiya, a loose-fitting garment, collarless, ankle-length, and long-sleeved. Some wore caps, others turbans. Because it was August, a season of dry, blistering heat, the jalabiyas were either white, cream, or tan, made of cotton-linen or silk, to deflect the burning rays of the sun outside this air-conditioned facility.

  She nervously smoothed her tob, a head-to-toe gown of white cotton topped by a white silk hijab, the traditional scarf Muslim women wore over their heads when in public. She wasn’t Muslim, but Teren tried to fit in, not stand out. Knowing how dangerous it was to be a white, American woman in this third-world country, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself any more than necessary.

  Normally, she wouldn’t have been here waiting for someone at the airport. She liked the red clay walls that surrounded Kitra, the sense of safety that was always there because Captain Ayman Taban ran his security force like the military man he’d been for twenty years.

  So, where was this Steele guy, and was that even his real name or a cover one? After talking with Wyatt by sat phone, she knew he was going to be her personal bodyguard, and that he was ex-military, but Wyatt hadn’t said anything more than that. Tapping her slippered foot, Teren began to feel restless. She didn’t like being out in such a huge, bustling area with so many men and so few women. She knew she’d stand out because of her lighter skin.

  In Khartoum, she dressed conservatively, the niqab, over her brow and nose, only a slit for her eyes, trying to hide her skin color. Here at the airport, her face was fully visible, the scarf draped around her head, neck, and shoulders. Steele had to be able to identify her once he came through the doors of customs. Sudan wasn’t a safe place in many areas and it was especially dangerous to a woman who stood alone without a male escort in tow. Too many terrorists were lurking around, and it always made her tense. Her nervousness this afternoon was heightened because she felt inexplicably drawn to Nolan Steele.