Page 3 of Trapped With the Secret Agent

Peter Welis staredat the half dozen armed masked men prowling the office of the ambassador to Koutu, his gut churning and hands shaking with the need to kill.

No one in their right mind would break into a US embassy to force concessions out of the United States government and expect to get away with it. These guys weren’t just fanatics, they were stupid fanatics.

In addition to the two dead Marines lying outside the door, a third body, that of Ambassador Mitchell’s aide, lay crumpled beneath the window. Peter had been shoved to his knees in the middle of the room. One terrorist stood over him, staring down with hate-filled eyes, pressing cold steel to his temple. Several more prowled near the doors and windows while two others waved AK-47s and yelled at the ambassador.

They wanted a whole lot of stuff, and they wanted it yesterday.

One hundred imprisoned insurgents with ties to various terrorist groups released, plus several million dollars and a fueled plane to transport them to who knows where. They made sure Ambassador Mitchell understood the gravity of the situation. They killed his aide in cold blood when the man tried to defend him, then threatened to kill every American in the compound if the ambassador didn’t cooperate.

The remaining hostages were somewhere outside the building, under guard and threat of being shot. All except for Peter, and the ambassador’s secretary, whom they dragged down to the basement. He could only pray she was still alive and unharmed. If she wasn’t...she was a petite, pretty young woman.Fuck.

“Who is he?” one of the terrorists asked the ambassador, swinging his rifle in Peter’s direction. His English was more than passable, with only a slight British accent. He’d been giving most of the orders. Peter figured he was the one in charge.

The ambassador glanced at Peter. “He’s a photojournalist, here to—”

“American?”

“Yes.”

In-Charge walked over to Peter and stabbed the AK-47’s muzzle under his chin, forcing his head up.

“Where’s your camera?”

Peter’s gaze locked with the terrorist’s. The promise of death lived in the man’s eyes.

Swallowing, he threw his head back to the right. “Over there.”

The terrorist nodded at one of his men. Seconds later, the black leather bag dropped to the floor next to Peter. It was unzipped and an expensive German Leica with zoom lens was carelessly examined.

The terrorist spoke to In-Charge in their rapid lyrical language, maligning the manhood of Americans in general, then put the camera back and rummaged around some more. When he only found more camera equipment, he reported this with a disappointed shrug of his shoulders.

The leader looked at Peter. “A journalist. Good.” He smiled showing two rows of perfect white teeth. “I won’t kill you, yet.”

He said something else to his man, who nodded quickly and grabbed Peter by the arm, dragging him out of the room. Two grungy-looking fellows followed close behind.

Peter glanced over his shoulder at the ambassador’s tight-lipped face.

Mitchell only blinked.

* * *

Trapped in the dark.

Georgia concentrated on regulating her breathing. If she hyperventilated, she’d pass out and that would be a bad idea.

Bad idea? There were dead bodies inside and outside the building.

A hysterical giggle escaped her throat and she slapped a hand over her own mouth.

Why wasn’t she already among the dead? They could have easily shot her on the spot like those Marines. Instead, they’d thrown her in this hellhole. What would they do to Uncle Theo?

Memories of her father’s death rushed, unwanted, through her head.

Her mother had gone to town, leaving Georgia at home while her father did chores on their farm. She’d gone to the small dark entryway closet, reached for a hat, but a chair fell, closing and blocking the door. Outside, the tractor overturned, and she could hear her father’s fading cries for help. She’d bloodied her hands pounding on the door. By the time her mother came home, it was too late, her father was dead. Her mother’s health swiftly declined, and she followed him into the grave three months later.

Uncle Ted and Aunt Sara had taken her in, treated her like their own, but it had taken years before she could sleep without the door open and a hall light on.

Her nightmare had become reality. Again. A dark, musty, suffocating, hot reality. Georgia struggled to keep from screaming, but every second seemed to stretch out longer and longer.

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