by Nikki Logan
Musai shifted her carefully behind him, a small but determined human barrier. Simon’s lips thinned. He ignored the shotgun trained shakily on his chest.
“We are the escort the British embassy advised you about,” Simon said carefully, succinctly. “You were expecting us.”
Mitch looked at her, obviously baffled, then back to Simon. His shotgun made him their spokesman. “Not exactly like this but, yes, we were expecting guards.”
Clare’s mind raced. “He’s not with the embassy,” she told Mitch, hating the involuntary wobble in her voice. “He’s one of them. One of the men who hijacked the dogs last year.”
And me.
Mitch didn’t take his eyes—or his aim—off Simon. Tim stiffened to his full height and stepped closer, wielding the shovel like a broadsword.
“You’re certain?” Tim asked.
Was he freaking kidding? “Yes.”
Simon slowly moved his hands out in front of him in a conciliatory gesture, speaking loudly to everyone in the clearing.
“My name is Simon deVries and this is my partner, Caitlin McKenzie. We are field operatives for MI6, Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, and are here at the request of our embassy to ensure your activities don’t encounter any further difficulties.”
His words struck Claire like a bullet. “Liar!”
His jaw worked at her accusation, but he calmly continued, “Last year, I spent several months undercover in a criminal cell, the same one that intercepted WildLyfe’s convoy near Monze and hijacked the animals. We also captured Ms. Delaney, who is, understandably, looking more than a little nervous right now.”
Outrage flared live and burning in her gut.
All eyes turned her way. She was now flanked on three sides by Musai, Tim, and Mitch. Behind her was a clear path into the bush. She took a steadying breath, ready to flee.
“I was under strict orders by British Intelligence. My mission was to monitor the group, report back on their actions, gather evidence on the suspects and impede their progress.”
The words buzzed in Clare’s muddled brain, trying to penetrate.
“I tell you this because, right now, Ms. Delaney looks frightened enough to bolt off into the bush permanently and I want to set the record straight before anyone does anything stupid.”
He glanced pointedly at Clare as he plucked a cluster of leaves from a tear in his expensive suit.
“I want to be very clear. We are here as representatives of the British government and we mean nobody any harm. Quite the opposite.” He spoke slowly enough that the hired hands with their zero English could have understood his tone, at least. “McKenzie will stand down now as a show of faith.”
His partner made no move to disarm. Simon looked at her hard. “Mac.”
Reluctantly, and on a crude curse, she lowered her weapon. Mitch slowly lowered the shotgun.
Simon leveled a look at Tim, who still wielded his ridiculous shovel. He planted it in the earth.
“McKenzie and I will go back to our vehicle while you assess the situation. However, when we return, we expect to be able to discuss this calmly with the leaders of this project.”
He tossed Clare one last glance before he and his partner headed back toward camp. Mitch and Tim both turned to her. She stood there, silently shaking inside and out.
“Are you okay?” Tim scrutinized her face.
“Did he say British government?” Mitch asked at the same time.
Clare couldn’t think with voices coming at her at once. With her whole world bucking.
Musai was the only one not staring at her, demanding answers. His steely gaze was riveted to where Simon and his partner had disappeared into the trees. Strangely, that was more comforting than any of the hands now patting her back or rubbing her goose-pimpled arms.
Undercover? Government?
She struggled to focus her spinning thoughts.
Deep down, it made more sense that Simon was a good guy pretending to be bad, rather than a bad guy pretending to be good. The embassy must have done checks… And he did look so at home in his government suit and dark SUV.
Mind you, she’d thought the same about his dirty T-shirt and boots in the farmhouse.
“Clare, is it true? He was really one of them?”
“Yes, Mitch. He—” her voice still shook “—he was the only decent man among them.”
Now she knew why. No wonder he’d tried so hard to keep her safe. She’d stumbled right into the middle of his undercover operation—God, even thinking the term seemed bizarre—and most likely almost ran it off the rails. She suddenly recalled the many things he’d said and done that pointed to him being more than he seemed.
She hadn’t had a clue. Hadn’t even once suspected.
“And he didn’t tell you?” Tim wondered incredulously.
It was a good question. Why hadn’t he? It would have made such a difference to know she had an ally in the house. A highly trained Secret Intelligence officer. A tiny voice challenged that, on some level, she’d recognized the difference in him all along. Virtually from the start.
“Well, this is one hell of a way to let her know. Nothing like a bit of advance warning!” Mitch’s outburst on her behalf warmed her, finally coaxing a hint of a smile to her lips.
“Maybe he thought it would be better for me to find out surrounded by friends?” Clare offered.
“You’re not defending him?” Tim gaped. “The man kidnapped you and left you to fend for yourself, Clare. He’s an SIS spook but you had to get out of that viper’s nest all on your own.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said, realizing suddenly that Tim knew a lot more about her ordeal than she’d ever told anyone outside of the police. Apparently money really did talk.
Clare just wanted to be by herself, to process everything she’d heard. Even the small team crowding around her felt as claustrophobic as the cramped floor of the truck they’d forced her into all those months ago.
“I need to think,” she said, pulling away from the protective circle. “Can someone please make sure our escorts get settled? And Mitch, will you tell them whatever they need to know?”
She desperately needed to get away on her own and think through this unexpected bombshell before facing Simon. She smiled reassuringly at her worried colleagues, and then backed away, raising both her hands, unconsciously warding them off.
“Please, I just need time to think.”
And figure out what she’d rather do—kill the man with her bare hands…or take him in her arms and kiss him senseless.
…
At least she hadn’t screamed.
Clare emerged from the scrub ten paces ahead of her fellow WildLyfers. She looked dreadful—pale, fragile, and haunted. He’d been so foolish to harbor secret hopes of how she might react when she finally saw him again.
Thrilled. Excited. Pleased, at least?
He shook his head. It really couldn’t have been worse.
The way her heart had nearly beat through her chest when he’d grabbed her. The way she’d stood across the clearing shaking with confusion and disbelief. He didn’t need to be up close to recognize she was terrified.
Of him.
In that moment, he fully regretted obeying the strict order prohibiting him from contacting her before now. He should have told her about himself as soon as the undercover part of the op was over. And yet, would that truly have made any difference?
He’d read the reports. So calm and matter-of-fact. He knew the score. She’d admitted on record that she’d befriended one of her captors to get him on her side.
Befriended. Is that what they called it in Boston?
Yet somewhere deep in his heart he’d hoped the reports were wrong. That what they’d had for a few precious hours in hell had meant something to her. That, at the sight of him, her brave, brown eyes would have filled with relief instead of fear.
Guess not.
“Nice speech,” McKenzie said, by his side. “You ever tho
ught about transferring to the diplomatic branch?”
He didn’t smile, returning the intense stare of the small African man arriving back at the campsite. It was textbook conciliation protocol but he couldn’t explain to Mac the entire performance had really been for Clare’s benefit. He’d fessed up immediately to put her out of her misery. Funny thing was, she didn’t look particularly relieved once she knew he was SIS.
If anything, she looked worse.
He yanked off his wrecked jacket and examined the multiple slashes. Clare’s skin had to be worse off.
“So that’s her, eh?” McKenzie tried again. “She doesn’t look so tough.”
He tossed the jacket into the back of their Nissan. “Looks can be deceiving.” Clare had courage and resilience by the bucketful.
“Can’t take a surprise, that’s for damn sure.”
Simon rounded angrily on his partner of eight years. “When you’ve been in the same situation, McKenzie, let me know how you handled it. Until then…” He trailed off, meaningfully.
“Okay, okay. Holster your hormones, deVries.” She straightened against the hood of the SUV. “I trust you weren’t expecting her to run into your arms,” she added, but carefully.
“No.” But he would have settled for a cordial hello.
“And you have remembered she’s still off limits?”
He gifted his partner with his foulest glare.
“I really don’t understand why you’ve been single for so long.” McKenzie rolled her eyes and leaned harder than ever on her Texan accent. “You’re such a charmer.”
He ignored her crack and assessed the two men following Clare from the bush. One was of average height and steady with a shotgun, the other—the sponsor—was enormous, but his money was on him not having seen the outside of a boardroom in years—even if he had stepped in to protect Clare against danger.
Without a glance in his direction, she headed toward the mesh holding pens at the edge of camp.
“We’re on,” Mac said, straightening as the shorter of the two men turned and started walking toward them, leaning his shotgun against a canvas tent along the way.
Simon tugged off his tie and threw it into the back of the Nissan with his jacket, then popped the top two buttons on his expensive shirt. Instantly, the sheen of sweat under the light cotton cooled. What he wouldn’t give to trade travel uniform for field khakis right now.
The man approached and thrust his hand forward to shake both theirs in turn, all business.
“Mitchell Weiss, second in command of this project. We have two accommodation tents, men on the right, and women on the left. Everyone bunks together.”
Mac looked less than delighted to share a tent with a bunch of strangers. Although she was a pro at disguising her emotions when she wanted to, she didn’t bother now. Simon figured contempt rated higher in her mind than courtesy at the moment.
Weiss didn’t miss it. “We have a multi-millionaire on this trip. If anyone gets a private tent, it’s going to be him.”
Simon let his eyes skim the giant standing a short distance away. One of the three men who’d moved so subtly between Clare and a hail of potential bullets back in the clearing.
Wealthy. And interested in Clare.
Bastard.
“The accommodations will be fine,” Simon cut in briskly, not looking forward to bunking down with a handful of hostile men, himself. Still, he’d managed worse, and not too long ago. At least no one here was trying to kill him.
That he knew of.
“My partner will need to get some details about the translocation, your route, schedule, etc. Can she speak to you about that?”
“She can.”
Mac wasn’t happy to be tasked like that, either. It was in the merest flick of her lip, but he’d worked with the woman long enough to recognize her tells. He’d have to make it up to her later.
“I’m going to need to speak with Ms. Delaney,” Simon stated.
Weiss grunted. “Not going to happen. At least, not right now.”
Simon figured he was almost certainly giving off his own irritated tell right now. “Why not?”
“She’s busy. Getting ready to head out and locate the pack.”
Weiss was lying. And not very well. “We’ll need to come with you.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Because we’ve been assigned to protect you.”
Weiss stood firm. “You’ve been assigned to protect the dogs.”
His respect for Clare’s second in command went up a notch. But he still wasn’t about to fold. “Which means we need to get a good and early look at them.”
Weiss wasn’t happy, but finally gave in. “Fine. We head out in twenty.”
Simon snatched up his kit and turned to his partner. “McKenzie, full background. I’ll get the Nissan ready.”
Without another word, he strode away and tossed his kit into the men’s tent. The quiet eyes of the small African followed him openly while the curious stares of the others burned into his passing back. He figured they’d get used to him soon enough, and if they didn’t…
Not his problem.
He was here to do a job, not win a popularity contest.
Chapter Nine
“Clare?”
Any voice that wasn’t British was very welcome at that moment.
Clare poked her head out from behind the igloo-shaped blind she was weaving more branches into. A human would have no trouble spotting the man-made structure, but to a wild dog it would just look like a mutated version of the bushes all around them. The perfect disguise for observation.
“We should head out to locate the pack before it gets dark,” Mitch said. “The dogs will be settling for the night.”
Ordinarily her heart would have leapt at this moment. The one she’d been waiting for since having been so violently separated from her dogs last year. But it felt leaden in light of the day’s events.
She mustered what enthusiasm she could. “There’s still time? Great. One more night to lure them in.”
They walked together back to camp.
“DeVries is insisting on accompanying us,” Mitch said gently.
She almost stumbled, and then took a deep breath. “They have a job to do, I suppose.”
She couldn’t think of him in singular terms yet. ‘They’ was somehow safely nebulous.
As sensitively tuned to human movements as he was to the wildlife around them, Musai had already gathered up the equipment he’d need to track the pack, and spread the pieces on the bonnet of the jeep to assemble.
“That’s what thirty thousand buys you?” Tim chided, joining them. “Gates you yank shut and old school TV antennae?”
Clare tried to see the location tracker through his eyes. It might look more at home mounted on the roof of a derelict house.
And, just like that, she was thinking about the farmhouse again.
She shook free of the irritating image. “It looks archaic, but it is as effective as any method we’ve found. If we went with vehicle-mounted equipment we couldn’t go half the places this little baby has led us.”
The awkward prongs on the tracker were fiddly to negotiate and exhausting on the arms, but the tireless Musai didn’t seem to have that problem. In the years she’d known him, he’d never once complained of muscle aches, even on the longest tracking sessions.
Especially not hers.
Her eyes found Musai’s. He’d been central to the search for her six months earlier, she’d been told. He’d tracked for nearly eleven hours straight at one point, hoping it would lead to the dogs’ signal and to her. His arms must have been in agony. But he’d also been the one to surrender the transporter—and Clare—to the poachers, and she hoped that didn’t still eat at him.
He gazed steadily back, his eyes filling her with strength. Letting her know he understood her wordless gratitude. She smiled softly then turned away. “Grab some binoculars from the green box over there, Tim, and hop in.”
; “I’ll be on your tail.” Simon announced from behind them, pulling his keys from his pocket.
Her body locked up and thrilled in the same split second, and the confusing mess of emotion only made her angrier. She turned. “This is critically sensitive primary observation,” she gritted out.
“That was a statement, not a request,” he said simply.
“It requires stealth.” She took in Simon’s ridiculously large vehicle.
He locked his sunglasses on her. “You seriously think I lack the ability to move quietly in the bush?”
Instantly she was back in the tall grass in the Kafue Flats.
Instantly she was back under his weight.
Both of them breathing heavily.
Her mouth dried up. Wordlessly, she whirled and climbed into their jeep. Musai leapt deftly onto the hood of the aging vehicle, tugged a doubled-up piece of cardboard under him and hooked his feet into two battered tethers, stirrup fashion, so his hands were free to use the tracker. He slid a set of headphones up over his ears and was good to go.
They set off, rounding the edge of camp and bumping along a rarely used track that led deeper into the park. Or something that once was a track, now thickly grown over with clumps of wild grasses. Occasionally they broke out into a long clear stretch of grassland, but invariably it was carved in jigsaw pieces by the deep, dried up feeder tributaries that would swell to overflowing in the wet season. Some they picked their way carefully down, others they had to drive around. Mitch sped up when they hit the clearings then slowed to negotiate the thicker, clumped Nyala trees laden with fruit-gorging baboons. The last thing they wanted to do was hit an animal just going about its business.
She glanced in the rear view mirror and got a glimpse of the big Nissan pitching back and forth over the same rough terrain. It was infuriatingly quiet compared to their bush jeep.
“What’s he hearing inside those earphones?” Tim asked loudly, nodding at Musai.
“The signal from Jambi’s tracking collar. The sound fluctuates with distance and direction,” she explained, leaning in close to his ear to be heard over the noise of the engine. “Volume for distance and pitch for direction. So as the signal gets louder, Musai knows we’re drawing closer and as the pitch varies he can tell whether we’re going toward them or away.”