Sophie Oak: Found in Bliss

How long had it been? Weeks? Months? It seemed like forever since that moment the rebels had taken over his clinic, killed everyone in sight, and forced him to march through the jungle to this place.

If only one of the fuckers hadn’t recognized him, he would be dead, his body left behind in the jungle alongside Caroline’s. It might have been a fitting end to their marriage.

His throat threatened to close up every time he thought about Caroline’s face when she’d arrived at his clinic. She’d sauntered in like she was walking into one of the shops on Michigan Avenue where she spent most of her time. She’d said she had something to talk to him about, something serious that couldn’t wait until he deigned to come home. He’d felt a bit frozen because he’d had something to talk about, too. Divorce. He’d had the papers drawn up. They gave her everything he had, all the money, the houses in California, New York, and the Hamptons, the stock. He’d been willing to sign it all away with the singular exception of his charity.

He was so glad he’d been gentlemanly and let her speak first.

He hadn’t needed to give her everything he had. She’d taken enough all on her own. She’d told him boldly that she was pregnant. Caleb had felt his world twist into something ugly. He didn’t love Caroline, but the fact that she’d cheated on him kicked him in the gut.

Especially since he knew damn well who she spent all of her time with.

And then she’d been gone, her eyes dulling before his ears had even registered the shot that had taken her life.

Caroline was dead. His nurses were dead. They’d been raped before they were slaughtered. Two sweet, vivacious girls from the Midwest who had come to Africa because Caleb had convinced them they could save the fucking world. Africa had eaten them alive. He’d had to hear their screams as they’d been used. He’d been almost relieved when it had stopped.

And the final insult had been the fact that he’d been left alive for one reason and one reason alone. His family would pay for his return. His privilege, a thing he’d spent his whole life trying to deny, had been the only thing that spared him.

His stomach gnawed with hunger. His family wouldn’t even recognize him anymore. He’d become more animal than man. He survived day to day, but it no longer meant anything.

Still, his breath caught in his chest as he heard a tiny creak that let him know someone was moving in the room outside his cage. He shrank back, the hard feel of the wood behind his back a comfort.

What would they do this time? They’d beaten him. In the early days, he’d been somewhat useful. They’d forced him to play doctor. He’d stitched up their soldiers, some who couldn’t be more than nine or ten. He’d dug bullets out and performed surgeries that turned his gut when he thought about the horrific circumstances surrounding them. He’d put the boy soldiers back together and sent them out to kill some more.

Things had changed in the last few weeks. His hands shook too much. He was too weak. He was starving and losing his will to fight.

Was this the moment when they got rid of him?

“I’m in. No sign of the target.”

The voice was quiet, almost silent. Caleb had to strain to hear, but what he heard was English. Unaccented English.

“Two Tangoes down.”

Tangoes. Military, and not the ragtag group that had taken him. American military.

The door jiggled quietly, the lock holding. And then an amazing sound. A little snick that let Caleb know the man on the other side of the door would make a halfway decent thief.

“Dr. Caleb Sommerville?”

Burke. He’d gone by his mother’s maiden name for years, not wanting to trade on the Sommerville influence. Now it didn’t matter. He nodded his head. No one would have sent in a special ops team to save Caleb Burke . Caleb Sommerville was another story. His brother, the senator, could perform miracles. It was surprising that Eli would bother. He had to know that Caroline was dead. Caroline, who had been carrying Eli’s child.

“Is there anyone else?” The question was quiet coming out of the soldier’s mouth.

In the deep gloom, a single ray of moonlight cut into the small shack, illuminating his savior’s chiseled features. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a square-cut jaw marked the man who reached down to untie him. This was the way he spent most of his time now, bound in a box, only taken out a few times a day to eat and use the latrine.

“Only me. Everyone else is long dead.” His voice sounded raspy. His throat felt like he’d gargled sand. He’d given up talking long ago.

“Can you walk?”

He nodded and fought back a groan as the blood started circulating into his hands again.

“Excellent. My name is Lieutenant Meyer. I’ll be your rescuer today. This rescue of your person is brought to you by the United States Navy and SEAL Team 8. We hope you have a nice rescue, and please feel free to fill out the questionnaire at the end of the trip. Tips are welcome.”

Lieutenant Meyer had a strong sense of snark.

“Sorry, my CO says my sarcasm will get me killed one day. Let’s get you out of here while they’re too drunk to notice we’re leaving. And you can just call me Wolf.”

Lieutenant Wolf Meyer put a hand out and hauled him up. It was the first human contact he’d had in months that didn’t cause him to shrink back.

Twelve hours later, he was on a plane back to the States, the knowledge deep in his heart that he would never feel at home again. They could take him to the States, but he’d left his soul behind.

Moscow, Russia

Eight months ago

Alexei Markov stared at his partner, Ivan, his mind not quite processing the news.

“We leave for America tomorrow,” Ivan said. He slapped at the small table they sat at, nearly disrupting the vodka shots in front of them.

“America?” He said the word, tasting it on his tongue. It was bittersweet. Even all these years later, he could still remember his brother, Mikhail, talking about how their lives would be when they made it to America. Back then, Alexei had dreams of becoming a professional hockey player. Those dreams died when Dimitri Pushkin had his brother killed. A new dream had been born that day. A dark dream.

“Don’t you see? This means we’re moving up. If Pushkin trusts us to handle his American business, it won’t be long before we’re his right-hand men.” Ivan was grinning, though no amount of mirth could make the man look happy. Ivan looked like what he was—a stone-cold killer.

Is that what he would look like years from now, after he’d had his revenge? The longer he pursued this path, the more he questioned himself.

No. He was too close to his goal. He would not give it up because he had suddenly developed a conscience. Ivan was right. It was good that they had been selected to go to America. It meant he was one step closer to standing in a room with Pushkin and delivering his brother’s revenge.

“What are we supposed to do?” Pushkin had many business interests in the United States. He had dealings with mobsters, drug lords, politicians. All of the disgusting bottom-feeders.

Ivan snorted. “We have to pick up a painting and bring it back. We’re supposed to meet with someone in Dallas. How funny is that? We can go and be cowboys.”

Pick up a painting? That sounded far too simple. “Something sounds wrong.”

“You worry too much, Alexei. Nothing is wrong. The boss likes paintings. He’s always trying to impress people. I don’t understand it. I wouldn’t pay for a painting a child could do. Have you seen the man who puts paints on his pig’s feet? He has the pig run across the canvas and then sells it as art? Most of the pig’s work is better than the stuff the boss collects.”