5
Connor watched out the rear passenger side window, HK416 in his hands, McManus riding in the helicopter overhead, giving Connor regular updates. Trees and pools of rainwater stretched along a highway that was busy with tourists in green auto-rickshaws and locals on bicycles. Grazing deer. Seagulls. Pedestrians with umbrellas. The wide expanse of the Naf River, the Mayu Mountains of Myanmar in the distance.
Shanti sat in the middle, sandwiched between Connor and Cruz, her hands folded in her lap, a large handbag holding her camera, digital recorder, encrypted phone, and files on the floor at her feet. She’d worn a long white blouse, brown pants, and boots, a white cotton scarf draped around her shoulders, her eyes hidden behind shades.
She hadn’t said a word since they’d left the hotel, and Connor couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d upset her. He’d tried to make a point last night. Courts and laws and noble intentions were only as strong as the force that backed them. But the moment he’d said those words, the happiness had faded from her face.
“I understand what you’re saying, and I’m grateful for your protection,” she’d said. “But too often when government leaders put weapons in people’s hands, it’s only because they’re not achieving political goals by peaceful means. When those goals change, so does the target.”
He’d had to fight not to feel insulted by that. He was no politician’s puppet.
You sure?
She’d grown quiet after that, almost withdrawn, though she’d smiled and thanked him for his company.
When he’d gotten back to his own room, he’d looked up the 1971 Bangladesh genocide online. Images of bodies had filled the screen—at least three hundred thousand killed and hundreds of thousands more raped and tortured by Pakistani soldiers.
He’d felt like a fucking idiot.
She’d described how soldiers had murdered members of her family, grief on her pretty face, and he’d more or less told her that killing was sometimes a necessary andgoodthing. Not his best move.
What would she think of you if she knew?
Darkness twisted in his chest.
He pushed the thought aside. That had been different. It hadn’t been deliberate. Shit happened on a battlefield, and it wasn’t pretty.
Corbray and Tower always told them never to let down the professional barrier between them and their clients. Connor had broken that rule this time when he’d asked her to have dinner. Then again, Tower was a fucking hypocrite. He’d ended up sleeping with a Cobra client last year at the compound in Afghanistan. He hadn’t even tried to hide it. He and Jenna were getting married soon.
“Team One, this is Helo One.” McManus’ voice came through Connor’s earpiece. “Two vehicles are sittin’ on the side of the road about two klicks ahead. It looks like an accident or a puncture. Copy?”
“Helo One, Team One, good copy.” Connor didn’t need to relay this information to anyone as they were all listening in on the same frequency. When they neared the two vehicles, the drivers accelerated and shifted into the right lane, giving them ample room.
On the shoulder, two men changing a flat stopped to look up at the helicopter.
Connor turned to Shanti. “How are you holding up?”
Yesterday’s grenade had been a first for her, and now she was sitting in a speeding armored vehicle with three men holding military rifles.
Her lips curved in a forced smile. “I’m glad finally to get to work. It’s been almost two years since I started collecting evidence.”
“You’ll get the job done.”
She let out a breath. “I hope so.”
It was beginning to sprinkle when they rolled into Kutupalong Refugee Camp. The helicopter veered off and headed north toward the airport.
“You two remember your rain gear?” Connor asked Cruz and Jones.
“Hell, yeah,” Jones said.
Connor unclipped his HK416 from his harness, Shanti watching. He, Cruz, and Jones would leave their rifles locked in the vehicles with Isaksen and Segal and the others and carry concealed pistols inside the camp.
“I appreciate that. Thank you.” She drew her scarf over her hair, draping one end over her left shoulder.
“We’ll do whatever we can to support your mission—as long as we can still complete ours.” He shouldered his pack—it held extra magazines, a first aid kit, food, and his rain gear—and stepped to the ground, turning back to help Shanti.
Ms. Montreux was waiting for them together with Shanti’s interpreter, a young Rohingya woman named Noor who lived in the camp. The women greeted each other, Noor giving Shanti a shy smile.