“All we’re getting is static.” Sitting next to me, Marie pulled the headphones from her ears.
As soon as Dan had made his announcement, Marie and I had sprinted from the room where we’d been resting and grabbed for the headphones, but were met with only the sound of crackles and hissing.
“It’s Banks. He’s scrambling the feed.” Quinn was seething, rubbing his forehead with intense frustration.
“What? Why?”
“He didn’t want us involved in the first place.” Dan said this mostly to Marie. “I’m surprised he let us listen in as long as he did.”
“Can’t Alex fix it? Can’t we get him back?” Marie asked.
“I’m messaging Alex now.” Dan had already whipped out his phone.
Just then we heard a series of shots over the feed followed by a short pause, then more rapid gunfire, quick popping of several semiautomatic weapons being discharged. Each shot sent a jarring spike of panic down my neck to the base of my spine, chasing away the day’s aches and pains with a surge of restless adrenaline.
I paced back and forth in the tight space of the surveillance area, barely conquering my desire to run outside and jump into the fray. I needed to think, to consider. Rushing into an active combat zone would be stupid at best, madness at worst.
“Hey, Alex. Are you hearing what we’re hearing? Because we have nothing.” Dan swiveled toward me and stared unseeingly forward, listening to our friend on the other end.
Quinn stood and crossed to stand next to me, hovering at my shoulder as we both watched and listened to Dan’s side of the conversation. “Can’t you get it back?”
Quinn made a sound in the back of his throat, a frustrated sound, then said, “I didn’t want to say this earlier, but I don’t trust Banks.”
My attention moved to the big man next to me. “Why?”
Quinn’s ice blue eyes slid to mine. “He doesn’t like your husband.”
“He doesn’t. But whether he likes him or not isn’t relevant when there’s a job to do.”
“It should be . . .” Quinn’s tone and expression grew assessing. “Why doesn’t he like Greg?”
“They met once or twice when I was in service and just never got along.” I shrugged. “Greg can be abrasive and Banks plays it close to the vest. Greg was always trying to get a rise out of him.”
“That’s not it. I think Banks is envious.”
“Envious of Greg? No, as far as I know, Spenser never married, has no kids. He’s a career soldier, not a family man. The CIA is his first love.”
“Or,” Quinn’s piercing glare moved over my face, “the CIA is his second love.”
Nonplussed, I gaped at his evaluation of the situation. But before I could spare a minute to think on this statement, Quinn turned away and pulled out his phone, swiping his thumb across the screen to accept a call.
“Hello?”
I scanned his expression for any sign of who he was speaking to. Seeing the intensity of my anxiety, Quinn lifted his chin and answered my unspoken question.
“Oluwa and Zaki upfront, the drivers. Special Forces guys have entered the building.”
“Can they show us?”
Quinn nodded once, addressing his next question to his phone. “Can you turn on video?”
Marie, Quinn, and I were soon huddled around Quinn’s screen, watching with tense expectation the blurry video of soldiers dressed in black against the darkening sky. As day became night the Special Forces agents would become invisible. But the bright strobes of light in tandem with the sound of gunfire gave away their approximate location.
Minutes felt like hours.
Eventually there was a pause in both sound and any visible activity.
I held my breath.
I was aware of Dan somewhere behind me, still on the phone with Alex, and Marie’s hand in mine, our fingers threaded together.
Cautious relief had me exhaling in a whoosh when several dark shadows were visible carrying what looked like injured hostages out of the building. I tried to pinpoint Greg, but it was no use. Dusk had descended. It was too dark. The figures were too blurry.
“Fiona.”
I turned from Quinn’s phone and faced Dan. “What?”
“Alex has Banks on the line for you, on the con.” Dan lifted his chin to the headphones I’d discarded earlier.
With shaking fingers, I brought them to my ears, adjusting the microphone piece. “Spenser, it’s Fiona. What’s happening?”
“Why did you come? I told you not to come to Nigeria.” He sounded oddly angry.
I didn’t have time for his random and aggressive show of feelings, not when I had no idea what was going on with my husband. “Where is Greg, Spenser? Did you get him out?”
“We have the rest of the hostages.”
“And Greg?”
The line was quiet for several seconds. Each moment that passed sent my heart rate doubling. “Spenser? What about Greg?”
“He’s still in there.” Just as he said this, a single shot rang out. Spenser rushed to add, “We couldn’t reach him.”
My stomach and throat switched positions and red filled my vision; I spoke without thinking, “You goddamn sonofabitch.”
“Fiona, he’s holding his own. He still might make it out.”