by Cindy Gerard
Don’t ignore the itch.
Fuck it. He whipped out his SAT phone, dialed—and got a “subscriber not in service” message.
“Try again later,” Crystal said with a sympathetic smile. “But Johnny’s right, Luke. Any potential threat to Val ended when she parted ways with us. On the off chance something does come up, those guys know what they’re doing. No one’s getting past them to her.
“Now go.” She gave his arm an affectionate pat. “Don’t make my baby hurt his back doing all the heavy lifting.”
“Yeah,” Reed said, looking all put-upon and poorly.
“Don’t make baby hurt his back.”
Luke rolled his eyes and headed back to the trucks.
They’d arrived at the storage site over an hour ago. The warehouse was built of metal with a corrugated roof and no window. No other buildings within fifty yards. A lone tree struggled for survival twenty yards down the road.
At least the site and the building were isolated, so no one could approach the place without being spotted—which was why the buyers had arranged it as the drop spot. As soon as they’d arrived, Nate had sent B.J. out as lookout. Armed with binocs, she was positioned on a low rise that overlooked the entire valley. No one was going to sneak past her.
Luke was on his way past Nate with another load of ammo when Nate held up his hand for silence.
He touched a finger to his earpiece and spoke into his throat mic. “Talk to me, B.J.” He listened for several seconds. “Roger that, scramble back on down here.”
Everyone stopped what they were doing and waited for Nate to fill them in.
“B.J.’s got eyes on. Two trucks on the roll from the south heading our way. Driver, shotgun, and four more men in each truck bed. AKs all around. One sub-gun.
“We’ve got approximately ten minutes to showtime, boys and girls. And remember: Today we’re big bad mercs. Gear up like Rambo, get into position, and let’s throw these nice kids a party.”
29
Augustine Sesay was a proud man. A man of vision. His grandfather had been such a man. He had been a devoted follower of Foday Sankoh, the great leader of the Revolutionary United Front. Now his grandfather rotted in prison because an international tribunal had convicted him of war crimes.
The regard Augustine held for the tribunal could fit on the tip of a bullet. But the conviction that drove him to avenge not only the injustice meted out to his grandfather, but the killing of his father by enemy forces during the siege of Freetown, could not be contained within the boundaries of the country he intended to take back.
Tomorrow was both the eleventh anniversary of his father’s death, and the tenth anniversary of his grandfather’s imprisonment.
Augustine had marked his time. He had studied the Sankoh doctrine. He had quietly built his forces, but kept them dispersed all over the country until the time was right to gather them into an undefeatable force and reclaim what was rightfully his.
He believed it was his legacy to resurrect the RUF movement. To regain control of the Kono District and reap the profits from the diamond mines that had once been under RUF control.
The mines belonged to his people.
And his people belonged to him.
All of this rolled through Augustine’s mind as he sat in a tattered canvas chair beneath the shade of an awning, his temporary base of operations in the territory north of Freetown. He was not enamored of this nomadic life. Was not disposed to living in tents, or sleeping in abandoned mine shafts, but he had done so willingly for the past ten years. He had sacrificed for the cause.
But the time for sacrifice was over. And his last bit of business with Ryang Wong Jeong would make what was about to happen possible.
Augustine’s gaze swept the encampment with satisfaction. A small complement of men accompanied him. Including the ten he’d sent for his weapons, there were forty men. None questioned the strict obedience he required.
Their faces were gaunt, their bodies were weary, yet they practiced their drills without complaint. Of course, they feared him. Fear was a true leader’s discipline of choice.
But today, they also understood that soon they would feast on the fatted calf. Again, compliments of Ryang Wong Jeong.
Augustine rose from his seat. He despised the North Korean, with his superior attitude and endless conditions. He had played Ryang’s game for six years now, meeting his demands and prices for his grossly expensive weapons.
Yet today, Ryang had handed him a windfall. Of course he had agreed to Ryang’s terms—as he had always been forced to agree to Ryang’s terms, or find himself without a weapons supplier.
What the North Korean did not know was that Augustine had no more need for his services. With this final shipment of weapons, which his detachment of soldiers was now en route to secure, his armory was complete.
And since he had no more need for Ryang Wong Jeong, he had no compunctions about altering the terms of their final agreement.
He smiled to himself as he walked to the entrance of the abandoned mine shaft. He was pleased with the diligence shown by the six-man guard unit who stood watch over the two new arrivals being held inside.
He glanced toward the thicket where the three others were strung up by their wrists, beaten and unconscious. These three were warriors. They had fought to protect the others and he respected their loyalty. But they would still die for their poor choices eventually.
He had decided that he would save them for later. Within the week, he would gather his entire army together and begin their finest hour. These three would provide many hours of entertainment when he turned them over to his men to exact slow, bloody deaths that would fuel their bloodlust and prime their thirst for war.
But the other two?
“. . . you must kill them both immediately.”
Kill the golden geese who could be worth a small fortune in ransom? No, my North Korean friend. He would not kill Marcus Chamberlin and his whore of an ex-wife. Not until after he had extracted several million dollars for the guarantee of their safe return.
Someone would be willing to pay. Someone would be willing to pay dearly. He need only bide his time until he located the perfect mark.
The warehouse was dark and silent when the trucks pulled up outside.
The team was in position and ready. Between their own combat gear and some of the toys they’d uncovered in Ryang’s shipment, the cache was a mercenary’s wet dream.
Despite his new lightweight body armor, sweat rolled between Luke’s shoulder blades and trickled into his eyes as he waited in the hell-hot shadows of the closed warehouse. He pushed his concern for Val out of his mind and concentrated on his assignment as he stood out of sight behind one of the transport trucks, his SIG holstered on his belt, the MP5-K in a sling over his shoulder, and a big-ass machete strapped to his thigh. The entire team was tricked out with boom-booms, blades, and attitude.
Thin slices of sunlight knifed in between cracks in the galvanized roof and the sheets of tin nailed to the wall studs. The light inside was dim, but he could see the rest of the team where they manned their stations inside the warehouse.
Rafe, channeling his inner Rambo, stood to the left of the closed warehouse door, a blue do-rag knotted on his head, full bandoliers crisscrossing his chest, and toting a Thompson submachine gun. Reed, not to be outdone, could have been his twin. He manned his post on the opposite side of the door.
Tink and B.J. were positioned on their bellies in the rafters with sniper rifles tricked out with night-vision scopes.
Joe and Gabe were out of sight like Luke, behind the cover of the transport trucks.
They were ready.
The door slid open on the rusted overhead rail, and Luke’s pulse kicked up a beat as sunlight crashed into the warehouse.
He ducked farther into the shadows. And waited.
A truck door slammed.
An engine revved.
The lead truck rolled into the warehouse, the second vehicle r
ight on its tail.
In the few seconds it took for their guests of honor’s pupils to adjust from sunlight to shadows, the team was on the ten men like fleas on a junkyard dog.
“Don’t even think about it.” Nate flicked on a battery-powered spotlight that illuminated the warehouse, so the new arrivals could see exactly what kind of buzzsaw they’d just run into.
Joe shouldered his M-4 and took a bead on the guy with the sub-gun. “Give me a reason.”
The gunner froze, then carefully laid the gun across the roof of the truck. He laced his hands on his head and dropped to his knees.
“Toss ’em.” Rafe stepped forward with the Tommy.
Ten AK-47s clattered to the ground.
“So glad we understand each other,” Nate said from a stack of rifle crates they’d lined up against the wall. He lounged like a king on a throne of automatic weapons, an M-16 propped back on his shoulder, his S&W revolver holstered low on his hip like a wild-west gunslinger.
Round one was over, and just as they’d hoped not a single shot had been fired.
“I feel like such a bully,” Reed said, deadpan, his head cocked to one side, his tommy cradled loosely in his arms as he stood guard over their motley assortment of prisoners.
“God, they’re just boys.” Crystal shook her head, her face drawn with anger.
B.J. leaned back against a truck fender, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and watched them chow down on the MREs Nate had passed out. “They’re also starving.”
The way they were diving into the meals said it had been a long time since these boys had food in their gaunt bellies. The old “catch more flies with honey” trap had worked in spades. All it had taken was the promise of food, and the youngest boy—he couldn’t have been more than twelve—had started talking. Not long after, the rest of them chimed in, answering Nate’s questions.
The team now knew who they were dealing with. And the news wasn’t good.
It was Augustine Sesay, the grandson of the disbanded RUF’s most brutal leader, who had purchased the shipment from Ryang. And these boys had just confirmed that the rumors dancing around the international intelligence community were true: Sesay was reassembling an RUF army. This shipment was to be the catalyst to stage another coup.
But, there was some good news. Sesay’s troops were still mostly scattered all over the country, awaiting his call to arms. And Sesay himself was bivouacked near an abandoned diamond mine not more than two hours away. Thirty men remained behind with him.
Crystal handed a bottle of water to a boy who was shirtless, barefoot, and stared back at her from an ebony face pocked with scars.
“Give ’em each another one,” Nate said, and Rafe dug into the carton of MREs.
“I don’t fuckin’ believe this.” Joe glared from Nate to the prisoners. “I don’t give a shit how young they are; they’re Augustine Sesay’s soldiers. That makes them killers.”
“Easy, Joe.” Luke shot his friend a concerned look. “We got what we needed from them.”
Joe rounded on him, rage in his eyes. “You think that if the tables were turned, they’d be giving us their food? They’re fucking RUF wanna-bes! Their leader is the grandson of a murdering psycho. And now we’re playing wet nurse?”
He stopped short. Dragged a hand over his head. And tried to settle himself.
The warehouse was deathly quiet.
“Take five, Joe.” Nate’s tone held equal measures of understanding and warning. “Go get some air.”
Joe shook his head and got control of himself. “Right.” Then he spun on his heel and, M-16 still in hand, trudged out into the fading sunlight.
For a long moment, no one spoke. They all knew he was thinking about Bryan, and they all sympathized. Just like they understood that the barrier defining the good guys from the bad guys sometimes eroded without warning. Joe was in conflict with everything he stood for.
Hell, Luke had had his own share of dark moments. This just happened to be Joe’s. Despite the odd way Green had been acting since they’d hooked up in D.C., Luke was confident that Mean Joe Green would work it out. Find true north on his moral compass again.
But he hoped to hell he found it fast, because they’d been out of contact with Val for over two hours now. The GPS still wasn’t working and he’d tried several more fruitless times to raise them on the SAT phone. And the itch just kept getting stronger. He wanted to get this show on the road, get back to frickin’ civilization, and make sure she was safely winging her way back to the States.
He heaved a breath of relief when Nate approached the boy who seemed to be in charge, and extended the SAT phone Crystal had found in the glove box of the lead truck. “Call your general. He’s going to want to hear what I have to say.”
Augustine held the SAT phone to his ear, his fury growing by degrees as a man who would not identify himself dared to dictate terms by which his own weapons would be released to him.
A Westerner. An American. He could hear the arrogance and sense of entitlement in his voice.
“You’re a businessman,” the mercenary said. “This is a simple business proposition. I’ve found something that’s yours—let’s just say I’m holding it for you in safekeeping. All I require to turn it over to you is a finder’s fee. Half a million American dollars seems like a fair price, do you agree?”
He did not agree. “Where are my guns?”
“Safe with me, as I have already assured you. You let me know when you can get me the money, and we’ll arrange a transfer. How long it takes to resolve this is entirely up to you.”
Augustine clenched his jaw, restrained himself from crushing the satellite phone in his fist. And said nothing.
“I’ll tell you what,” the disembodied voice said. “Why don’t you think on it. I’ll call you back in five minutes. You can give me your answer then.”
The line went dead.
Red-hot anger boiled up in him like vomit. He hauled back and threw the phone at his aide, who howled with pain and dropped to the ground. Feet braced wide, he tipped his head to the sky, clenched his fists at his sides, and roared.
Roared until he was hoarse, until the veins throbbed on his neck. Until the rage inside him exploded like a secondary bomb.
“He thinks he can dictate terms to me?” He beat one fist on his chest and cursed toward the sky. “He thinks he can steal what is mine?”
His heart pounded like a drum of war; sweat poured down his face. Dizziness overtook him, finally making him realize he must regain control of his anger if he was to find a solution to the problem this pompous American had created.
He opened his mouth, sucked in a huge rush of air, slowly let it out. Then he repeated the process several times until his mind finally cleared. His heartbeat finally slowed.
He closed his eyes, lifted open palms to the sky, and drew deep within himself for wisdom.
When he opened his eyes, the shadow of an osprey drifted across the face of the mine shaft.
He instantly recognized it as a sign. The osprey was an intelligent, indiscriminate predator. It struck swiftly, without mercy and without remorse, until it annihilated its prey.
He now knew exactly what he had to do.
When Val came to, her hands were bound in front of her. Her left wrist was swollen to twice its normal size, and the slightest move made it throb with excruciating pain. Each breath brought another stabbing knifelike slice just below her breast. She couldn’t move without generating pain. She thought her head might be bleeding.
But the worst, the very worst, was the hood over her head. And from the smell of the damp earth beneath her cheek, and the sense of absolute darkness, she surmised she was lying on the floor of a cave.
Reliving her worst nightmare. Only it wasn’t a nightmare; this was real.
A shudder ripped through her and she groaned at the electrifying pain.
Don’t think about bugs, or rats or spiders or snakes. It’ll only give you bellyaches.
Somethi
ng moved near her feet, and she whimpered like that helpless ten-year-old.
There was something in here with her.
Don’t think about bugs or rats or spiders or snakes.
Momma . . .
Luke . . .
Oh, God, Luke . . .
Who thought she was tough.
She had to get it together. She had to figure out where she . . .
A low moan of pain stalled her thoughts.
She whipped her head toward the sound and stars exploded behind her eyes.
She swallowed back her nausea. “Who’s . . . here?”
A heartbeat of silence. A tentative “Val?”
Her heart stopped. “Marcus?”
“Oh, Val. Thank God.”
She pushed herself painfully up on one elbow. “Santos? The others?”
“I don’t know.”
She heard male voices outside, then what sounded like canvas or a sheet being shoved aside. Hot, humid air, heavy with the scent of dust and sweat, rolled over her.
Someone grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. She bit back a cry of pain, struggling to keep pace as she was half-walked, half-dragged toward the source of the heat.
Another man grabbed her other arm, then someone wrenched the hood off her head.
She flinched and closed her eyes against the sudden, blinding light.
“Open your eyes.” A hard hand grabbed her jaw and jerked her face forward again. “Open your eyes!”
She forced her eyes open, squinted and blinked against the brilliant light of the setting sun.
She tried to focus. A tall, thin African man dressed in a military uniform stood in front of her.
He pointed a satellite phone at her. “Smile,” he said acidly and snapped a picture.
Then he turned away. “Throw her back in the mine. Bring the man out.”
Seconds later, the men shoved her back inside and dragged Marcus out with them, leaving her in the dark once again.
30
Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ—Augustine Sesay had Val.
Luke grabbed the SAT phone out of Nate’s hand, hoping against hope that he was absolutely, positively wrong.