Captured

By K. A. Bryant

An attack on United States soil can't go unanswered. One captured man's rescue could prevent war, but only if Caleb Promise denies his instincts. A government coup is in flow. His orders, to extract the CAPTURED man but leave the man's wife, Tempest Bleu. The problem is, he can't.
Series Description:

CAPTURED is Mission 2 of the Caleb Promise Series. If you are a series binge reader seeking a page-turner, Captured is for you. The Series has a balanced blend of Jack Reacher's political depth with action beats hit at every turn of the page. It has espionage, thrills an element of mystery light notes of literary distinction.

About the Book:

Why would a country go to war over one man? Caleb discovers the answer. Tasked with finding the CAPTURED man, he has to make a decision. Can he leave the man's stranded wife in peril? Can he ignore his gut feeling and stick to the mission? He stumbles upon an ugly truth of just how far the rich and powerful will go to keep their dirty secrets hidden.

Series Steps:

Mission 1- "Mark of the Two-Edged Sword"

Mission 2- "CAPTURED"

Caleb has evolved. In Mission 1, Mark of the Two-Edged Sword, he peeks his head into the shadow-life as an undercover agent. However, now in Captured, he is sanguine. This is the life for him. He moves into his calling sure-footed and adept. Bursts with suspense, emotional rides, and espionage at the highest levels of government.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. A. Bryant
• Release date: Apr 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734711226

K. A. Bryant

Author of Thriller- Espionage, and political mystery novels. Amazon Best Seller in the categories of Thriller Espionage and International Mystery-Crime. A certified Paralegal with education history in Psychology enhances the methodological and strategic aspects of my characters. My purpose for writing? Simply to take you to a world that offers an adventure, a mind-bending plot that opens your imagination to fill in the blanks. Coming soon, non-fiction books.When the kettle is whistling itself into a rattle but you don't want to put the book down, I have done my job well.

Book preview

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

TEMPEST BLEU

The champagne-soaked hotel carpet is cold and matted beneath my bare feet. What day is it? The thump of my heartbeat keeps ringing in my ears like a slowed clock ticking. Time stood still the moment I got to the hotel . . . alone. Everything slowed. Like being stuck in a moment that just wouldn’t move forward and no matter how much I wanted to push it on . . . make it roll forward past this horrible moment, it wouldn’t budge.

How long have I been standing? My heels ache. I release my grip and my fingernails pull out of my palm and Christian’s handkerchief sails down to the bed. The room is spinning. A little stagger backward, hand panning for the bed and it feels so good just to rest. Something cold and hard touched my foot and there’s a bump.

The empty champagne bottle rolls and clanks to a stop against the wood platform beneath the beige hotel bed. The last few hours are a complete blur. I squeeze my eyes tight shut then open them and draw a deep cleansing breath. The room is dark except for the flash of colors coming from the television news I turned on when I got in.

Then, I had hope. Hope that there would be a news flash about an American being found and where to come to claim him. After hours of staring wide-eyed at the never ending amateur videos of protests and car fires dotting the city, I picked up the bottle and since the first sip, the colors muted. Not even the anniversary bouquets on the tables, that just earlier popped with passion red, half-bloomed roses stand out anymore.

I shouldn’t have drank. I know I shouldn’t have touched that bottle. We were supposed to open it together tonight and this dizzying head throb makes my thoughts spin like clothes in a dryer tumbling over themselves. I haven't drank since our wedding day. Dry smeared mascara feels tight on my face and despite a flurry of blinks, my eyes are sting, dry from hours of crying into my pillow. Where is it? What did I do with it?

The card from the embassy agent. He had a crooked toupee . . . that’s all I can remember. Doug-something … the dark strands of his toupee hung too far left. Why would that be the only thing I recall? Such a stupid and useless detail. Think, think, I say. The heel of my palm scrubs across my forehead, but the memory of where I put the business card still remained obscured. It hurt, and stung. I looked at my palms. They were cut, scraped raw.

Wait, I had fallen. Yes, I remember now. Really, I was shoved onto the ground in front of the embassy the moment I cleared the security gate, only to look up and see a man on the ground beside me staring at me with the same glare of disbelief as I’m sure I had, in my eyes. We shoved up and got ping-ponged out of the protesters and spat out onto the street.

Did I lose it then? It’s possible. Everyone was shoved, pushed and pulled like some invisible wave was flowing through the mob. Spurring a fight on one end then igniting it on the other. I walked. That’s right, I walked from the embassy to the hotel. That’s why my heels feel so raw.

The fog in my brain lifts slowly reveling bits and pieces of memories like puzzle pieces. Christian’s side of the bed is still made. Flat and tight just the way he likes it. The room feels unbearably empty. So very . . . vacant. When he’s home, his presence fills our six-thousand square foot home with ease. It bursts with warmth, yet this boxy hotel suite is eerily lifeless as if I’m not even in it. In a way, I’m not because half of me is not here. The smooth cool of his pillow against the cut palm of my hand and another stinging tear rolls onto my full cheek. The pillow . . . the one his head would have lain on last night if it weren’t for . . . me.

What is that? My hand trembles off the pillow upward into focus. Blood. There is blood on the back of my hand. I squeeze my eyes tight shut trying to remember where this piece fits. How did I get this cut? Was it before or after I left that shopping mall? Did I get it while I was in the mall? No, that’s not right. The headache right behind my eyes pulses.

Why haven’t the police called yet? They couldn’t possibly still be held up managing the street brawls. They must have gotten control over the city by now. That’s what the law does, isn’t it? Correct things? Right the wrongs quickly. Restore order. I’ve never had to talk to the police before, but I guess I have to. I saw it so clearly. I would get to the hotel, slide the plastic key card in and open the door to find Christian pacing the floor waiting for me. I swallow the lump in my throat.

The agent at the embassy said the local police were best only chance. They knew the city inside out and would call…come over… something. I feel myself sinking. Folding inward like a child trying to disappear in plain sight. My heart revs up and I put my fist in the center of my chest as a deep piercing pain swells in it. The telephone. It rings. I jump and lunge for it.

Ouch! I say aloud. My fake nail pops off as I grab the telephone receiver and hold it so tight my knuckles shine white.

HELLO? Christian? My heart slows.

Mrs. Bleu, this is Janet from the front desk . . .

Thank God! Have you heard from my husband? Is he . . . I swallow, is he downstairs . . . with you?

No, I’m sorry.

Have any police come? Asking for me?

No, Mrs. Bleu, officials have instructed us to tell you that the last evacuation bus is leaving for the airport in ten minutes. Leave your luggage. No bags are permitted. We will tag them and ship them to you. You may bring one shoulder bag only and . . .

I can’t listen to this anymore. Janet, I’m not leaving.

"It has been highly recommended that all Americans evacuate the country. For your safety."

NO! I'm not leaving! The receiver trembles in my clenched hand. Who is this coming out of me? I should not have yelled at her. She’s only doing her job. Breathe, Tempest. Just breathe. I’m sorry… I rake my fingers through my hair.

Listen, Janet’s voice softens. She no longer sounds like she’s reading a script. You and your husband are two of the sweetest people I’ve met. When I checked you in, I knew it. Please, I urge you. The police won’t be responsible for the safety of those Americans who refuse to leave. You’re a kind lady, Mrs. Bleu. I don’t want you to put yourself in danger.

I can’t just leave him here. I can’t. He would never leave without me.

You can’t help him if you’re . . . hurt. Please just think about it. You have ten minutes.

Yes, I will, thank you. Goodbye, I hang up.

The receiver barely touched the telephone when gunshots clapped outside. A roar of voices. Metal pipes banging on metal, glass shattering and car alarms rang out on the street five floors down. There was a cluster of shots, a boom, like the shotgun my grandfather had and the cycle repeats.

Again? They rang all through last night. The sedating effect of the alcohol is waring off fast and with every shot my heart leaps into my throat. What now? Go back to the embassy? What if Christian comes and I’m not here? I hold myself rocking like a mother soothing a baby and my tunic top clings to me like a skin and the right sleeve is torn. The body shaper undergarments grip my mid-section like a vice. Pull it together. Christian can’t see me like this.

Wobbling to my feet, arms extended like a balance beam walker, my goal, to get into the bathroom with a few steady steps. I take one and catch sight of our passports on the brown, bare desk where I put them when I returned from the embassy. Beside them, my broken perfume bottle.

Christian wouldn’t do that. He would put them in the safe. I stagger across the room, grab them, throw them into the open safe and slam it shut hearing the click of the bolt and wobble toward the bathroom, I pass our suitcases in the corner, side by side, just as we have always been. We didn't even get a chance to unpack. What happened to him? What will happen to me? Ten minutes. That’s how much time I have until I’m completely alone. It’s probably down to five minutes now.

The sound of doors opening and closing and a stampede of hurried feet passing my door comes in waves. I grip the wall and make my way to the door and open it sticking my face in the gap.

Familiar faces of people that were on my flight rush by without a word. Eyes wide and focused forward the way people are in a panic. Everything else melts away when pure panic sets in. I open my mouth to call out to a woman I met in the lobby. She knows what Christian looks like. But before I can get the words out, she’s gone. Disappeared down the stairwell with a trot with her little boy in tow.

An elderly couple bustles past, his hand on the small of his wife’s back pushing her gently forward into the quickly filling elevator. I know them. They sat across from us on the airplane. She knits baby caps for hospitals and he’s a retired office worker taking their first trip since retirement. His voice is cottony and breathy.

Wait for us, please! He calls forward to a pink faced young man holding the door open.

Shut the door! A slim faced woman leans into to the young man’s ear. They’ll be no more seats on the bus. They’ll give the seats to them first you know.

He fumbles. His eyes darting from the wrinkled, breathless couple struggling up the hall to the lady speaking into his ear like a bird on his shoulder.

Hurry, Adelaide, hurry, he says. Her mouth is wide open like sound should come out, but nothing does. She’s gasping for breath.

The young man turns white. Gripped by the words whispered in his ear and pumps the close door button. The metal door slides shut.

No, please. We can’t take the stairs. He says just reaching the door in time to see the cold, heartless eyes of the woman who whispered into their ear.

Come, we’ll help you, a strong middle-aged man and his wife, equally toned, guide them to the stairwell. We’ll make it. Don’t worry. We’ll be down there before they are.

They disappear down the stairwell and an eerie silence took over the floor like a fog on a cold lake. I look left. The elevator numbers change. 5, 4, 3 . . . and I look right. Nothing but closed doors and scattered items abandoned in the hall stare back at me. A chill slides down my back.

I do hear something. A television, the news. Silly, it is mine. I am alone. Completely alone. My stomach flips and a hot rush burns up to my throat. I step backward into my room, shut the door and do the bolt quickly hoping to make it to the bathroom toilet, but I don’t. Nausea grips me. I buckle over, wrench once, twice and it gushes up and out of my mouth. The entire bottle of champagne comes out hot. I fold on all fours, and the airplane meal splats atop of the champagne and my temples bang with a headache.

Rolling to a seated position, back against the wall, this reality melts away and I’m glad to feel it go. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and shut my eyes. They have seen so much today. My head rolls back resting on the wall and I have a floating sensation. The gunshots, the television ranting . . . it disappears. My body gives in to the exhaustion. I can’t fight it anymore. I drift into sleep. When I open my eyes, I’m in my safe place. Home.

CHAPTER TWO

ONE DAY EARLIER, CALIFORNIA

Bleu Manor

It’s bright. The entire house bursts with natural sunshine. Every inch of it designed with me in mind and that means so much to me. It’s like coming home to love the moment I open the front door.

Massive picture windows overlooking the swimming pool and the valley. This room is still my favorite place in the entire house. The octagonal glass sun-room is warmed by the sunlight pouring in. Through the windows, the view of the half-acre garden and swimming pool.

Maybe I like it because the soaring cathedral ceiling makes me feel small and safe. Swallowed up in the green, kissed by the sun. There is something therapeutic in watching the gardener prune the rose bushes outside. Slightly hunched when busy at work, callous hands and perpetually smiling eyes. Like me, he is at home in his space. Methodical, precise and handles the seventh rose bush with the same care as the first. Tilting his head to see the next cut. Taking pride in every strategic snip. He loves what he does as much as I love being married to my best friend in the entire world and that is the theme of my life here. Happy, light, sunny love.

A finger-sized remote sits on my tea table. With the press of a button with my freshly polished finger tip, I extend the shade in the ceiling and block the light that was falling directly on my freshly made-up face. I raise my warm cup of tea to my lips lulled by the running water from the indoor fountain when there is a tap on the door. It’s Doris.

Mrs. Bleu, which luggage would you like to use?

The Louis Vuitton. I’ll help you, just set them out. I’ll be up in a second. Have you arranged the outfits I requested as yet?

Yes, Mrs. Bleu, but you still need to select your delicate items.

Doris is a dear and if only I were blessed with her flawless skin I could have been one of those women on the game shows that present the prizes and smile for a living. Yeah right, I think to myself. Doris is a few years older, but we think alike and after interviewing five women with personalities like cardboard, her humor was refreshing. She is discreet. By delicate items, Doris means my girdles and shaper-wear.

If it snaps like a slingshot, put it in the suitcase. I need all the help I can get. And Doris, no swimsuits. Let’s spare mankind that one.

Doris takes a tissue from her white apron pocket, dabs her nose, trying to hide her smile as she walks away hugging a stack of freshly folded white towels. They say full sized women have great personalities. I guess I do, I don’t really know. Haven’t had much time to give it much thought between diets. I’m too busy being light headed and mentally planning my next cheat day.

Where’s Mr. Bleu? I yell after her.

I believe he’s in his office, Doris answers over her shoulder.

Not today. He should be packing. We have forty-five minutes. I head to his home office. As I approach the open oversized door, I hear Christians voice. He’s talking. His words are clear, sharp and sometimes cut short as if he were being interrupted mid-sentence. He exhales loudly and his desk chair squeaks the way it does when he leans back in it.

His eyes are locked on something in his hand. Stepping inside, I’m in his field of view, but he doesn’t even notice I’m there. I cross my arms in a patient hold, because Christian’s eyebrow is raised. Just one. That could only mean one thing. His eyes dart the office and he finally notices me, mutters something to the caller and hangs up the phone. There is a solitary person that illicits that response from the most patient man in the world.

McLean? I ask.

He nods.

Did he sign?

He shakes his head.

It’s a good deal. Your offer is fair. He will take it.

It’s not about money with him. Christian stands, slips the thing that was in his hand into his pocket and rests his knuckles on the desk. It’s all he has.

"But you do all the work. It’s you who the clients request now. He’s become bitter, Christian. I saw it when we had him and his girlfriend over for dinner. I don’t like the way he looks at you and you know . . ."

I swerved the word girlfriend

"Yes, I know, . . .you are usually right. I think you started hating him when he divorced Terry. She left him, you know."

I don’t hate McLean. I don’t hate anyone.

Well, what would you prefer I say? Greatly dislike?

That’s better. Terry grew some common sense, that’s all. Most people get wiser as they get older. McLean just got . . . older and bitter.

Christian’s eyes scan a blue print sprawled on the desk weighted with hand-sized anchors on either side to keep it from rolling closed, but he wasn’t really looking at it. He was thinking. I like those khaki shorts on him. Finally he’s out of work attire and wearing the loafers I bought him over three months ago.

Your legs are sexy, I say lightly.

He looks down at them.

You’re biased,

So?

He’s my college buddy. We started the company together.

"-was your college buddy. Now he’s a bitter, jealous man who you can’t trust. See him for what he is, not who he used to be."

You’re smart.

You’re biased, I say.

I’m allowed to be.

I take his hands and squeeze them tightly.

If he were the old McLean, you would not be trying to buy him out. I trust your judgement. You should do the same.

His eye brow lowers. Mission accomplished. Now I need to get that knot out of his neck and him, onto the airplane.

McLean promised he’d sign when we get back from our trip. Didn’t tell him where we are going, but he knows it’s our anniversary. Sorry this came up today. Our day. Happy Anniversary, my calm waters, he whispers in my ear.

Happy Anniversary my love. This is a long way from that one bedroom walk-up over the pizza shop, isn’t it.

Gazing out the window side by side, warmed by the sun, I feel the heat of his hand on my shoulder. This feels like a dream. One I still haven’t quite settled into. Financial security, a house we adore and the ability to go anywhere in the world we can think of? Whose life is this? Just a few years ago, this was unheard of. A sigh comes out of both of us simultaneously as if we were thinking the same thing which is probably the case.

Were you just thinking that this is like a dream? I ask.

Yep.

We laugh. A fireside laugh. Deep and real.

Remember not to tell anyone where we are going. Only Doris has the details and I already registered the trip with the United States travel Department. Can never be too safe. He says.

I salute him. I know the protocol, Sir. He stares