by Louise Dawn
“I want my merchandise.”
“You’ll get it.”
“Tell Alexei if I don’t get it tonight, I’ll be mailing pieces of him to his pretty wife.”
The Russian mob operated openly in South Africa; it had been that way for over two decades. Hearing them loudly going about their business demonstrated the Wild West mentality that was the embodiment of Johannesburg.
Max forcibly blocked out the felonious conversation and focused his attention back on the four thugs now crossing the street. Johnny casually repositioned himself, preparing for potential hostility. Anton straightened. Max felt for his piece. Instead, Anton nodded at the gang leader and ushered Max and Johnny towards the nearest alley. The gangsters followed from behind, watching their backs. Max released a breath. Gee, thanks for the heads-up.
“Friends of yours?” Max asked under his breath.
Anton smiled. “Something like that.”
“You slick bastard. What did the kid say?”
Anton led them to an old apartment block probably built in the 1920s. The once beautiful facade was crumbling, and the alley stank of piss and rotting waste. Three steps led up to a side door.
“He gave me the all clear.” Anton punched in a code, and the door swung open. His four “friends” casually took positions facing the street. Johnny and Max followed Anton into a dark passage. Seventies wallpaper peeled off the walls, and the carpeted stairs were caked in filth. The term slum lord palace came to mind. Hitting a second metal door, they emerged into an antiquated lobby encased in cheap wooden furnishings and old metal turnstiles. A fucking huge gatekeeper guarded the elevators. Armed to the hilt, he could barely stand upright with all that freaking hardware. Beady eyes challenged them to make a move.
Johnny sniggered, and Anton elbowed him. “Jackson, my good man.”
A deep growl emerged. “Fuck you, Vorster. What do you want?”
Anton spoke out the side of his mouth. “I kicked his ass in the ring last week, guess he’s still a little sensitive.”
Stepping up to the goliath, Anton parried and punched. “Gotta move fast, my big friend, otherwise, you’ll lose out on the moola!”
“Screw you, I’ll rip your white-boy head off if you keep that up.”
Jackson suddenly grinned, and his surly demeanor evaporated. He grabbed Anton’s shirt and attempted a headlock maneuver. Anton countered the move, jabbing and dancing to the side.
“I’d love to kick your ass all day, but Mandla is expecting us.”
“Whatever, asshole. Get your skinny ass up there before I snot slap you.”
He nodded at Max as they wound their way through a turnstile and boarded the oldest elevator in Africa. Once the doors finally slid shut, it shuddered upwards. Cables groaned and Johnny gripped the handrail.
“He’s Mandla Nkosi’s security detail? Seriously.”
Anton shot Max a sideways look. “Jackson and Mandla grew up together. They’re from the same tribe. Mandla saved his friend from drowning when they were kids. So, Jackson has it in his head that he needs to return the favor.” Anton chuckled. “Jackson appointed himself as Mandla’s bodyguard, and Mandla just accommodates his wishes. It’s easier that way. But to answer your question, nope. Mandla has a separate detail.”
The elevator convulsed once before stopping. The doors creaked open, and Anton wasn’t kidding. Five men moved towards them as two others hung back. They moved with practiced ease, indicating excellent training. All their handguns were at the ready. The room was staggeringly elegant, nothing like the slum conditions below. The muted walls and comfortable furniture scattered throughout the foyer complemented the fresh aroma of lemon and rosemary.
The lead guard stepped forward. “Vorster.”
“Jones.” Anton nodded. “We have an appointment.”
“I know. We’ll need to frisk your new colleagues. Weapons?”
“Yes.”
“Hand them over.”
Johnny smiled dangerously. “Not gonna happen, bro.”
Jones glared at Johnny, and Max reinforced his buddy’s statement.
“We don’t know you. No offense but if the shit hits the mercenary fan…”
That pissed Jones off. “We are not mercenaries. Vorster, talk to your Yankee friends.”
“Mate, you know I never give up my piece. Check with your boss.”
One of the men tapped his earpiece and rattled something off in Zulu as a standoff ensued, all Stonehenge-like.
“Stand down, boys.” Mandla Nkosi stepped around his security team and grasped Anton’s hand warmly. The man had an immediate presence.
“Comrade. It’s good to see you again.”
“Hey, brother,” Anton replied.
Dressed casually in black slacks and a crisp white shirt, Mandla exuded confidence. The white shirt contrasted with his ebony skin. His lean form radiated strength. As Max shook Mandla’s hand, polished and refined were words that came to mind, but both meant shit in this world. Mandla would be a useful asset or thorn in his side. If Mandla got between him and Khalid, he was as good as dead.
“Keep your weapons, Anton has vouched for you, but my men will still perform a search.”
They checked clothing and shoes—both physically and with scanners—looking for listening devices. After a thorough pat down, the men pulled on their boots.
“Please, gentlemen, follow me.” Mandla walked ahead with Anton, leaving Max and Johnny to file in behind.
His airy office was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the Johannesburg skyline was impressive. Max walked over and tapped on the glass—bulletproof, which didn’t surprise him.
“Mr. Andersen, please take a seat.” Mandla stood behind an oak desk, gesturing to the luxurious leather chairs in front of him.
“I gather this room was swept.” Max referred to listening devices.
“Twice a day and no one enters without being thoroughly vetted. We also have surveillance-blocking technology throughout the building.”
Max nodded once. He eyed the security team as he took a seat. Johnny remained standing. Silence descended as the two seated men weighed each other up. With a soft knock on the door, a petite woman bustled in carrying a tray of refreshments. Biscuits and tea. How very British.
“Help yourselves.” Nkosi waved his teacup. Max poured a cup and selected a small biscuit as a gesture of politeness.
“Nkosi—”
“Please. Call me Mandla. I hate formalities.” Mandla ignored Max’s raised eyebrow. “I’ve heard good things about MIT. Rumors are, thanks to MIT2’s loyal work, there are six notorious Isis leaders behind bars.”
Max kept his expression neutral as Mandla continued. “I’m sure you’ve reviewed my file. But you don’t know me, and I don’t know you. We have little time to establish trust. I need to reassure you however that I work closely with the STF.”
The STF was an elite police tactical unit of the South African Police Service. It consisted of ninety operators based in all major South African cities. Their tasks included resolving hostage situations and combating urban and rural terror.
“Colonel Andre De Beer, who heads up the Johannesburg division, will be here shortly.”
That made the partnership easier, but Max would still need to negotiate their stay.
Nkosi narrowed his eyes. “You’re a quiet one. You’re analyzing me—picking me apart—when it’s me that should be putting you and your team under my microscope. You could possibly incur violence in my country and, if my information is accurate, you’re expressing an interest in one of my citizens, along with gathering intel on an extremist gunrunner. Khalid Al Juhani.”
Impressive work, Max thought. The man seated before him had an even broader network than Max first calculated. No mention however of Khalid’s suicide bomber recruitment network. Classified information too high up the US covert ladder.
“What makes you think that we’re watching a South African target?”
“I’m not a f
ool. Evans’s name came up as a person of interest.”
Max stiffened. “By whom? No one except MIT knows she’s here and it took all our resources to find her.”
Mandla leaned back. “You forget that I worked for the British Government. Evans got one of our agents killed.”
A frisson of anger ran through Max. Fucking MI6 was sticking their nose in where it didn’t belong. “Tell your English friends to back the fuck off. If they screw with this operation and any of my MIT2 members get hurt, I’m coming for your Limey friends with my entire arsenal of weapons, tied up in a gift of bullshit red tape and a decade worth of paperwork. Their shot-up asses will be bandaged to a desk for the next decade. Do I make myself clear?”
Nkosi’s brows drew together. “If you’re targeting a South African citizen, especially one involved in the killing of a British spy, I’ll need to know if she’s a viable threat.”
“We’re figuring that out. Don’t forget that Evans has dual citizenship, she’s American born,” Max replied.
Nkosi tapped his fingers together, his smile calculating and his gaze direct. “I’m only one man. I use my limited time on this planet to protect my beloved country against both foreign and domestic threats and will happily die for that cause. I don’t care for anyone else higher up in the food chain. My vision for South Africa is all that matters. Is the government failing in many aspects? Definitely. For sure. Does that mean that every government official is corrupt or not doing their job? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Should I step back from my role in the country’s future, a role that ensures that my rainbow nation is safe and that there is equal opportunity for all? I’ll never do that.”
The passion and love for South Africa shone in the man’s eyes. Judging from his past work history, Mandla didn’t seem like the double-crossing type. Patterns were a good indicator. Relying on patterns of behavior did not mean that people never stepped out of their role or acted out of character, but that was the exception and not the norm.
“You’ve worked with two of our teams in the past,” Max said.
Mandla nodded. “I have. MIT1 and MIT4.”
“Are you still willing to help the United States wherever possible?”
“Rivers of blood will not be allowed to flow freely through my country, and a trickle of blood has begun. Hijackers, thieves, and murderers are killing our South African people. I will help to staunch the flow. I will fight to make my country safe and whole.” Mandla paused to sip his tea. “Do you remember the 2010 FIFA Soccer World Cup, held in South Africa some years ago?”
“Vaguely. I’m not a soccer fan. American football is more my thing,” Max said.
“Now that’s a black mark against you.” Mandla chuckled as Max smiled. “Anyway, that was the first time that I worked closely with a US covert team. We stopped an imminent threat to the games, catching a four-man squad holed up in a beach house in Durban. Caught the bastards red-handed with suicide vests lined up on the living room floor. That was when I knew that I was making a difference helping to prevent the mass murder of hundreds of South Africans. My life path took a different turn.”
With no red flags flapping in the wind, a solid alliance seemed likely. Mandla Nkosi would be a useful partner in the war against the Sandpiper.
Max asked a question which had been on his mind. “Have you had an increase in terrorist threats of late? I know there are regular bomb threats here, but most have turned out to be bogus.”
“South Africa hasn’t had a major terrorist incident. But that does not mean that it won’t happen. There are too many unknowns, the threat level is rising rapidly. The Southern region is a cauldron of corruption, violence, and beauty.”
Max agreed. Too many countries ignored growing indoctrination within their borders and only realized the extent of the problem after the wake of their first terror attacks. Better to be proactive before extremists established strongholds. The challenge was identifying sleepers hidden among good citizens. Mandla’s incredible network was formidable in nipping extremist cells in the bud.
Max placed his cup down. “Working together requires a certain level of transparency. I’ll bring you up to speed on what MIT2 has on Khalid, if you promise to watch our backs and feed us any intel that comes your way.”
“I’ll do one better, any resources that you require are yours. Between the STF and my team, you have reliable operatives as backup and access to our resources. Understand that if your team screws this up, I’ll deal with Khalid and you won’t like my methods. If Khalid Al Juhani steps onto my soil, he won’t be stepping off.”
There was a knock on the door. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. Colonel De Beer is here to see you.”
“Show him in.”
The colonel was well trained and competent. A seasoned soldier who, after talking with Max at length, offered his assistance willingly.
Mandla folded his hands. “Now that the dick-measuring contest is over, let’s get on with this. Anton and Johnny, please have a seat. Max, brief us on what you have so far.”
An hour later, after the five men had run over the operation, Mandla led them one floor up and showed them around his facilities. To say it was impressive was an understatement. There was a detention center, interrogation rooms, a well-stocked armory and an analysis room. Bigger sharks backed this baby, Max thought. The equipment looked spook stamped; there was no doubt that the CIA had their hands in this African pot. He didn’t give a fuck who Big Daddy was, as long as his team stayed safe and uncompromised.
Chapter Seven
It was a casual date, and casual was the keyword. Abby messaged Max, telling him that she only had time to grab a quick bite. Grocery shopping was on her list for the day, aside from the design work needing her attention.
Abby refused to do the candles and roses thing with Max or any other man for that matter. Casual was her new favorite word. Casual dates, casual necking on the sofa, casual sex, especially when it came to a man as intense as Max. Hell, one more glance from those laser eyes and she’d climb all over that rock-hard body.
Casual dating had never been Abby’s thing, and that was why she was staring at the third outfit she’d tried on in the space of five minutes. Her new neon-orange-and-white Nike sneakers were paired with dark blue jeans and a white Taylor Swift 1989 T-Shirt. The soft, worn T-shirt was one of her favorites, her lacy white bra subtly peeked through the thin white material, giving a hint of girl-next-door naughtiness.
“It’ll do,” Abby muttered as she threw a lipstick and deodorant into a worn leather bag.
The ring tone from the front gate indicated that Max had arrived. Abby gave security the green light and jogged through to the front sitting room to grab her keys. Stop acting like a freak. You can do this. You’re casual Abby. Just chilling and hanging loose.
By the time Max opened the front gate, Abby felt more in control, until she saw him in a navy-blue Henley shirt matched with blue jeans. He wore the jeans well. The sweatshirt, molding his hard chest in all the right places. Abby swallowed. Holy crumpets. She could thoroughly watch him walk to her gate and back over and damn over. And then she spotted the small bouquet of wildflowers held so carefully in those capable hands. That kicked the casual vibe to the curb. Damn.
“Hey, Abs. Are you okay?”
Abs. He called her Abs. Nope. She was not okay. Just a puddle of pudding melting all over her sitting room floor.
“Hi.”
“I know they’re not much compared to the flowers in your garden, but I thought of you when I saw them.” He thrust the bouquet forward.
Oh no, you don’t, mister. It’s not going down like this. Just two people, hanging out, grabbing some grub, even if one of them looked like he’d been sculpted from quartz.
She hadn’t said anything and Max stared at her oddly. Abby lunged for the flowers, muttering her thanks while racing for the kitchen and flinging them into a vase in record time. Max stood awkwardly in the other room, and Abby took three calming breaths before rejoining him.
“Ready to go?” she asked.
“You look pretty.”
“Thanks. Just doing my normal day-thing, you know how it goes. Chores, errands, chores…” She sounded like a chump, Max still offered her a smile as he led her to his car.
◊ ◊ ◊
She was adorable and clearly nervous. He kept reminding himself that this was a job and not a first date. Never a first date with a woman like her. One who might be planning on eradicating innocents with the blink of an eye. There was no doubt that Abby was hiding something and there was no denying that she was a person of interest on the militant network, but his gut said that this was more complicated than simply uncovering a sleeper. The more he investigated her, the more complicated she became. The puzzle pieces were getting jammed up. Were they wasting time? No, Abby was involved with Khalid Al Juhani; it was just a question of how.
As Max drove the new rental they’d acquired, he deliberately stretched out his free hand and ran a thumb over her ear before playing with her shirt sleeve, running his fingers along the fabric and brushing the top of her arm with the back of his hand. “I can see you as a Taylor Swift fan. That shirt looks damn good on you.” Max ran his hand down her side before returning it to the wheel. “Abs, where are we heading? Edengate Mall?”
“I do my weekly shop there, so we might as well get lunch at the same time.”
“I know a great place just a block away. It’s a little cozy, and the service is good,” Max suggested.
“Cozy?” she asked.
“Yeah. Cozy. Quaint tables, set out in a small courtyard.”
“Quaint?” Abby quipped.
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“No.” She smiled. “It’s just that, well, I didn’t expect the word ‘quaint’ coming out of your mouth.”