Free Fall (Elite Force 4)

***

Ajaya didn’t know who to trust anymore.

The American agent, Mr. Jones, acted like his friend, but he had a gun out, his hat in place like he was some African American cowboy. He said leaving was for his protection, but he wouldn’t explain why they were getting on an airplane. How much longer would his life be out of his control? When could he become a man and take charge of his own life, his own destiny?

Except he could never have the one thing he wanted most.

To go back. To live with his family and be a child again. The one thing he could never have.

The night wind full of dirt grated against his skin, carrying the sounds from the festival close by. The familiar music and scent of grilling meat reminded him of home. So much so he could swear he heard his mother calling his name.

“Ajaya…”

Mr. Jones pivoted on his heels, weapon leveled.

“Ajaya…”

It wasn’t his imagination. Someone was shouting for him. He looked and couldn’t believe… “Mrs. Johnson?”

Somehow, impossibly real, his English teacher ran toward him. His chemistry teacher Mr. Al-Shennawi trailed protectively behind her. Ajaya didn’t understand how it could be true. But Mr. Jones was already lowering his weapon. They were all on the same side. He was safe.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Ajaya wasn’t alone anymore.

***

Stella winced as another firework exploded in the sky.

The courtyard celebration was already a security nightmare, full of people in thick layers of clothes that could hide an assortment of weapons—as her kanga hid her gun and the knife strapped to her leg.

Too bad there was nothing to protect her from letting Jose break her heart all over again. She was the smart, logical type. Except when it came to him. She tried to keep her eyes off Jose and his team as they stood in a protective row in front of the dais, red berets a perfect blend for the festive colors.

Her eyes betrayed her and skated front anyway, right to her pararescueman, the tallest one standing lean and strong in the middle. The loss burned over her, almost sending her to her knees. She’d pushed him away, but what choice did she have? Why did she keep setting herself up for this pain again and again?

She couldn’t afford to figure that one out now, not when she needed to focus every ounce of energy on the celebration around her. If they could get through this evening without incident, they might not have answers, but they would have time and space to follow up leads without fear of a national incident involving a major political figure.

Her earpiece chattered with voices from the command post, agents and military guys discussing surveillance. She was on the ground to gather human intel rather than sitting behind a computer. Mr. Smith had gotten past parking her behind a monitor. Not that any of them knew what they were looking for. They were shadowboxing with a ghostly enemy.

Hundreds of guests dressed in ceremonial clothes filled the tents with color—a mix of flowing robes to tuxedos. Women covered their hair with everything from simple headcloths to colorful hijabs. Jewelry, beads, and gold glinted in the lights, creating one distraction after another as she searched for guns, knives, and any other possible weapons. Even the display on the dais containing a case of African artifacts reminded her of how easily she’d turned similar remnants into tools to survive in the warlord’s compound. Except she hadn’t needed them because Jose had come for her. At the compound, he’d pushed through the doorway wearing his full battle-rattle, face streaked with camo paint.

But she’d recognized him without hesitation.

She forced her thoughts away from how she’d known him so instinctively.

More fireworks popped overhead, but otherwise the skies were empty. All flights had been canceled until after the guest of honor made her speech. The airspace would stay clear, no risk of threats from above.

Meanwhile, the invited guests and dignitaries partied on, picking at falafels, fried plantains, the spongy sour cake-like injera, meats, fruits, all local but surprisingly not overdone. In a country full of starving people, excesses would have been wrong—not to mention bad press.

Her mother had fought and sacrificed her entire adult life to help others here. Just as Jose sacrificed his life for others? Was it somehow her fate to love people who gave up a family for some higher calling? What was the answer for her?

A part of her wanted to shout at the Melanies and Joses of the world that this fight was futile. They couldn’t win and they were forfeiting a personal life for nothing. She pressed a finger to her earpiece, sifting through all the chatter. So much going on at once.

Mr. Smith monitoring the placement of security forces as the vice president’s wife took the podium.

Mr. Brown calling in from the entrance checkpoint.

Mr. Jones escorting Ajaya to a secure location.

Voices in her headset competed with the music swelling through the air, played on instruments that were works of art themselves—bamboo flutes, xylophones, kettle and clay pot drums, a kora harp. And those were only the ones she recognized.