High Stakes (26 page)

Becca nodded. “Okay. I’m just worried.”

Rachel couldn’t say there was nothing to worry about, because there was, of course. After they got on their way, she wondered if Dylan would worry about her, too.

Syria REPORT #1

Two days after they landed in Syria, Rachel, Crane and Tommy Parks, her favorite photographer, arrived at the city where they were to film a segment on the children of Syria. Their contact/guide/interpreter said this area had been advanced upon by the government forces and many of the rebels had left. The visit would give them a feel for the country, and they might be a bit safer.

Rachel felt as if she’d walked into a combat zone, not the small, middle-class village sprawled out around her. Off to the side, two kids ravaged through garbage left from the last bombing. Buildings had crumbled, and signs of attack were everywhere.

A small dark-haired girl, with owl eyes, approached them. “Hello, there,” Rachel said, smiling at the child.

Waiting for the translation, the girl returned her smile. “Hello. I’m Rhoula. You’re pretty.”

“Why thank you, Rhoula.” Rachel pointed to Rhoula’s hands. In some ways, the girl could be an ordinary kid anywhere. “I like your blue nail polish.”

The girl giggled and picked up a stuffed animal. There were patches on its stomach, indicating it had once been a pretty, light blue. Now the toy’s fur was parched brown, and it was missing an eye. “My brother found Benjie.” She pointed to the rubble off to the side.

The camera panned the house next door. The building had no roof, and one of the walls had been blown off. A rocket literally was wedged in the remaining concrete.

“Do you know what happened there?” Rachel asked.

“Papa said missiles came from men who don’t want us here.”

Rachel faced the rolling camera. “More than three hundred thousand have fled the fighting here in Syria, but the Free Syrian Army remains. Rhoula’s father is a leader of the rebels, and his wife and kids stayed in town with him.”

Shots rang out in the distance. A previously filmed segment would show military headquarters, close to here. Later, Tommy would get a picture of Rhoula’s father, who worked there.

“Those are rockets,” the girl stated matter-of-factly. “Papa pretends they’re fireworks, but I know the difference.”

At only nine years old, Rhoula knew the difference. That said it all.

Dylan walked into Clive Mason’s office, which overlooked Madison Avenue, not far from Franklin House. His appointment was at ten, and he was shown right into an office much like Carolyn Jermaine’s. Clive sat behind a similar oak desk, in a corner office, backdropped by the city. He was on the phone. For a minute, Dylan got a clutch in his chest at the notion of what he was giving up. The feeling joined the abyss of loss that had been his constant companion for weeks.

“Great.” Clive motioned Dylan to sit down. “I’ll get right on it.” Disconnecting, Clive leaned across the desk and shook his hand. “I hope you have an answer for me.”

“I do. I’m sorry it took so long.” Dylan dropped down onto a chair. “But the answer is no. I don’t want the book deal with Franklin House.”

Clive’s face blanked. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not. I can’t compromise my principles. KPRAY isn’t my cup of tea, but it isn’t corrupt, either. After scrutiny, I’ve found that the organization doesn’t coerce anyone. And Rachel Scott isn’t the stone-cold bitch they want me to portray her as.”

“None of that matters, Dylan. You know how to fudge the truth. Pick and choose details. Get the tenor you want. This is your chance to break into mainstream publishing.”His gaze turned hard. “Rachel Scott have something to do with this?”

Dylan cocked his head. “Why would you say that?”

“She got an exclusive from the O’Neil family a few weeks ago.”

“I didn’t give it to her.”

“No?”

When Dylan said no more, Clive sat forward in his seat. “Do you want to be a writer, Dylan?”

The comment raised his hackles. “I am a writer, Clive. And I’m proud of what I do.”

“On a small scale.”

“I’d do it on a bigger scale if I could but not by printing something I don’t believe.”

“That’s naïve.”

“It is what it is.”

The agent steepled his hands. “You know what this means.”

“Yes. You won’t represent me.”

“I got you a six-figure deal, and you turned it down. What more could you expect me to do?”

“Represent me honestly.”

“There’s honesty and there’s honesty.”

That made this a little easier. “You knew I wouldn’t capitalize on Bailey’s fame. Yet you proposed this to Jermaine, anyway.”

“Ah, but you did capitalize on your sister.”

“I told you I had nothing to do with the stories Rachel Scott ran.”

“If you say so.” Again, he watched Dylan. “I can’t do any more for you if you won’t take my advice. Personally, I’m flabbergasted at your rejection.”

“I can understand that.” He stood. “Thank you, Clive. For all you tried to do for me. I’ll send a certified letter dissolving our agreement.”

“Sure. Good luck, Dylan.”

This time Clive didn’t offer his hand.

As Dylan left, more loss swamped him.

Syria Report #2

Rachel sat in the back of a jeep with a bandana over her mouth and a covering for her head and face. Deep within Syria, the vehicle made its way on the dirt roads from a rebel headquarters to an outlying section of the city.

When the jeep stopped, Rachel faced the camera to give some background; the wind tugged at her head covering and she could feel grains in her eyes. “Fighters known as the Free Syrian Army, the same group Rhoula’s father belongs to, are taking us to a city where an extremist jihadist group is based. Jihad is an Islamic term for the religious duty of all Muslims. It means
struggle in the way of Allah.
There are two common interpretations of this struggle: either internal struggle by a believer to fulfill his religious duties or an external struggle, which often results in violence. Here in Syria, the latter is more common and is often associated with terrorism.”

They continued on until she spotted a dark, foreboding flag flying over a low roof, the signal that they’d reached their destination.

“Try to get the background, Tommy,” Crane said to the cameraman.

Bypassing outer buildings, they neared a square. Rachel saw several stucco structures up ahead with rows of white, plastic chairs in front of them. Yelling could be heard in the background. When they stopped, the camera kept rolling. “This is the meeting place of ISIS, which stands for the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, behind me. You’ll see several villagers among the group.”

“Let’s go,” the man from the Free Army said. “We’ll blend in with the crowd and get closer.” He turned to Tommy. “Do you have something smaller?”

Setting the large camera aside, Tommy took out one the size of a phone. As they got closer, the interpreter said, “We are witnessing ISIS pledging allegiance to jihad.”

Sounds of shouting emitted from two burly men with the three recruits. They raised their arms, fists pumping, while the crowd cheered. Rachel looked around and once again spotted children; this time, they watched the ceremony with awe. The scene was indoctrination in the flesh. After about twenty minutes, one child glanced back at them.

The guide whispered, “We must leave. They have seen us.”

They walked out of the rally and returned to their jeep. On the ride back to headquarters, Rachael pieced together all she’d seen so far in Syria and wondered how this region would ever achieve peace.

After watching
The Rachel Scott Show
, Bailey went to her computer and called Dylan through Skype. He answered right away.

His face fell. “Oh, hi, Bay.”

“Expecting someone else?”

Swallowing hard, he sat down and stared at her with bleak eyes. “I was hoping it might be Rachel.”

“I saw the show. Looks like she’s got herself an interesting assignment.”

“What
is
it with women like her,
you
, Sophie and C.J. that you need such dangerous jobs?”

Bailey held her temper. She knew her brother was hurting. “Guess it’s the same thing as Mitch, Nate, Sophie’s army brother, Clay even. The danger of the job is secondary to the good we do.”

“What good is she doing over there?” he snapped.

“Alerting the world to the horrors of war. Maybe if we see the reality of it more, we’ll stop the craziness.”

He calmed, visibly. “Maybe.”

“I thought you were through with her.” Her tone wasn’t challenging. All she wanted was to help her brother.

“I thought I was, too.”

“And now?”

“I’ve been thinking about her nonstop. Rachel was right to get mad about the column. Maybe even to threaten to use the private stuff when she thought I was doing the same to her. I’ve done some bad things in the relationship, but shit, Bay, I’m in love with her and she’s dodging bombs.”

“Dyl, listen to me. Other than Pat, we’re all in what was, at first, an initially doomed relationship that had no business working out.”

“I guess.” His gaze narrowed. “Why are you being so nice about her? You told her to leave me alone when you gave her the stories.”

Uh-oh. “I, um, still believe in the ultimatum.”

“Do you? Or did you just do that to make her fight for me?”

“Me?” she asked. “Of course not. I always say what I mean.”

“Sure you do.”

They chatted for a bit longer, then disconnected. Bailey had just gotten up from the desk when Clay came in from a long day at work. She crossed to him and gave him a hug while he was still in the doorway. His agents looked the other way, and Clay said, “Hmm.” Then he asked his guards to leave them alone and they took seats on the couch in the library after he closed the doors.

“Hard day?”

“God, this Syria thing’s a mess. What do they expect us to do? Start another foreign war?”

“It’s pretty bad over there. I saw reports from Scott.”

“As much as I hate to say it, she’s doing a good job. Who would have thought?”

“I still don’t like her. But Dylan’s in deep, Clay. He’s worried about her.”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “I know the feeling, love.”

Reaching out, she grabbed his hand and linked her fingers with his. “You did okay with my job.”

“Yeah? I remember months of agony.”

Bailey asked, “How did your meeting with Mark go?”

“Well. He has some good advice about Syria.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“Hmm.”

“What else, Clay? Tell me.”

“He’s not coming back to finish his term. That’s why I’m so late.”

Her worst fear, for a lot of reasons. “Has his condition worsened?”

“No, he’s making good progress. But he doesn’t want the stress of the job, and the doctors said he had to slow down. You can imagine how Michelle feels. He decided last night.”

“Wow.” She held his gaze, the hazel-eyed one she’d come to love more than her own. “We have decisions to make.”

“He told me he wouldn’t resign if I weren’t in the seat to replace him. He just assumed I want to be president.”

“Do you, Clay?”

“In some ways. But I hate that I don’t get to see the kids or you hardly at all.” Lifting their joined hands, he kissed her knuckles. “Bay, this could mean ten years in the White House. That’s a lot of our lives.”

“The kids would grow up there.”

“I know. I asked Mark to wait to make the announcement.”

Do the right thing. Do the right thing. Do the right thing.
“I’ll do whatever you want, Clay. Willingly.”

“I love you so much,” he said.

“I love you.”

Suddenly, he pushed her back onto the couch. “What the hell? There are agents crawling all over the house.”

“I don’t care.” He covered her mouth with his. “I locked the library doors, anyway.”

“Still, what if—”

Those were the last words she got out.

Syria REPORT #3

They’d gotten a tip that a rebel group was storming a government compound in the northeast corner of a major city around three a.m. Rachel and her crew had headed out late in the night. They took cover about twenty yards away from the structure, where a few people darted in and out from behind buildings. Did they know about the attack? How did citizens live this way?

“Ready?” Tommy asked.

“Yes.” She positioned herself in range of the building and licked her lips, which were cracked and parched. It was hotter than hell, and sweat dripped from the camouflage shirt and green pants she wore, along with thick boots.

The camera rolled. “Behind us is The Interior Ministry Building, the site of many of the conflicts between the government and the insurgents. Throughout this year alone, the structure was bombed four times.”

An explosion ripped through the air. A flash lit up the area. There was a boom, then the earth shook. Rachel turned to see the gates surrounding the government building were on fire. Her heart thrummed in her chest. She managed to turn back to the cameraman, but at first, she couldn’t speak, she was so scared. Smoke began to filter out to them, making her cough.

Gathering her wits, she looked into the lens. “As you can see behind me, the gate surrounding the area has been bombed. A gaping hole of about ten feet is allowing the rebels access to the compound.”

The streets filled with…rebels who rushed into the now-accessible area. A big man bumped into her hard, and she lost her footing. Crane leaped toward her and kept her from falling.

“Sorry about that,” she said into the camera again and, seeing the wrap-up gesture from Crane, she added, “Rebels are now attacking and citizens are taking cover. We’ll be moving from here and will be back—”

Another explosion rent the air.

Everything went black.

The night after he talked to Bailey, Dylan sat in the backroom of the pub, before the television. Business was slow, and he’d come here when he’d lost the battle with himself over watching the program—again. He hadn’t been able to stay away from the other broadcasts. The piece with the Syrian kids was endearing, the rally had been riveting, but all the while, Dylan had been dying inside.