Tia's Redemption Page 2

  Tia rolled her eyes. "No. Van sent another letter and is trying to get in touch. The only reason I have the damn lawyers is to sort out the fucking estate my parents left me," she huffed. Those memories were things best kept behind barriers in her mind. "Van found out about them when they sent paperwork to her mother while I was fostered there. She's been hounding them ever since."

  "Thought that was all finalized?"

  "It is. Sort of. There are a few outstanding things to go, including the sale of the house, but it's nearly done."

  Having only taken the best part of twenty years by the time all the cases and litigation were completed, she no longer felt any real connection to that life or the physical reminders. It was as if Tia, the child, had died that day. In many ways, I guess I did. The innocent child had certainly passed away on the floor when faced with the reality of losing the scaffolding of her life.

  "Ready to head out?" Leonie inclined her head to the large bag on the floor beside Tia.

  "Yeah. Nearly. Just waiting on docs, and then I'm off."

  "I'm heading for the gym, so I'll see you when you’re back," the woman offered, then reached into the refrigerator for cold water before she turned back with a smile. "Good hunting."

  The team was tight-knit, like a family, and in many ways, it reminded Tia of her time in the army. That, too, had felt like a family—until it didn't anymore.

  Settling in at the table, Tia dug in the side pocket of her pack, withdrew a plastic-covered map of Africa, and looked for a way out of Zabuti. If she were planning the meet with the transport, it would likely be in Livingstone in Zambia. There they would travel to their eventual extraction point.

  They could present as mother and daughter—not that Tia had any real maternal instincts, but it would allow them to hide in plain sight, and she could fake it, right? That route meant approximately ten days at her usual pace, but she'd be carting a kid. If she slowed down to what she considered a crawl—along the lines of half her average speed—she'd make probably about fifteen kilometres in a day. Not great, but it was achievable.

  On the flight, she'd consider extra contingencies, options, and so on, because whoever the contact was, she'd have to ensure they agreed to her plan to get the kid out alive.

  Her cell buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out.

  I'm ready. Come get your stuff.

  Their resident geek had come through again. Tia had no idea how she managed to get hold of travel documents and so on, but somehow, they were always acceptable when scrutinized.

  She stood and looked down at the kit bag. "Wait here," she told it and smiled at her silliness. The bag wouldn't go anywhere without her, but it was a habit forged in the forces.

  TWO

  Callum Gallagher shaded his eyes as he waited for the entourage to stop. The black car, not a Taurus like they'd use back home but an anonymous Toyota, pulled up before him. The engine idled, and taking the opportunity to glance one last time over his shoulder, checking he wasn't being followed, he ambled forward.

  The door opened, and he slid smoothly inside the interior.

  "Mr. Gallagher?" The forty-something man with rumpled hair and deep-set bloodshot eyes leaned forward. "You're—"

  "Not here," he said to the man. "Drive to the coffee shop as if this is a social outing," he told the driver.

  The car slid forward, and Cal, as he was usually known, watched for a moment, searching for a tail. Satisfied there was none, he addressed the man waiting beside him. "Now, we've got someone inbound. They come recommended. The less you know, the better, but they're good. An Australian, as you suggested."

  The man bobbed his head up and down. "Sarah?"

  "Our intelligence says she's okay for the moment. The inbound operative has field medical training if it's required."

  The man shook, and tears ran down his cheeks. "She's too young. I shouldn't have brought her, but the security team assured me—"

  Cal grimaced. The so-called security team wasn't worth even naming. They'd not just been ineffectual, but they'd ignored all the warning signs. The attempted egress the night before, the tailing of vehicles.

  The militia had been building up to something for weeks, and the security team hadn't shown any awareness of what was going on. Cal’s gut clenched, aware that saying so right now would be counterproductive. Instead, he shared only the tip of his scathing assessment.

  "Your security team has more holes than swiss cheese, frankly. I've done a little digging, and there's someone inside." Thank God his countrymen had taken over this aspect of the diplomat's safety. "They've got ties to the militia, and it's how they knew who was their best leverage and how."

  The man sweated and mopped his brow, though the temperature wasn't really all that unpleasant. Cal felt a modicum of sympathy for the man. He knew the diplomat was a widower, which meant he needed to bring his little girl with him, but Zabuti wasn't safe—for anyone.

  Sure, it had some of the trappings of civilization, with coffee shops and markets, such as they were, but there was a seething underbelly of vice, hatred, and murder. He just hoped the agency that sent the operative, code-named Cat, was as good as their word.

  "Okay." The man mopped his brow again. "When she gets back here—"

  "She won't be. We'll repatriate her to Australia. Get me some details of a family who she can meet with until you're able to—"

  "No!" The word erupted from the diplomat's mouth. "My daughter will return to me." Now he wheezed, and for a moment, Cal wondered if the man was about to have a heart attack.

  "It's not safe, sir. Consider for a moment this scenario." He cupped his hands. "You get her back to the embassy. Safe and sound. The operative does their job, but then the militia gets their hands on your daughter again. They've already done this once. Next time, she won't be so lucky. The operative will be gone, on a plane to wherever. Even if we could recall him, the identity of this person is compromised." In front of the car, Cal could see the coffee shop. Time to end the discussion. "This won't work any other way. Yes or no?"

  The man wrung his hands. "I'll… I'll get some details together. I'll email—I will come. Just contact me when the job is done."

  "I'll send someone to collect them from you, sir. Just in case."

  The car slid to a stop, and he released the door, which swung wide. "Sure I can't get you a cup of something?" He spoke clearly, in case someone was listening or watching.

  The man shook his head, eyes wide open at the subterfuge.

  "Okay. Thanks for the lift," he called and headed into the shop, but not before he noted a man in a jacket. The way he straightened up alerted Cal. Militia for sure. He didn't really want a coffee, but as thin as the story was, he'd have to follow through or he'd trigger some kind of panic. That would put little Sarah in greater jeopardy.

  Once inside, he ordered a Turkish coffee and settled into a seat against the back of the dining area in an almost hidden location, watching the passers-by and noting the man who followed him into the shop.

  Beneath his black hoodie, black eyes glittered and searched.

  Cal shrank back into his seat against the wall. At least the building was dark. The man ordered a drink, loitering by the door until a cup was pressed into his hands. With no reason to remain, the man pushed off, and Cal released a breath. His own coffee arrived, thanks to a woman serving, and he sipped, letting the rich aroma wrap around him while he considered the situation.

  The flights to Johannesburg felt monotonous. The first leg to Brazil took ten hours, but then the pilot had to take a mandatory break, so they stayed overnight, electing to remain with the plane. It was comfortable enough, but even a Gulfstream G650 had limitations. Their pilot, Jason, and his co-pilot, Garrett, slept loudly. Tia, meanwhile, had remained alert. She could rest once she was sure of her planning.

  At least she could keep her weapons out of sight, and they refuelled quickly enough as soon as they were able to get them back into the sky for the final eleven-and-a-half-hour flight into Joburg.

  Garrett entered the main cabin. "Tia, I've got a private call for you incoming."

  She nodded and reached out to grab the receiver. "Hey, Cara?"

  "Tia, we've got someone meeting you on the ground in Johannesburg. David Mac’s an ex-SEAL, and he'll have your ride waiting. He's managed to scare up a chute and the safety gear you requested, but he says no flight today. There's instability in the atmosphere over Zabuti, and he won't risk his team."

  "Shit!" She rubbed her brow. "Right, tell him I need information when we touch down. A briefing on the terrain, what he knows about Zabuti, and the political climate at this time. What on-the-ground knowledge he has will be useful." It wasn't that she was unaware of what she was flying into, but the more intel, the better. If something had blown up overnight that she'd missed—she'd seen that before—it could be fatal to her or the kid.

  "Sure. As for your contact, they've agreed to meet on the edge of the Selinda Game Reserve. They've got the GPS coordinates and will meet you there tomorrow. Though they did request that I inform 'The Cat' that hunting is frowned upon."

  Tia sighed. "Well, maybe you should inform them I'm not hunting animals."

  Without another word, she reached for her map. The locations and information she'd given Cara still looked right. Tia had spent too many years staying alive by trusting her instincts, and they screamed that she'd made the suitable arrangements.

  She made a package of her notes. They would be left on the plane when they landed and forwarded to Cara. All she'd take would be her compass and map, her rucksack and weapons. She just hoped Cara had managed to sort out any issues arising from arriving with protein bars, munitions, and so on. More than once, they'd faced difficulties entering countries fully kitted out. She didn't have time to waste, given her assessment of the situation.

  A grunt echoed on the line. "Remember, Tia. No stupid chances. Get the kid and get out of there."

  Tia smiled. "Sure thing, boss. Whatever you say." Then she hung up.

  THREE

  The transfer at Johannesburg was streamlined, and within an hour of leaving her hotel, she'd climbed into the copter waiting near the international airport. They'd taken off and whizzed over the land, headed on a flight path toward Zabuti. She didn't know what David Mac had entered as his flight plan or the excuses and frankly didn't care. That wasn't her problem.

  At least Zabuti didn't have an organized air force. She'd taken some time to question the pilot before take-off and heard they'd been mostly disbanded because they'd be loyal to the previous militia government. It was one more task the Aussies would be undertaking after agreements had been reached. To scout and train those loyal to the new government. To assist them in rebuilding their defence force. It would take years, though. It was also one less concern for Tia.

  She checked her equipment one last time. The heavy kit bag she'd fastened to her body and the weapons bag was secured against her leg.

  The chopper zoomed over the landscape, and looking down, she saw brown, more brown, and still more. Dotted here and there were scattered remnants of bushes, but there was no real rhyme or reason to the layout.

  A tap on her shoulder had her looking back. The headgear clicked as the jump instructor said, "Ready? We'll open the door in a moment."

  Tia nodded her understanding and handed over the heavy noise-cancelling helmet, swapping it for the jump helmet she'd brought with her.

  She waited, knowing the adrenalin buzz would kick in the moment she pushed herself beyond the doors.

  The instructor, secured by a line so he didn't fall, opened the side of the copter. Tia stood, shuffled the few inches toward the door, and held on to the loop.

  The man gave her a thumbs up, which she returned. The air buffeted her now, frigid at this high altitude.

  One deep breath, she reminded herself, then let go of the strap while lunging forward, the weight of her pack speeding up her free fall. For a moment, the wind currents were pulling at her and the coverall she wore over thermals. The fall toward the earth was now silent, and eddying winds caught at her collar and sleeves. Tia flexed her fingers, forcing the blood to flow and nerves to move, more than aware that frostbite at these heights was a valid concern. In her head, she counted off the seconds since she'd exited the chopper.

  At approximately sixty seconds, Tia pulled the cord, and a hard tug upward rewarded her. The heavy weight of her kit bag pulled her back toward the earth, and she grunted. She scanned the horizon, all the while correcting her course with the smaller handholds on the chute, so she danced silently during her descent. Below, the air rushed forward, though slower than before, warming now as she reached lower altitudes.

  As always, the tranquillity warred with the rush of adrenalin. Tia calculated, again and again, the trajectory and speed. Finally satisfied, though alert, she used the time to clear her mind, allow herself to focus on the landing and the mission ahead.

  Just before she hit the ground, she released her kit bag and watched it plummet, then hit the ground with a plume of dust.

  She followed it down, her descent more leisurely, her gaze on the vehicle nearby. "Better be my contact," she muttered as she bent her knees, ready for impact with the earth once more.

  Her feet touched, and she rolled with the landing, keeping her body loose while her hand hovered over the weapons bag at her side.

  It took only seconds to rise and begin divesting herself of the kit, rolling the chute before retrieving her bag where it lay only metres away.

  "Damn good jump," a man's voice called.

  She turned, and the first sight of her contact was a shock. He was tall, dark-haired, and in his thirties, she guessed. Early to mid, perhaps, with piercing grey eyes. Taking a moment to orient herself and scan him, she kept her helmet on, though she did reach out a hand.

  "Cat?" Now she nodded and reached for her helmet, shaking her hair loose as he inhaled sharply. "You're a woman?"

  "Strangely, yes. Who are you?"

  He shook his head. "I need someone capable."

  If Tia had a dollar for every time someone drew the conclusion that because she was female, she couldn't manage an op, she'd be rich. "Well, I'm the operative you got. Name's Cat. Now, what's your name and designation?"

  "Uh, Callum Gallagher, but everyone calls me Cal. CIA. With the American embassy." He still appeared surprised and stumbled over his words while Tia grunted.

  "Fine, Mr. G-Man, help me collect and stow everything, and we can get started."

  He frowned. "Uh, sure."

  It's going to be a difficult mission, Tia told herself, then got busy.

  Cal waited in the jeep, the engine running while he scanned the horizon. Another glance at his watch told him the contact was due any time now.

  Scanning the distance, he strained for any sound of an engine to alert him that Cat had arrived. The distant drone of a motor had him looking up.

  A speck of black was growing bigger while whatever kind of copter they'd used continued its drone. Even as he waited, the spark grew larger. "Son of a bitch!" The operative—Cat—was jumping in.

  He watched with awe as Cat floated toward the earth, releasing the large kit bag just seconds before he landed. He ambled forward. "Damn good jump," Cal called and watched as Cat turned. He couldn't help but notice the man wasn't very tall, but hey, if he could do the job, who cared?

  The man turned and gazed in his direction, though he did extend a hand. Cal took it and shook, surprised at the almost petite size, but the strength of the grip reassured him. Once the hand released his, "Cat?" Cat reached up and removed his—or rather her helmet.

  He stared. She stared, her eyes dark and with a tiny hint of Asian heritage if the shape was anything to go by. "You're a woman?" He wanted to shake his head to shrug off the surprise.

  "Strangely, yes. Who are you?"

  He shook his head, unable to stop the motion. "I need someone capable." The words escaped from his mouth unbidden, and he wanted to wince. They wouldn't have sent her if she wasn't capable. She must have been a member of the legendary, if secretive, Alathea Range, an all-female black ops team.

  No one had been sure they actually existed. Not until now.

  The only aspect about this operative that made sense was the Australian accent.

  "Well, I'm the operative you got. Name's Cat. Now, what's your name and designation?"

  He cursed internally that he'd allowed surprise to overrun professionalism. "Uh, Callum Gallagher, but everyone calls me Cal. CIA. With the American embassy." The woman before him was clearly unimpressed, if the grunt she gave was any indication.

  "Fine, Mr. G-Man, help me collect and stow everything, and we can get started."

  He frowned. "Uh, sure."

  "Right. What intel do you have? I need to get moving."

  He shook his head again. "I'm going with you."

  Her lips, pale pink and soft looking, took on a mulish expression. "I prefer to work alone, but if you're coming with me, you keep up. The kid is my priority. Fall behind, slow me down, and I'll leave you behind. If it's a choice between her and you, she wins. Got it? I give an instruction, and you follow it." Every word was stern, forceful, and it took a second for him to realize she also meant them.

  "I'm not exactly unable to keep up," he muttered.

  "What's your regime? It might give me a clue as to how fast you can move."

  She battered him with her demand, and he shrugged. "I run five miles every day, lift weights, and—"

  Cat shook her head. "Uh-huh. Okay, that's everything I need to know." He didn't detect any appreciation in her tone. In fact, he'd almost say her words were derisive. "I need intel and some last-minute supplies. Where can I get water, warm kids' clothes, and a soft hat? Sneakers and socks for the kid."

  He stared at her. "Why?"

  "Because if I were them, I'd have taken her shoes, put her in lightweight clothing so she'd be unable to survive in the environment."