Catalyst: Flashpoint #2 Read online

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  “From ravaged South Sudan to opulent Morocco, Rachel Grant’s Catalyst reveals both a sophisticated thriller and a sizzling romance.” – New York Times bestselling author Toni Anderson

  When a food storage depot in famine-struck South Sudan is torched, American aid worker Brie Stewart flees, only to land in a market where she’s the next item up for auction. Is the attack on the aid facility another assault upon the war-torn fledgling democracy, or has her family set her up as a pawn in their quest for oil rights?

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  Chief Warrant Officer Sebastian Ford crossed paths with Brie years ago when she was a shill for her family’s company, pushing a pipeline that threatened his tribe’s land. Determined to lead the rescue operation to save her, he won’t let her abduction—or the attraction that flares between them—get in the way of settling their unfinished business.

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  The Green Beret’s skills are put to the test in the flooded grasslands of South Sudan, where they must battle nature and dangerous factions who are after more than oil. Bastian and Brie put their hearts on the line as they find themselves embroiled in a conflict that extends beyond country and continent. Together they must douse the spark before it reaches the flashpoint and engulfs everything they hold dear.

  Catalyst is also available in audiobook format. Visit my website to listen to a sample. While there, sign up for my VIP list and receive a free ebook.

  Catalyst

  Flashpoint #2

  Rachel Grant

  Copyright © 2017 Rachel Grant

  All rights reserved.

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  ISBN-10: 1-944571-11-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1-944571-11-5

  Cover design by Syd Gill / Syd Gill Designs

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  Copyediting by Linda Ingmanson

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  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, events, establishments, organizations, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any similarities to real organizations or individuals is purely coincidental.

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  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Contents

  Books By Rachel Grant

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books By Rachel Grant

  Flashpoint Series

  Tinderbox (#1)

  Catalyst (#2)

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  Evidence Series

  Concrete Evidence (#1)

  Body of Evidence (#2)

  Withholding Evidence (#3)

  Incriminating Evidence (#4)

  Covert Evidence (#5)

  Cold Evidence (#6)

  Poison Evidence (#7)

  Evidence Series Box Set Volume 1: Books 1-3

  Evidence Series Box Set Volume 2: Books 4-6

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  Romantic Mystery

  Grave Danger

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  Paranormal Romance

  Midnight Sun

  This one is for my mom.

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  Glenda Stallings

  1934 –2017

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  She married three husbands, birthed seven children, and helped mother an additional seven stepchildren. An English teacher before going to dental hygiene school, she also started a business, closed the business, and cleaned thousands of teeth.

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  Her mind left this world long before her body did. Alzheimer’s is cruel.

  1

  Camp Citron, Djibouti

  March

  Sebastian Ford scanned the club, his gaze landing on the woman he was searching for. He’d recognized her the moment he spotted her in Savannah James’s office. What the hell was Princess Prime doing at Camp Citron hanging out with the base spook?

  He’d questioned James, but she was her usual secretive self and refused to even confirm the woman’s name, but an internet search confirmed Bastian’s initial suspicion. Not that he’d doubted his own memory. He would never forget those pretty lips that had spewed terrible lies. Or those wide mocha eyes that feigned sympathy all while she calculated how to cheat people of their land rights.

  He felt stares as he crossed the room and wondered who in the club had been here last night when he’d stupidly triggered a fight with Pax, a member of his own A-Team. It had been a dumbass move, and he would have happily stayed away from Barely North for the rest of this deployment, but instead he’d returned to the scene of his idiocy to pick a fight with an oil company shill whose daddy was one of the richest men in the world.

  His XO was going to flip, but he wanted to know what the hell Gabriella Prime was doing in Djibouti. What atrocity did she intend to inflict on people who had even less than the tribal members on the reservation she’d attempted to screw over ten years ago?

  He dropped onto the empty barstool next to her and ordered a beer while he figured out how to open the conversation.

  The ten years that had passed since he last saw her looked good on her. She had a maturity about her that had been missing before. But then, she couldn’t be much older than he was, meaning she must’ve been all of twenty-two or twenty-three when she’d been made Vice President of Screwing Indian Tribes for Prime Energy.

  He cleared his throat to speak.

  “I’m not here to get laid,” she said before he could get a word out. “So you can save your breath.”

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Prime, I’m not interested.”

  She startled at his use of her name and studied him. She raised an eyebrow. “I think you have me mistaken for somebody else.”

  “Not at all. Gabriella Stewart Prime. Only child of Tatiana Stewart and Jeffery Prime. With two older half brothers, you’re the youngest of Prime’s three children. Your daddy is the CEO of Prime Energy, and your great-granddaddy was the founder of the company. I’m good with names and faces, and I’d never forget you.” His gaze swept her from head to toe. She was memorable, and not just because she was a Prime. She’d even done some modeling when she was really young, but that had been before she was on his radar.

  “And you are?”

&nb
sp; “Princess Prime, I’m your worst nightmare.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Fine, I’ll call you Gabriella.”

  She scanned his body with the same degree of assessment he’d just given her. She paused on his face, her brow furrowed. “Did we have sex or something a long time ago?” She bit her lip, then said with a wince, “If so, I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”

  That startled a laugh out of him. Unexpected and strangely pleasing. “Sweetheart, if we’d had sex, you’d remember it.”

  She snickered. “One would hope.” She picked up her drink and took a slow sip, completely unfazed by him. She set the glass down and smiled. “So if you aren’t here to rehash or initiate a night of passion, why are you pestering me?”

  “I want to know what you’re doing in Djibouti.”

  “I don’t believe that’s any of your business. You haven’t even told me your name.”

  “Chief Warrant Officer Sebastian Ford. Bastian to my friends.”

  “I think it’s safe to assume I’m not one of those. What do your enemies call you?”

  “Bastian the Bastard, but that’s usually behind my back.”

  “And what do they call you to your face?”

  “Asshole.”

  She smiled. “I like the straightforwardness of your enemies. Cuts right through the bullshit. But my dear granddaddy would be distressed at my using such foul language, so we’ll have to come up with something else.”

  “We wouldn’t want to have the old oil baron rolling over in his grave.”

  “Oh, not him—Grandpa Prime was a foul-mouthed sonofabitch. I was talking about Grandpa Stewart.”

  Bastian shook his head at how she was controlling this conversation. Plus, she still hadn’t answered his question. “Those who are neither friends nor enemies but who must tolerate me nonetheless call me Mr. Ford or Chief Ford. Mister is the official address for a warrant officer, but chief is acceptable.”

  “Chief Ford it is, then. Friends call me Brie. You may call me Ms. Stewart.”

  “Stewart? Not Prime?”

  She shrugged. “I legally changed my last name to my mother’s maiden name.”

  “Like Prime Petroleum changed to Prime Energy a dozen years ago? Obvious and unconvincing greenwashing.”

  “I wasn’t greenwashing, I simply no longer wished to be associated with Prime Energy, and the decision to change my last name sent a clear message to Jeffery Senior.”

  “You call your father by his first name?”

  “He insisted upon it when I worked for the company. Plus, it fit him more.” She paused, then smiled. “But mostly, I called him asshole to his face.”

  Bastian couldn’t help but laugh. She still hadn’t come close to answering his burning question, and yet he couldn’t resist a follow-up. “And your granddaddy wasn’t bothered by your language?”

  “Grandpa Stewart made an exception for Jeffery. He called my dad names that would make a sailor squirm.”

  “Why are you here at Camp Citron?” he repeated.

  “Why are you here?”

  Fair enough. He’d even get specific if it would elicit an answer from her. “I’m US Army Special Forces. My A-Team is teaching Djiboutians to be guerilla fighters.”

  “Special Forces. I’m impressed.” Her gaze swept down his body again. “I shouldn’t have been so quick to say I’m not here to get laid.” She ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass. “But then, it’s not like you’re a SEAL.”

  He snorted, irritated his body had responded to her perusal. She was a viper, even if she did amuse him.

  He wasn’t interested.

  He nodded toward a table in the middle of the room, where Lieutenant Fallon and a few other SEALs were gathered. A glance showed they—not surprisingly—were checking her out. She was pretty, in Djibouti, and likely leaving in a few days—the perfect prospect for a no-strings screw. “If you’re looking for a hookup, a few SEALs are over there.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind after I ditch you.” She took another sip, then asked, “How did you recognize me? It’s not like I flaunt who I am. It’s been years since someone recognized me.”

  He would imagine anonymity was important, given that her father was CEO of one of the world’s largest oil companies and ransom payments made up a large percentage of the economy of Somalia, which was just ten miles away.

  It was insane for her to be here, really. Her dad was a billionaire. She probably had her own millions—even billions—tucked away. Alarm registered. It would be foolish for her to be in this part of the world without a subdermal tracker. He took her hand and slid up her sleeve to study her arm, looking for a cut or bandage indicating she’d been chipped. But what he saw were track marks. Very old track marks.

  She jerked her arm back and pulled down her sleeve. “I’ve been clean for eight years,” she said, defensive. Angry.

  “I wasn’t looking for that.” Guilt trickled down his spine. He’d invaded her privacy without meaning to. “I was looking to see if you’d been chipped by Savannah James.”

  “No. It would be a waste of resources.”

  She knew exactly what he was talking about, which was telling in itself. Trackers were top-secret technology, and Savannah James wouldn’t have told Gabriella about her favorite spy gadget if she didn’t think it was warranted, which meant Gabriella had refused the chip.

  “How so?” he asked. “You’re a prime target.” The pun wasn’t intended. He grimaced and let it stand without comment.

  “One, because I’ve been in South Sudan for over six months and there hasn’t been an issue because no one there knows who my dad is—changing my name to Stewart had multiple benefits. Two, I’ll be there for at least another six months, which is far past the tracker’s expiration date, and I can’t fly back to Camp Citron every two months to get a new tracker. Three, there aren’t any cell towers where I am, rendering a tracker useless. And lastly, there is no way in hell Jeffery would pay any sort of ransom for me, so why bother?”

  Bastian’s brain froze the moment she said “South Sudan.” Princess Prime was hanging out in South Sudan? What kind of con was she pulling here? There was no reason for an oil baron’s daughter to be in the war-torn country unless her plan was to steal their oil.

  Brie grimaced as she confessed to a total stranger that her dad didn’t give a crap about her. But hell, he’d just seen the scars that were her greatest shame, so it wasn’t like she could go any lower in his estimation. She picked up her soda and sipped from the straw until it made a loud slurping noise, then caught the bartender’s eye and ordered another ginger ale.

  She’d changed. She’d pulled herself back from the brink. Chief Bastard could judge her all he wanted, but she knew who she was now, and she was proud of herself. Lord knew she had to take pride in her accomplishments, because no one in her family had kind words for her.

  “What the hell are you doing in South Sudan?” Chief Bastard asked, his voice angrier now than it had been earlier. Where did his anger come from?

  Maybe she really had slept with him back when she’d been using. He could have denied it simply because she didn’t remember him. The male ego was more fragile than a soap bubble.

  But damn, it was a shame if she didn’t remember that body. Or that face. Eyes so dark they were almost black, slightly hooded, indicating Asian or Native American heritage. Given his other features, she’d bet Native American. She studied his mouth. His lips looked just right for kissing and other pleasures.

  Seated as he was, she couldn’t be certain of his height, but guessed he was an inch or two shy of six feet. His build was perfectly proportioned, muscular, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He wore a T-shirt that hugged his pecs, and she’d be sure to check out his ass in those jeans when he walked away.

  He was the Goldilocks of men. Just right. Or was he Baby Bear? It was Baby Bear’s things that were just right. Goldilocks was the entitled white thief. But then, h
e probably wouldn’t appreciate being called Baby Bear anymore than he’d like Goldilocks.

  “What are you hiding, Princess Prime?”

  The hated nickname pulled her out of her whimsy and rooted her firmly in the here and now, facing down a badass Special Forces operator who didn’t like her very much. And it was entirely probable she’d earned his animosity in her Princess Prime days.

  “I said don’t call me that, Chief Bastard.” The bartender set a fresh ginger ale in front of her, and she took a sip. “I’m not hiding anything. I work for the US Agency for International Development, better known as USAID. I’m an aid worker. I’ve been helping South Sudanese people who’ve returned to their villages after being displaced by the civil war prepare for the rainy season, which, by all accounts, is going to suck elephant dicks this year.”

  She dreaded the coming rainy season. She’d thought the last six months had been tough? That was nothing compared to what was around the corner.