Mission: Out of Control by Susan May Warren Read Free Book Online

throw her body over it—was the tiny library with the round window that overlooked the rooftops of her neighbors’ buildings. Yes, she could be accused of sitting in the darkness, watching people as they stargazed on their rooftops or sometimes serenaded the city. She often grabbed her guitar and played along.
    Her library contained her books, a white shag carpet, a chaise lounge she’d picked up at an estate sale and re-covered in lime-green, her old acoustic guitar, and a pile of lined music sheets and notebooks filled with her handwritten songs.
    Not that any of them would be sung by Vonya. Even if Ronie did bring them out into the light, they’d die under the bright glare of Tommy D’s criticism.
    Aw, she didn’t really want to be a blues singer anyway, did she?
    She’d definitely picked the wrong song to sing on Talent Night at the Harvard Business School. Wow, talk about getting in over her head.
    Ronie brought the Thai food to the white sofa, curled up on it, and flicked on the television. She avoided the entertainment and fashion channels, ignored the soaps, and finally settled on a cooking show. Bizarre foods. Could be fun to eat fried squid on a stick, right?
    The phone rang and she gave herself permission to let it go to the machine. Probably just Tommy, letting her know he’d be late.
    â€œVeronica Stanton Wagner, this is your father, and if you’re there, I expect you to pick up.”
    Ronie caught a long noodle with her chopsticks.
    â€œOkay, well, I just wanted to say…” He cleared his throat. She paused, her food halfway to her mouth. “Have a good trip.”
    Oh, see, now that was nice—
    â€œPlease try to stay out of the newspapers. And don’t drive your bodyguard mad. We’ve paid him good money to keep an eye on you.”
    Ronie sucked in a breath.
    â€œAnd your reputation.”
    He hung up.
    Ronie caught a piece of baby corn. Perfect. Just once, she’d like to hear his daddy voice instead of the senator voice, but frankly, it had been so long she probably wouldn’t recognize it.
    She stirred her food, then set it down. If only she could have figured out another way to raise money other than go crawling back to her father.
    Maybe she shouldn’t have given away quite so much of her money to charity. But she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t help—after all, she had so much to make up for.
    She clicked off the television and stared at the glittering lights of the city, fatigued to the bone.
    From inside her messenger bag next to the door, her cell phone buzzed. She put down her carton of food, got up and retrieved it.
    A new text message. From Bishop.
    Keep your promise, I’ll keep mine. Good luck.
    It came with an attachment. She opened it, her heart racing.
    Kafara. She knew him like her own handprint, despite the grainy image. He stood with three other boys about his age in a field next to a green truck. They wore dirty green pants and black shirts, their eyes dark and solemn.
    Gravel filled her throat.
    Each one of them held a black-as-night AK-47 on his hip.
    She sank to the floor, ran her finger over Kafara’s twelve-year-old face. She knew it, she just knew that when his letters stopped, when she’d heard of the raid in his village, that General Mubar had “recruited” Kafara into his private army of enforcers.
    Please, God, don’t let him have been used for minesweeping, or to murder someone.
    Her hand shook as she saved the picture to her files. Yes, she’d most definitely have to shake Brody Wickham off her trail, whatever it took.

FOUR
    â€œD erek, I don’t suppose you’d consider just picking up your smelly socks, would ya? You’re contaminating all my gear. Help a guy out?”
    Derek shot him a chest pass and Brody caught the basketball, dropped it once to the pavement, then went up into a jump shot. The ball caught the rim and shot back out like a