It was basic stuff. No unaccompanied excursions. No sharing of travel plans with anyone outside the ICC, UN officials, or Cobra, not even family. No using her personal cell phone while in Bangladesh. No arguing with the Cobra team if they believed a situation was unsafe.
“If we find ourselves in an emergency, we expect you to do exactly as you’re told without question. The lives of my men, as well as yours, could be on the line.”
Ms. Lahiri nodded. “I understand.”
“How do you plan to dress while in Bangladesh?”
The question seemed to catch her off-guard. “How do I plan to dress?”
“Your father is Bengali. You have relatives there. Your social media has photos of you wearing traditional Bengali clothing. We advise against that.”
“I want to make the women in the camp feel safe. Dressing like them might make them feel more comfortable and help me blend in.”
Connor didn’t think Ms. Lahiri would blend in no matter where she was or how she dressed—not with that face and body.
“It’s that last part that worries us. If you look like everyone else, it might confuse the sex traffickers and gangs that prey on young women in these camps.”
Her gaze dropped. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Mr. Meijer chuckled. “That’s their job—to think of everything.”
It was an almosttwelve-hour flight from The Hague to the Cox’s Bazar International Airport—not a hardship on Cobra’s luxurious private jet. Shanti had never seen anything like it. Bar. Television. Refrigerator. Comfortable seats. Coffee tables.
While the members of her security team played video games, read books, or napped in their seats, Shanti put on noise-canceling headphones and re-read the report prepared by the UN investigator, her sense of rage rising at descriptions of unspeakable cruelty. This was textbook ethnic cleansing with a side of mass rape and genocide.
The government of Myanmar denied the allegations, claiming that the Arakan Rohingya Salvation Army—a Rohingya militia group—had attacked villages that refused to provide them with volunteers. But the government’s photographic “proof” of this had been exposed as false. More than that, their version of the story contradictedevery statement given by Rohingya refugees UN investigators had interviewed.
She was so focused on her work that she didn’t see or hear the team leader until he tapped on her shoulder. She pulled off the earphones, looked up—and felt a jolt of attraction.
Mr. O’Neal stood beside her, looking lethally sexy in butter-soft jeans and a T-shirt that stretched over the muscles of his chest, his blue eyes warm. “I asked whether you were hungry. There’s food in the fridge—sandwiches, fruit, sliced veggies, cheese, yogurt, those little sausage things.”
“Thanks.” She glanced at her watch to see that it was past noon then looked up to find him grinning. “What?”
“You look at your watch to decide whether you’re hungry?”
“I just didn’t realize four hours had gone by.” She unbuckled her safety belt and followed him back to the refrigerator, her new pumps pinching her toes.
He opened the brushed steel door. “Take whatever you want. There’s soda, too, and juice. I think Cruz just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
“Fresh-ground Puerto Rican beans, man,” Mr. Cruz called from a plush chair where he sat with a video game controller in his hands. “Ah, fuck. I’m dead again.”
“Give me a good brew,” said the big Scotsman without opening his eyes. Shanti had thought he was asleep. “I’ll take a cuppa any day over hot bean water.”
Mr. O’Neal chuckled. “McManus here has been known to break out a little stove and brew a cup of tea on the battlefield.”
“Really?” Shanti couldn’t imagine that.
She found herself smiling at their good-natured banter. She had to admit, at least to herself, that these guys weren’t what she’d expected. There was no macho bluster, no swagger, no chest-thumping. The way they joked with one another reminded her of her younger brother, Taj, and his friends.
She reached into the refrigerator and chose a turkey sandwich and a bottle of Perrier. She’d just turned to go back to her seat when the plane hit turbulence, throwing her off balance.
Strong arms caught her, steadied her, kept her from falling.
“Careful. The ride always gets a little bumpy over Turkey.”
Shanti found herself looking into those blue eyes, awareness burning through her, making her pulse trip. “Thanks, Mr. O’Neal.”
He held her for just a heartbeat longer than was necessary, his gaze locked with hers, his body hard and muscular. “Connor—or just call me O’Neal like these jokers do.”