Target of One's Own

by M. L. Buchman

  He sat and talked with them for hours.

  They told Luke about single-track conditions, climbing the slip face of dunes, high altitude techniques (there were places in the Andes where they lost twenty percent of their power due to thin air), water holes, fesh fesh sand so loose and fine that it could mire a bike wheel-deep without warning. If they fell off their bikes in fesh fesh, which was almost a given, it was possible for your bike to disappear from view even though it was only a few feet deep. The dry stuff almost flowed like water.

  At first he’d thought they were the misfits of the race, taking on The Dakar with no support and no team. But the more time he spent with them, the more he respected them. There was a purity of adventure with them that seemed to be lacking elsewhere. Just rider, machine, and terrain. It also sounded absolutely brutal, which fit right in with his training and career. In a way, they were the hardcores—the Spec Ops guys of The Dakar.

  And at this moment, he’d take a ride with the MMs if it got him out of this hotel room.

  Nikita threatening him. Drake probably glad to back her up. Zoe collecting staunch defenders right and left as she was fast becoming world famous. Next thing he knew she’d be dropping out of the military and be gone into whatever the hell her civilian world was. Probably end up with some asshole like Christian Vehrs with his smooth French accent and enough capital to front a Dakar Rally car of his very own.

  Nope, Luke wouldn’t like that image one bit.

  “Can we get a move on?” His growl sliced through all the dynamics ricocheting around the hotel suite.

  There was an awkward silence as he killed a half dozen conversations, which was a good trick as there were only about that many people in the room.

  “C’mon!” Zoe still had an arm around Nikita’s waist. “I’ll introduce you to Ahmed. He’s Christian’s lead mechanic from Senegal and he’ll put you to work. Actually, he’ll totally flip over you. You look so amazing, Nikita.”

  Nikita was dressed in her usual civilian—jeans and a black t-shirt. Her brunette hair back in its typical ponytail. She maintained the peak level of fitness that was necessary to be a DEVGRU SEAL. He supposed that she did look amazing.

  Marriage also agreed with her. When she’d joined ST6, there’d been a sadness that he figured nothing could ever erase. In fact, he’d assumed that it was a key element of her success because that sadness fed a deep-rooted anger that had seen her through the entire DEVGRU selection process—the first woman to pull that off.

  When Drake Roman had showed up and started messing with that sadness and anger, Luke had threatened to kill him if he screwed up one of his best operators.

  But he hadn’t.

  Nikita had become even more driven, more impressive, but the sadness and anger no longer drove her. He blinked as he watched her go out with Zoe and Christian. Nikita of old had worn a force field around her that repulsed all boarders. Yet she’d greeted Zoe with a welcoming hug in which he could detect no hesitancy.

  Was that another of Zoe’s gifts? She’d certainly slid past his guard.

  “You heard about Pakistan?” Drake was the only one who’d hung back when all of the others had left.

  “No, what?”

  “Hathyaron’s compound doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About twelve hours after you left, it was bombed by a pair of Chengdu F-7s owned by the Pakistan government. Obliterated the place.”

  Luke shrugged. “Pakistanis have followed us in enough times.”

  “Word on the ground is that it was a personal favor requested by Hathyaron—made after we were there. Also, an airport security team at Bacha Khan in Peshawar broke into a hangar. They found several vehicles, including the truck-trailer that left his compound—tire prints match what you sent in.”

  “Any other clues on the vehicles?”

  “You mean before the Pakistan Special Services Group seized them?”

  Luke grunted. The SSG was Pakistan’s form of Spec Ops and the guys weren’t half bad. If they too were doing personal favors for Hathyaron by erasing evidence, that wasn’t good news.

  “Yeah. Four vehicle drivers, still in their seats. But nobody’s talking…in fact, last I heard they still hadn’t found the poor bastard’s heads or hands. No way to identify them.”

  “Erasing his trail,” Luke nodded.

  “The on-duty air traffic controller—the only one who might have identified the plane that had been near that hangar—was found at home, in bed. His head was still there, but a machete had chopped him and his wife into six separate pieces. No rape. No robbery.”

  It made sense. Brutal, but not stupid.

  Would Hathyaron’s ego still bring him to The Dakar? Yes, it would. It didn’t even have to be ego. If there were any last minute dropouts—there weren’t—it would have made him too easy to find and he’d know that. Luke thumped a job-well-done fist down on Drake’s shoulder.

  Drake shifted from reporting sailor to his normal casual himself. “Funny when it happens to you, isn’t it?”

  “When what happens?”

  Drake was generally mild-mannered. He was the easy-going one, always glad to do what he was told—though fully capable of taking the initiative when necessary. A lot of SEALs wanted to lead; Drake just wanted to be on the team and had proved he had the skills to be.

  He started to get angry, which Luke knew how to deal with. But before he needed to react, Drake stopped, then shook his head.

  “You don’t see it?”

  “See what?”

  “Shit, Altman, you were never stupid.”

  “Still not.”

  Drake made a point of looking over at the bed that was still all rumpled. Luke could see the impression of Zoe’s head on his pillow, hers still exactly as the hotel had plumped it. She’d already been on the edge of his pillow when he finally dragged himself back to the suite last night. And she’d stayed there.

  “Shit, Roman. You talking about what’s between me and some woman?”

  “No, asshole.” The heat suddenly flashed back to life, sharply enough to have Luke stepping back in surprise. “I’m talking about what’s between you and Zoe DeMille, who happens to be my wife’s best friend. A woman who also saved our asses any number of times back when I still flew with the Night Stalkers.” Drake had backed him up against a wall without his even noticing. Drake didn’t have Luke’s broad build and was an inch or so shorter, but that didn’t seem to matter.

  “I’m not talking about this.” Luke went to push Drake aside, but Drake shoved him back against the wall.

  “This isn’t from chief petty officer to lieutenant commander, Luke. This is me and you. Just like aboard ship in Honduras. What the hell are you up to?”

  Luke hit Drake with a palm strike against his sternum hard enough to knock him backward. The bed caught the back of his knees and he collapsed onto the mattress.

  “I’m not talking about this with you or with anybody.”

  Drake sat up partway, rubbing his palm against his breastbone. “You goddamn better talk about it with Zoe. I can see it in her, even if you can’t. Like you once told me about Nikita, she’s dealing with some next-level shit and if you don’t respect that, it’s going to blow up in your goddamn face.” Then he pushed to his feet and strode out the still-open hotel door without looking back.

  Luke looked at the mirror. “Has everybody lost their goddamn mind?”

  He was almost out the door when he realized that this was the first race day. Tonight they’d be sleeping seven hundred kilometers away. He packed his duffle in about thirty seconds. It took him another ten minutes to locate and pack all of Zoe’s stuff.

  “Personal, goddamn assistant, my ass.”

  Hair dryer and brush, makeup, toothbrush, other girl products. From the dresser came underwear, shirts, slacks, and all the rest of it. He found sunglasses, lemon-yellow hair clips, lemon-yellow shoes, and…shit! Too damn many reminders that Zoe was someone he didn’t
begin to understand.

  On his final sweep he found the t-shirt she’d slept in. It was black and worn almost wordless. He twisted it in the light to read: DeMille Dune Buggy and Auto Service.

  After what had been done to her there—for he had no doubt about exactly what had gone down—how could she wear that?

  It smelled of her. He didn’t know what it was, but it was absolutely her. How could something so damn small encompass such a woman? Rumpled together, it barely filled his palm. He rolled it up and tucked it into his own pack.

  Luke Altman, personal assistant, hefted his duffle and her suitcase out of the room. For two nights they’d slept here together, just slept. Was it already ending?

  The mission would really be kicking into gear now. Was it the relationship-ending signal he was so familiar with?

  For the first time ever, he truly hoped not.

  Yeah! That and “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out” would win him a kewpie doll at the county fair.

  Last out the door and all on his own.

  16

  Zoe’d been sitting beside Christian in the Citroën for almost an hour. Breakfast of medialuna crescent rolls had been eaten while watching Ahmed lead Nikita and Drake over the car. She had a thousand things she wanted to ask Drake, about how a guy’s mind worked around women. She wanted to cry on Nikita’s shoulder that it was already over before it began. And she didn’t want to talk to anybody for fear she couldn’t hold it together.

  But there hadn’t been a chance for any of that before it was time for them to line up for the start. The motos and quads had started leaving shortly after sunrise. The cars were up next and they’d been in line by midmorning.

  They sat along the resort waterfront between the two sprawling, four-story brick buildings of the Hotel NH and Hotel NH Gran Provincial. Ahead of them lay the boardwalk and the sea, behind them stood dozens of ten-story apartment and office buildings like a forest wall. She’d had no opportunity to explore, or even stop long enough to breathe the air.

  The Dakar was “the event” and touching “the natives” just didn’t happen. Were her vlogs—video logs—and feeds like that? Zoe DeMille is the event. Don’t associate with the fans directly. Keep everything remote, then it will never affect you? What an utterly depressing thought, she really had to cut that out.

  One by one, vehicles rolled up onto the podium at the Stage One start. It had a big ramp up, a car-long flat spot over a story in the air, then a slope down the other side. A great arch spanned over the top to support a giant big-screen projection television.

  On the screen were close-ups of what was happening on the podium. It let the huge crowd assembled along the waterfront see and hear everything.

  Each racer drove up onto the flat and parked. Motorcyclists dismounted, drivers climbed out of their cars, trucks pulled up beside the ramp and their drivers clambered up to the flat spot. While cameras zoomed in, the emcee announced their names and vital racing stats. The crowd, which numbered in the thousands, cheered and applauded just as strongly for the latest car as they had for the first motorcycle hours earlier. The drivers waved to the fans, blew kisses, and shot a thumb’s up before getting back in their vehicles.

  Once they were helmeted and ready, the timekeeper stepped forward and counted down the seconds to their official start window. At the crucial moment—Three fingers…Two…One!—the engine roared to life and they rolled down the front ramp and onto the seaside plaza. A sharp left around the front of the hotel, then out the other side onto Maritime Boulevard to head north. Every two minutes, another team started the race.

  The real race wouldn’t start until they had wound through the city and reached the end of the roads. There was a fifty kilometer “Road Section” along normal roads where speed limits and other rules of the road had to be maintained. Road Sections weren’t race timed, though there was a precise time limit to complete them—no stopping for burgers along the way—and arriving early incurred the same time penalties as arriving late. Road Sections were about exactness of navigation, not speed.

  “Selective Sections” were almost entirely about speed. That was where every second counted as the racers left roads and headed off into the wild on beaches, tracks, dunes, or wilderness as the Road Book commanded.

  The emcee announced the next driver’s name. Even if he hadn’t been parked directly in front of them for the last hour, she’d have known all his vital stats. She recited them along with the announcer: Sergey Kanski, Poland, five Dakar starts, three finishes (best two years earlier in twenty-third place), driving for Toyota (one of the biggest teams). His co-driver…

  Zoe had memorized every single thing Christian had told her about every single driver. (For example, Sergey was very good to his wife—both the one in Warsaw and the one where he trained half the year in Morocco.) She’d chatted up each driver she came in contact with. Not one had mentioned anything about Pakistan. Nor had one been kind enough to offer a simple, “Hello, I am the Taliban arms dealer you are hunting for. Please may I give you the names and addresses of my Al-Qaeda contacts as well so that you can target them with missiles from your stealth RPA.”

  Each hour of this mission was more exhausting than the one before. Each night she’d been tortured by the idea that she’d read something wrong. The beautiful service garage at Hathyaron’s compound. The poster of the Dakar Rally in the place of honor on the wall. They had to lead here…didn’t they?

  She didn’t dare admit her fears to Luke. What would he think of her for having led him here, especially if here was nowhere near his target? He’d think that she had seduced him because she wanted to race. Not because she…

  Because she…

  Her brain felt as if it was stuttering.

  She hadn’t seduced Luke. No, you just stripped naked in front of him on a deserted tropical beach in the middle of an impromptu car race.

  If her four-point harness didn’t have her so effectively pinned to the Citroën’s passenger seat, she’d be pounding her head on the dashboard. Except that wouldn’t really count as she was wearing her helmet.

  Kanski got his start signal and rolled off the podium. In moments he was gone down the street—probably well cheered on by both his wives.

  They started the introduction for Christian up on the big screen.

  “Finally reaching Legend status, Christian Vehrs is starting his tenth Dakar,” the emcee shouted out to the crowd who broke into a big round of cheers.

  “Christian?” He wasn’t moving forward. He’d started the Citroën’s engine, but he didn’t drive up on the podium.

  “Watch this, my darling Zoe. You will see what makes a great driver of The Dakar.”

  Her own face flashed up on the screen. “His navigator, Zoe DeMille, The Soldier of Style, is starting her very first Dakar. We must wonder what is going on there.”

  The crowd roared its approval of the question though they were craning their necks searching for her in the shadows behind the podium. More than a few lemon-yellow flags were waved over people’s heads. Would her commanders think she’d done this because Christian was her lover? A foreign national of uncertain allegiances? Or for her own self-aggrandizement? The numbers on her social media connections had jumped twenty-four percent in the last three days and the race hadn’t even begun yet.

  Still Christian waited.

  “And now…” The timer stepped forward and flashed out ten seconds.

  There were penalties for late starts. Christian must know that.

  At five seconds, Christian punched in the clutch and shifted into first gear.

  “Christian. What are you doing?”

  At two seconds, the emcee and the timekeeper both backed up to the very edge of the podium. They’d been warned that something was going to happen. Christian popped the clutch and gunned the Citroën.

  Like the good Dakar Rally car that it was, it didn’t jolt forward, it leapt.

  In just the few dozen meters from their hold position t
o the ramp’s base, it was moving fast and clean.

  Christian hit the rear ramp of the podium. The sudden angle slammed her into her seat and elicited a deep grunt from Christian. By the top of the ramp they had enough speed to jump completely over the flat section of the podium, arcing through the air, then slamming down onto the forward exit ramp.

  The crowd went wild—the roar so loud that it was a palpable wave.

  And Christian screamed!

  The end of the front exit ramp dumped them onto twenty meters of paved plaza. A path had been cleared to the north. If they missed turning onto that route, they’d plunge across the plaza, through the packed-solid beach crowd, and then into the sea.

  Christian was still screaming in agony, both hands clamped on the wheel.

  But he wasn’t turning. She had no doubt that his back hurt so much that he couldn’t think or react, because his scream still pierced her ears despite her helmet.

  Zoe reached out her left hand, managed to grab one of the spokes of the steering wheel and yanked it as hard as she could. It forced Christian to let go and she made another half turn, aiming them down the route.

  “Brake! Christian! The brake!”

  When he didn’t react, she remember the tall handbrake and slapped it back. The hydraulic cylinders slammed the rear brake pads full on. Because they were in still in first gear and the clutch was still in, the engine stalled hard and slammed her sharply against the harness. Her breasts might be small, but they were going to really hurt as soon as the adrenaline let go.

  Too bad. She’d been looking forward to Luke fondling her breasts. Or would have been if they were still… Not anymore.