Free Mission: Out of Control by Susan May Warren Page B

it.
    Transmit to Bishop and he’d do the rest.
    See, nothing to get ruffled about, Brody.
    And she didn’t know why he had to get so uptight about her attire. She saw less clothing on the women here than on some remote islands in Indonesia. One woman walked by in what looked like two napkins and a placemat. Another wore a leopard-print scarf wound round and round her skinny frame.
    She raised her glass to a Vonya look-alike—white wig, policeman’s hat. Although she would never wear those strips of leather that doubled as a dress. Sorry, but she liked more material than that. Even her wings came with a blue, full-bodied leotard under it.
    With everything inside her, she longed to be back in her suite, playing Mario with Lyle or reading the end of Pride and Prejudice . Or even watching Leah blog about their day on VonWatch.
    Or enjoying a pizza with—
    Stop. He wasn’t her friend. Even if he thought he was.
    There. Standing on the balcony, chatting up a shapelyblond. Damu Mubar had no problem making it as a tabloid favorite thanks to his creamy dark skin, the charisma of his smile, the gym-honed frame and the millions of dollars he wore in his silk suits, his Italian shoes, the diamonds on his fingers.
    The only son of General Mubar, Damu had reached out to Vonya during her first tour to Zimbala three years ago, when he graciously offered to be her tour guide and then led her expertly away from his father’s child-soldier training camps and his more vocal dissenters. She’d picked up more quickly than the rest of the world that Mubar’s “rescue” of the oppressed just meant turning his guns on those who opposed him.
    But for Bishop’s and Kafara’s sakes, she’d kept her mouth shut.
    She slipped out onto the balcony. “Damu, you aren’t boring this poor girl with your car collection, are you?” She looked at the blonde, who couldn’t have been a day over eighteen, and winked.
    Damu turned, a smile already shining as he held out his arms. Vonya slipped into his embrace. “My friend, Vonya. I’m so glad you came. And looking…yourself, as usual.” He kissed her cheek, his chuckle low.
    The blonde gave her a pout and headed back inside.
    â€œI’ve missed you, Damu.”
    â€œI knew you couldn’t stay away from me.”
    â€œI hope you saved me a dance.” She ran her finger around her champagne glass. Yes, she’d felt his cell phone, a small rectangle in his jacket pocket, right side. Bingo.
    He took her champagne, set it on the tray and took her hand.
    A wooden dance floor had been set up in the center of the room, where she saw all manner of gyrations that passed for dancing. She took the floor, thankful for the dark lights and for the lessons Bishop had taught her in lifting a man’s wallet—or in this case, cell phone. She danced around him, measuring the music, letting her hands find his arms, his waist, and then snake into his pocket to lift it out.
    She palmed it into the sleeve of her dress, keeping her hands lifted, then twining them around him and pressing a kiss to the well of his sweaty neck. Ew. But she’d do it for Kafara. For freedom.
    For the information locked in Damu’s cell phone.
    â€œI’ll be back,” she said, and swayed a little, just for effect. Damu patted her backside as she twirled off the dance floor.
    She sneaked into a bathroom off one of the bedroom suites, the pulse of the night slipping under the door, banging against the tiles. Or maybe it was her heartbeat. She’d done it. She shook the phone from her sleeve.
    Oh, no. Not a phone—a microcomputer. She turned it on and a password prompt filled the screen.
    No. She needed the phone. With the V-chip. Only the phone had the contact information of the man Damu planned to slip diamonds to on their final leg of the journey to America—diamonds that Damu had smuggled out of Zimbala. Agent Bishop and his team