Shadows at Midnight

Dedication

Acknowledgements

ONE - US EMBASSY IN LAKA REPUBLIC OF MAKONGO, WEST AFRICA THANKSGIVING

TWO - SAFETY HARBOR, FLORIDA ONE YEAR LATER

THREE - WASHINGTON DC NOVEMBER 26

FOUR

FIVE - WILLARD HOTEL WASHINGTON DC

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN - RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

FOURTEEN - NEAR NEW HOPE, PENNSYLVANIA NOVEMBER 28

FIFTEEN - PENNSYLVANIA NOVEMBER 29, EARLY MORNING

SIXTEEN - RICHMOND, VIRGINIA NOVEMBER 29

SEVENTEEN - LAKA, MAKONGO DECEMBER 2

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN - LAKA

TWENTY - RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO - OVER THE AZORES ATLANTIC OCEAN

EPILOGUE

“My God,” he breathed, hanging on to the door frame. “You’re alive.”

There she was. Much thinner, very pale, with short-cropped hair and deep purple bruises under her eyes. Looking sad and lost and lonely. But definitely Claire.

In two strides he was with her. He pulled her up by her elbows and put his arms around her. At the last minute, he realized she was trembling badly, so he kept his embrace loose, when what he really wanted to do was pull her tightly against him, using all his strength, and never let her go.

It’s okay
, he mouthed, then bent his head back to Claire’s. They stood there, clinging to each other. Claire to keep upright and Dan to make sure she wasn’t a mirage and wouldn’t disappear from his life again.

“Sensual and absorbing . . . Dangerously compelling.”

—Shannon McKenna,
New York Times
bestselling author

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

SHADOWS AT MIDNIGHT

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Copyright © 2010 by Elizabeth Jennings.

All rights reserved.

eISBN : 978-1-101-18915-3

BERKLEY
^®
SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

http://us.penguingroup.com

She should know. She was a spook for the Defense Intelligence Agency.

Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Weston, Detachment Commander of the Marine Security Guard of the US Embassy looked down at the beautiful woman sitting up against the wall of Post One, right next to him. They’d been sitting hip to hip against this wall behind bulletproof glass for almost an hour.

He’d moved heaven and earth to be in the same place as her and now here he was. Except he’d never expected for them to meet in Post One, under siege, in mortal danger.

He couldn’t guarantee they weren’t going to die. There was a fucking army outside the embassy gates and if they came pouring in . . . But there was one thing he could guarantee. “I won’t let them get you.”

Claire’s lips turned up. “It’s a nice thought,” she murmured, glancing up at him briefly, then back down at the floor.

It wasn’t a nice thought. Dan would go down fighting, but he would save one bullet for Claire. If the rebels caught her and took her to one of their camps, there wouldn’t be much left to bury. They were continuously hopped up on ganja weed and palm wine and ferociously, insanely cruel.

He’d kill her himself before he let that happen.

The rebels had starting pouring into Laka right after 1600 hours, like water from a dam that had burst. Everyone was taken utterly by surprise. If there had been any signs at all that the rebels were close to the capital, Daniel wouldn’t have let his Marines stay in Marine House, a mile away, for Thanksgiving.

Let them have their Thanksgiving meal
, he’d thought. He didn’t celebrate it. More often than not, holidays had been excuses for his old man to get high and stay high.

Thanksgiving was just another day for Dan, so he’d offered to stay on duty while his men celebrated with freeze-dried turkey and canned stuffing, taking turns Skypeing home.

The rest of the embassy staff wasn’t doing much better over at the ambassador’s residence a block away. Ambassador Thurston Crocker pulled out all the stops for his fellow ambassadors and for visiting bigwigs, but for the embassy staff, he and his wife would have made a minimal effort to please. Soggy canapés, half-thawed turkey and cheap, sulphite-laden sparkling wine, providing a guaranteed killer headache the next morning. And not much of it, either.

Crock-of-Shit was not known for his generosity.

So the choice to stand guard alone at the embassy hadn’t been hard. And when he’d seen Claire Day suddenly appear, his choice looked even better. Claire, universally known as Blondie, the resident embassy DIA analyst, was smart and beautiful and dedicated. She was the only other person on post who would work on Thanksgiving.

She’d walked down the corridor toward him, immersed in thought, and he’d had to stiffen his neck muscles, make them a cage, so his head wouldn’t swivel to follow her progress down the corridor. Though he’d started his duties as detachment commander a full week ago, it was only the second time he’d seen her at the Laka Embassy. She seemed to work day and night down there in the basement secure room.

Just as she had pulled even with him, nodding at him, lips curving in an absentminded smile, gunfire had erupted in the street outside. Massive gunfire, rifles and machine guns going off in an almost constant clatter. The deafening noise of war.

Dan had sprung into action, rushing her into Post One, the default retreat station, behind bulletproof glass. Once she was safe, he’d left her there to go on recon, fully aware of the fact that bulletproof was a name, not a description. Nothing was completely bulletproof.

It was a real Murphy’s Law moment, because the monitors of the security cameras that ringed the embassy chose that moment to flicker and die, another ode to the lunacy of always hiring the cheapest subcontractor.

He’d had no choice but to run to the side door of the embassy, the public entrance. Normally, one of his men would be stationed there but it was a holiday and closed to the public. He hunkered down, slipped out and, using what little cover there was, made it to the huge wrought-iron gates that fronted onto the Avenue de la Liberté.

Shit
.

It was a Quentin-Tarantino-on-crack scene.

Hundreds of screaming soldiers, firing their weapons crazily in all directions, pouring into the city. As Dan watched, the entire street shut down, shutters banging closed, windows slamming shut, street vendors pulling up the sheets they displayed their wares on and running away. Some so terrified they just left everything on the ground.

In a few minutes, the big avenue was devoid of civilians and all that was left were crazy, drunken soldiers, shooting in the air, taking potshots at the street lamps and the tires of cars parked on the street.

They were all dressed in tattered red shirts, which was not good. God knew the military junta’s soldiers were no prize, but the Red Army was terrifying. They’d been in the bush for years, stealing young boys from their homes and bringing them up brutally, keeping them drunk and drugged and hyped up on violence.

Deserters, if caught, had their limbs hacked off, one by one, day by day for four days. It was known as the Four Day Punishment. The only possible question was “short sleeves” or “long sleeves.” Above or below the elbow or the knee.

The red shirts were a symbol of how brainwashed they were. They were convinced that wearing the color red made them bulletproof.

Everyone thought that the Red Army was a thousand miles inland, terrorizing local tribes, but everyone was wrong, because the Red Army was right here, right now.

At least three hundred soldiers careened down the street in the three minutes Dan watched. At this rate, several thousand would be in the city in an hour. Ten thousand by nightfall.

They weren’t paying the embassy any attention. Both the Red Army thugs and the government thugs were apolitical. They weren’t anti- or pro-American. They were pro-blood diamonds, pro-sex slaves, pro-smuggled guns. Anti-civil society.

If they attacked the embassy it would be because they were looking to wreck all standing buildings in the city center of Laka, not because they wanted to make a political statement. It didn’t make them any less dangerous though.

Dan was the detachment commander of a small force of Marines—there were just five of them—and he had to protect both Ambassador Crocker and his vicious wife, Danielle, who hated anyone who wasn’t rich or famous. The Crock-of-Shits were horrible people. However, much as Dan and his men despised the Crockers, he knew that he and the men of the Marine security detachment would lay down their lives for the nasty couple. And of course for the rest of the staff.

“Did you call Marine House?” Claire asked.

Dan looked down at her. “Yes, ma’am. They’re on full alert. There’s not much they can do at the moment. Called the ambassador’s residence, too. Everyone’s just sitting tight.”

With her head bowed, all he could see was absurdly long lashes and the curve of a high cheekbone. But he didn’t need to see her features, they were burned into his brain. He’d been thinking of her for a year now, since his last posting in Jakarta.

She’d come to Jakarta for a regional conference on security, one of hundreds of experts called in for a four-day screening of security threats. Mostly men, mostly ugly, so she’d stood out like a beacon. An amazingly beautiful woman, with a reputation for being wicked smart. He’d been nearly poleaxed when he saw her walking down the corridor of the Jakarta Embassy.

That evening, he’d been on guard duty at the embassy reception for all the experts and politicians called in for the conference.

He’d been stationed at the door and knew that he was nothing more than a piece of furniture for the bigwigs in the room.

She’d arrived late and left early, drinking half a glass of champagne and eating nothing. Dan had followed her with his eyes as she made the rounds, spoke politely, laughed once or twice, then took her leave.

Anyone not paying attention would have seen her as a party animal. Well, why not? She was stunningly beautiful—easily the loveliest woman in the room by a factor of ten. Elegant, too, in a black silk suit. Long, pale blond hair caught back in a gleaming bun, which sounded like something Aunt Mabel would sport.

Except Dan knew that it was called a chignon—a long-ago date had nearly snapped his head off for calling the hair gathered at the back of her neck a bun. He never made that mistake again.

The chignon set off Claire’s long white neck and made her look like a young Grace Kelly.

He hadn’t seen her come and he hadn’t seen her go. It was the damndest thing. He could have sworn he hadn’t taken his eyes off her, but suddenly she was gone.

He saw her only a few times after that, brief glimpses, then nothing. She was known as Blondie and by the rueful smiles, every man with a pulse had tried to approach her. They’d all struck out.

The embassy website said she was posted to Makongo, a hardship post in West Africa.

Makongo. Okay, he could do Makongo.

He was being promoted to detachment commander and had one more posting to go before he rejoined the normal Marine ranks. He was a good Marine, kept his nose clean and hadn’t shot anyone he wasn’t supposed to, so his bid for a posting to Makongo was accepted.

Took him almost a fucking year, though. A year in Jakarta in which he went out with a Wall Street Journal analyst, an investment banker and the owner of a school for teaching English. Nice women all of them, but . . .

The analyst had a screechy voice, the banker scared him when she talked of “wiping out” her opposition in the bank and the teacher bored him. They didn’t last more than a night or two in his bed. He felt like an asshole, but what can you do? He had Claire Day fixed in his head and she was the only one who could get herself out of there.

So here he was, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder with her. Piece of cake, getting close to Blondie. All you needed was a vicious rebel army invading the city.

Though it was steamy hot inside Post One—the embassy air-conditioning system was another system installed by the lowest bidder—and he was sweating like a pig, Claire simply glowed. He could smell individual bits of her and they all smelled wonderful. Freshly shampooed hair, some lemony lotion on her hands and something fresh and springlike that he imagined was the smell of her skin.

Jesus, he’d like to smell all that up close. Just put his nose next to her neck and inhale, even though he doubted she’d like him pulling a dog imitation on her.

A loud crump followed by the sound of falling masonry made her jump.

“Another RPG,” she said, shaking her head. A thick lock of pale gold hair fell out of her French braid and curled on her shoulder. Dan tightened his hand on his Remington 870 because the temptation to smooth it back was so strong. “They’re well-armed.”

Dan waited until another burst from a passing vehicle full of soldiers died down. “And evidently have plenty of ammo to burn.”

She looked up at him, silvery blue eyes serious, a little frown between ash brown eyebrows. “You know, that doesn’t sound right.”

Dan took in a deep breath. She was right, it didn’t.

Claire shook her head. “I just sent off a report detailing how ragtag the Red Army actually is. We’re funding the general way too much on the basis of the minimal threat the RA represents. They stay alive by preying on the tribes-men in the bush, but they have almost zero resources now that they’ve lost the diamond mines.”

He looked down at her, wishing he could read her reports. He bet they were smart and incisive. He would never read them, though, because they were Eyes Only and he was just a jarhead. “You actually called them a ragtag army in your report? I’ll bet that went over big.”

She pursed her lips, eyes dancing. “Actually, in DIASPEAK it’s called ‘arms procurement deficiencies’ and I said that the RA had lots of them. I guess I was wrong.” She closed her eyes. “I really, really hate being wrong.”

They were silent a second as another burst of machine-gun fire sounded, long and fierce. He’d watched the soldiers briefly from a window. Most of the shots were into the air. Any Marine would be put in the brig for such a breach of firing discipline.

Another jeep full of Red Army thugs roared by, all guns firing. Dan estimated about five hundred rounds shot in a couple of minutes.

“Wow, was I wrong. These guys don’t have arms procurement deficiencies.” She shook her head again, small fists clenching. “You know, Gunnery Sergeant, I didn’t see this coming at all.”

“Dan, please,” he answered.

A quicksilver smile. “Sure, Dan. I guess there’s nothing like an old-fashioned siege to cut through the formalities.” She offered a slender hand. “And I’m Claire.”

I know
, he wanted to say. Her name was burned into his mind. He took her hand in his, wishing his hand wasn’t so rough. He loved tinkering, spending most of his downtime in the motor pool, and his hands showed it. Not to mention the shooting calluses.

He had to force himself to let go of her hand, though he wanted to keep holding on to that incredibly smooth skin. His head gave the order to his hand—
let go of her
—but there was a breakdown in communications up there.