Trapped with the Secret Agent: Trapped with Him, #1

By Julie Rowe

Terrorists have taken over the American embassy in Koutu, a small Middle Eastern country with huge oil reserves. This is not good news for the Ambassador's claustrophobic personal assistant, Georgia Masters, whose composure is tested when she's locked in a small dark small storage room by the terrorists. Then her worst fear is realized when they throw a man into the storage room with her. 

 

Burned out CIA agent Peter Welis can't believe his bad luck. Terrorists take over the US embassy of a small Middle East country while he's there on a routine visit. Only his cover as a photojournalist saves him from being immediately killed. Then he's locked up in the basement with the Ambassador's claustrophobic secretary. So what if she's bravely trying really hard not to lose her cool. Nothing worse could possibly happen, right? Wrong. After escaping the storage room, he and Georgia discover a crate on the floor covered with Russian printing. It contains a nuclear warhead. Peter is now duty bound to find out the terrorists' true intentions and stop them any way he can. 

 

As they escape the embassy and search for help, hope, and rescue, Georgia struggles not to fall for the secret agent who's the first to tell her he's a bad bet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Rowe
• Release date: Jun 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393506539

Julie Rowe

Julie Rowe’s first career as a medical lab technologist in Canada took her to the North West Territories and northern Alberta, where she still resides. She is the author of the Biological Response Team series, The Outbreak Task Force series, and the Trapped with Him series. You can find out more about her books at her website http://www.julieroweauthor.com. You can find her at www.julieroweauthor.com , on Twitter @julieroweauthor or at her Facebook page: www.facebook.com/JulieRoweAuthor

Book preview

Chapter One

Thank God for air conditioning and armed guards.

The Middle Eastern desert view outside Georgia Masters’s office window was beautiful, but that beauty held the potential for a lot of pain. Find yourself alone and outside safe areas, and the heat alone could kill you in a few hours if armed anti-Western protesters didn’t shoot you first.

None of that prevented her from falling in love with watching the sun rise and set over the sand in the year since she’d taken on the role of admin assistant to her uncle, the American ambassador of Koutu. An explosion of colors to excite the senses twice a day.

But the views weren’t enough to compensate for the danger. Living in a compound surrounded by high fences, armed guards, and floodlights was unsettling. Dressing with a hijab covering her head and in clothing that didn’t show her legs, arms, or virtually anything else, meant every time she left her residence, she was cooking hot by the time she got back.

So many rules to follow. Had to have an armed male escort if she went outside the compound. No shopping (alone). No alcohol (illegal). No fun (everyone knew whose niece she was).

She’d been glad to come here a year ago. It had been an adventure. Something new and different, but she was ready to go home, and counted the days until she left for Iowa. Safe, small-town, USA, where she planned to go back to college to become a veterinary assistant. This admin job had cured her of ever wanting to work in an office again.

Replying to email had her attention until an odd series of noises outside tore her focus away from her computer screen.

Ratatatatat. Ratatatatat. Ratatatatat.

Gunfire? For a moment shock held her motionless in its grip.

Another burst of gunfire ripped her free and she looked out the window to the right of her desk. One of the Marines stationed at the Embassy’s front gate slumped against the metal barrier, his body jerking in time to another succession of the popping sounds. He slid to the pavement in a heap.

Oh my God.

Fear sunk icy barbs into her gut, freezing her in place, until a wave of searing hot adrenalin freed her.

Uncle. Whoever they were, they’d want her uncle.

She jumped up, ran to the closed door of the ambassador’s office, and flung it open.

We’re under attack. Un— She caught herself at the last moment and changed to the title he’d insisted she use in public. "Ambassador, hurry—"

But he was already moving, rushing toward her. His aide, Jerry, and the gentleman they’d been meeting with privately, followed right behind him.

Peter Welis, with his khaki trousers and matching button-down shirt, had introduced himself to Georgia upon his arrival, but she’d recognized him before that. His photographs were world famous, winning contests, appearing on the covers of magazines, and even in a coffee table book she owned. The photos he took always told a tale; always made you think. Made you dream.

She hadn’t expected his crooked smile to spark a fire in her belly and make her hands tremble. He wasn’t just attractive—he was magnetic. Now, with his jaw set and a furrow etched between cold eyes, he looked more like a professional soldier than a photographer.

Peter, her uncle ordered. Get Georgia and any other staff members you can find to the basement. You know what do to from there.

He took her by the arm and shoved her at Peter hard enough to make her wobble. She would have fallen had the photographer not grabbed her by the shoulders and held her up.

Sir? she asked, confusion and fright taking up too much space in her head.

What was he doing? He couldn’t stay. She opened her mouth to protest, but Welis beat her to it.

You, too, sir, he said, his tone no nonsense.

The floor vibrated as the boom of several explosions shook the walls and rattled the windows.

Her uncle, Ambassador Theodore Mitchell, smiled his trademark damn the torpedoes grin. Jerry and I will be no more than a minute behind you. Everything is going to be fine.

She’d heard that before, ten years ago, from her parents. Dad is working outside, and I’ll be gone no more than a minute.

She’d never seen them alive again.

No, no, no. She fought the memory as it wrapped an icy strap around her chest. It tightened and tightened, cutting off her air, threatening to throw her into a bottomless, black pit.

Peter frowned and set Georgia to one side. But—

She managed to suck in part of a breath, but her uncle spoke first.

She’s important to me, Uncle Theo said, giving the other man a hard look. Take care of her.

The photographer glanced at her; one eyebrow elevated. Yes, sir. He grabbed Georgia by the arm and hauled her toward the door.

She tried to plant her feet. No. Stop! We can’t leave him, if they find him, they’ll kill him.

Peter ignored her and dragged her alongside him.

Georgia, Uncle called after them. Do as he says.

But—

Peter opened the outer office door.

Two Marines stood in front of it, their assault rifles in their hands, scanning the hallway.

Wait for the ambassador, Peter told them. Come on, he said to her.

She grabbed the doorframe with both hands. Ambassador! Leaving him wasn’t an option. Whoever had attacked the embassy could use him as a bargaining chip or a credit card, or they would try. Her uncle had told her the government’s official position on negotiating with terrorists: They don’t.

Peter pried her hands off. Stop, he said to her, his tone firm and on the bitter side of calm. I don’t want to leave him either, but he’s got a protocol to follow. He pulled her down the hall toward the back stairs. People to alert, information to secure.

You don’t understand. I promised not to leave him in a situation like this, not for any reason.

Aunt Sara had made her promise, knowing her husband would think of himself last in any kind of dangerous situation. It made him a good man and ambassador, but a worrisome husband.

I’m sorry. Peter rushed her toward the stairs at the opposite end of the hallway from the elevator.

Another explosion rocked the building and the lights flickered, sending her heart rocketing.

If we’re overrun, he said under his breath, none of us are going anywhere good.

They were only a few paces from the exit when the stairwell door burst open. Men with cloth-covered faces and weapons came boiling into the hallway.

Peter forced Georgia to the floor, covering her body with his.

Shouts in English and Arabic were punctuated by the crack and flash of gunfire and the thunder of heavy boots running down the hall.

Georgia struggled under Peter’s body to see what was happening and managed to turn enough to look toward the ambassador’s office. Both Marines lay in front of the destroyed door, eyes open and sightless, blood pooling around them.

Peter was shoved hard down on top of her and he grunted as someone kicked him several times in the side. The boot tip found her back and she smothered a gasp of pain.

Peter was wrenched away from her, and a rough hand on her neck pressed her head against the floor, making it impossible to see anything but the carpet. She expected more kicks or other violence and braced herself.

Instead, after a few seconds where her captor and another man shouted at each other incomprehensively in Arabic, she was grabbed by the hair and dragged into the stairwell and down the dark stairs. It happened so fast she couldn’t get her feet under her. She fell twice and was saved only by the gunman’s grip on her long hair, no longer neat and tidy in its bun.

At the bottom of the stars another man joined the first, pushing her forward from behind. The black maw of a midnight room loomed in front of her and she was shoved inside. Her foot hit a box and she fell forward, jarring her hands on what felt like a waist-high crate.

She whirled around, but the door was slammed in her face. She tried to open it, but though the knob turned, she couldn’t force the door open. Someone had jammed something against it and none of her frantic wrenching at the latch or pounding on the wall made any difference.

She was blind in the darkness and could have been at the bottom of a hole for all she knew. A narrow space with not enough room to breathe or light to see.

She’d been locked in the dark before.

It hadn’t ended well.

* * *

Peter Welis stared at 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.

Loud footsteps thundered on the stairs. The vivid memory of seeing the dead guards flashed before her eyes, and suddenly the little room didn’t seem so utterly distasteful.

The door crashed open. She pressed herself into the corner of her dark prison and tried to make out the shadows looming there, but the sudden brightness blinded her. She threw up a hand so she could see, but the change from complete darkness to bright light only made her vision fuzzy. Should she get out? Did she want to get out?

Something was thrust inside, shoving her violently against the box next to her. The heavy weight was enough to impair her ability to breathe. The door slammed shut a second later. Georgia fought against the crushing mass pressing against her without success.

The total darkness combined with the big and heavy something flattened her like a pancake against the crate. This wasn’t like before when she was a kid trapped in the entryway closet. This was worse. The heavy object squishing her was warm and moving, and faintly smelled of sweat. A man. They’d thrown a man in with her. Into a space without enough room for one person, let alone two.

The world shrunk until the only thing left was herself and the man on top of her. She couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t see, couldn’t feel anything but the crate and the man. Nausea grabbed hold of the bottom of her stomach and attempted to yank it up through her throat.

Off, off, she ordered. "Off, get off me." Her voice was so high she didn’t recognize it. Her knee connected with a soft lump, and she heard a deep masculine grunt.

Ouch! Damn it, hold still. His voice wasn’t familiar, his body heavy, but it was the darkness that weighed most of all.

Georgia’s arms were pinned between their bodies. She tried to knee him again, but he trapped her legs somehow. She couldn’t move.

Trapped inside a cramped storage room, in the dark, with a man. Unable to move, unable to save herself. Again.

Oh God.

The scream that came out of her could have woke the dead.

A large hand covered her mouth.

Ow, he muttered. You’ve got a hell of a scream on you.

Georgia struggled to break his hold, but he forcibly held her still. She jerked one arm free and tried to hit him, but he grabbed her wrist and pinned it to the wall beside her head, and she couldn’t wiggle the other one out from between them. Before she could knee him again, he shifted and blocked her legs with his own, pressing her more firmly against the wall. He held her imprisoned with the weight of his body, trussed up like a rabbit.

Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.

Georgia didn’t believe him, not after what she’d witnessed. The faces of the dead Marines flashed before her and she wiggled frantically to get free.

"Georgia, it’s Peter Welis. I’m not going to hurt you. The ambassador asked me to look after you, remember?"

His words sank in slowly. She stopped fighting to listen.

That’s better, he said, his voice low.

Now that she wasn’t in a complete panic, she could feel the strength radiating from him. He held her easily, almost negligently. She couldn’t move an inch.

Slowly, he eased off on the pressure until his palm left her face.

Georgia was careful to not move or even breathe audibly.

The vicelike grip on her wrist eased then disappeared altogether. He shifted away, but the room was so full of boxes and crates he couldn’t move far, his body heat penetrated her clothes, causing her shirt to stick to her skin.

Despite the heat, she shivered. I...I’m sorry.

It’s ok. I’d worry if you didn’t freak out.

Georgia cocked her head, listening intently to his voice. It was unusual—deep, full-bodied, but with an edge to it that rasped harshly across her nerve endings, making her hair stand on end. He

Reviews for Trapped with the Secret Agent

[Kaye · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

ONE GROUND SHAKING LANDSLIDE!!!
Hopping hellions! Julie hit the ground running full tilt, throttle wide open, revving up the intensity and bringing out the heavy artillery, locked and loaded, blasting this bad boy to life spectacularly. Bearing the burdens and dispensing justice, imparting this action packed, hard hitting, pulse racing, heart pounding, adrenaline pumping, page flipping, block busting bombshell, binding this gem together sleek, shiny and tight. Shenanigans, escapades and havoc rule the roost, rolling with the drama, turmoil, intrigue, danger, spiraling suspense and intense situations, along with a heaping with a super set of steel balls while dodging deadly intents, you have one intoxicating masterpiece. Blasting the boundaries and pushing the limits, the strengths and weaknesses being weighed and balanced, catapulting this gem forward, launching it into a frenzy with a life-changing culmination. The characters are complex and authentic with depth and traits that blend and flow, transforming into genuinely relatable personalities. The scenes are strikingly sharp with abundant details and depictions creating a colorful backdrop that makes the storyline pop. Amazing job Julie, thanks for sharing this little guy with us.