Deliberate Harm

by J. R. Wolfe

  “He tried to convince her to stay with him until he was able to travel with her,” Jackie said, “but she insisted on going without him.”

  “Why?”

  “She was concerned that the witness at the refugee camp would leave the camp and be difficult to find.”

  “Can Altan walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can he talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can he shoot the damn Smith & Wesson we arranged for him?” His voice snapped with sarcasm.

  Exasperation stung Jackie’s cheeks. She twirled the gold pen rapidly between her fingers, struggling to indulge his tantrum, and not for the first time. Saxe could be overly intense and critical of officers in the field when a mission experienced unexpected hiccups. Breathe and stay calm, she told herself, since fire only burns brighter with fire. “Sir, he needs—”

  “What I need is officers in the field made of steel, not rubber,” Saxe said like a general barking orders to his troops. He closed his eyes for an instant. “We’ve got to get him out of there and fast.”

  “We can request a special operations force,” she said.

  “Given the inland location of his position, we’d need to send in helicopters, and that means coordination, planning, and time. We need to act quickly. I’ve already made arrangements with a MI6 agent in charge of a delicate political mission in Zimbabwe. His name is Alec Stanton. He’s operating a small covert unit near Harare, going by the code name Long Night.”

  His revelation didn’t surprise her. She’d been with the CIA long enough to know that the spy world had many moving parts, most of which were invisible.

  “What are your orders, sir?” she asked.

  “Instruct your team to keep constant surveillance on Altan and Portia,” he said. “Agent Stanton will contact us once he’s within striking distance of the house. I have every confidence that he’ll successfully rescue Altan…assuming he’s alive. Then they’ll pick up Portia.”

  Anxiety chilled Jackie’s body. Seeing Altan, holding him close, was all she could think about. “He’s alive,” she said.

  “We don’t know that.”

  “I know. I just believe it.”

  He silently watched her, his expression an iron calm now. His dark eyes, though, were a squall of thought.

  An uneasy feeling came over her, the kind she felt when walking alone through an unlit parking lot late at night. He knew something about Altan’s predicament that he wasn’t sharing. Withholding information from her was, of course, his prerogative. Still, her relationship with Altan wasn’t a secret. It seemed rather coldhearted of him not to share more, but this was a coldhearted business. Wasn’t it?

  “Where’s Portia?” Riley finally asked.

  Glad to be free from his spotlight, Jackie set down her pen and swooped up a remote control from the table. She punched two buttons.

  Within a blink, the scene on the TV monitor changed. The satellite stream was still grainy and dark, almost ghostly. Yet, the dirt road, forest of thick trees, and Toyota pickup truck traveling at a high rate of speed were plainly visible.

  “This footage was taken twenty minutes ago,” she said. “Portia was headed to the medical clinic where Altan was being treated. That’s where she is now, but hold on.” She hit a button on the remote control. “I had meant to show you the live feed. You’ll want to see this.”

  “Where did Altan plant a GPS tracking device on her?” Saxe asked.

  “He gave her the same kind of wristwatch as his as a present.”

  The TV monitor faded into abstract pixels and then zoomed into sharp focus.

  “There,” she said. “That’s what’s happening now.”

  Outside the small medical clinic, a handful of pickup trucks were parked outside. Half-a dozen men were loading the back of the trucks with boxes, cots, and blankets.

  “They’re abandoning the clinic.” Saxe absentmindedly touched the scar on his cheek. “They must be fearful that the PR or the police will return.”

  “That’s my thought as well.”

  “Any sign of trouble near the clinic?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. Is she alone?”

  “No. She’s with a bodyguard. His full name hasn’t been established, but we know he goes by Vincent and that he works for Moyo Obatolu, the arms trafficker who Altan and Portia met on Victoria Falls Bridge.”

  “What do we know about Obatolu?”

  “He was born and raised in Zimbabwe. He fought in the Zimbabwe military for a while, but he defected.”

  “Why?”

  “His brother was arrested and convicted of treason. He eventually died of unknown causes while incarcerated. Obatolu maintained that his brother was innocent.”

  Saxe raised his eyebrows. “When did he begin selling illegal weapons?”

  “About seven years ago. He built an impressive underground business within two years. He sells arms to a wide array of groups in and out of his country.”

  “Is the People’s Revolution one of his customers?”

  “We believe so.”

  “Why did Obatolu engineer Imma’s escape?”

  “That’s a good question. His reasons are unknown at this time. All we do know is that he’s helped other people escape as well—mostly those who were convicted of political crimes.”

  “Did he know that Chessa Marsik escaped with our dear doctor?”

  “Based on what we’ve recently learned, it’s doubtful. He fled from the Zimbabwe police by bungee jumping off the Victoria Falls Bridge. He’s currently in hiding.”

  Saxe gazed at Jackie, an amused smile crossing his handsome face. “Mr. Obatolu is a clever fellow,” he said. “Do we know where he is now?”

  “No, but we’ve been able to trace his emails and messages. One of them told Obatolu he had made a grave mistake by orchestrating Dr. Thoms’s escape, since another prisoner, Chessa Marsik, got out with her. The email said there would be consequences unless Marsik was recaptured.”

  Saxe sat back. “So Obatolu might be desperate to find Marsik to save his own skin. We can’t let that happen. I want him captured and out of play. Understood?”

  “Do you want him on the bench temporarily or permanently?” Jackie asked.

  “Temporarily. I don’t want any avoidable complications to compromise this mission. We’ve already got a big enough problem with Altan’s abduction. Where are Imma and Marsik?”

  “Our strongest leads say they flew to London.”

  Saxe straightened and narrowed his eyes. “And we thought that they were dead. What did Portia learn while she was in Musina?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  He stood. His well-built, six-foot-four body had the air of a king who knew his importance and the irrelevance of others. His dress, a designer gray suit that fit him to an inch of perfection, emphasized his stature as he paced the blue carpet with long strides and an assured calm. “We need to get Portia to London as soon as possible,” he said. “She and Imma will find each other, one way or another.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Saxe stopped pacing and looked at Jackie, his eyebrows pulling inward. “I suppose I’m guessing,” he said, “but they had a magic together that could spark a room.” He played with the knot on his tie. “They’ll find each other; they won’t be able to resist. But as much as I’m confident in my assessment of love’s lure—”

  “You’d like a plan B.”

  “Exactly. The Fox Hunt field officers assigned to find Mr. Marsik have had no credible leads as to his whereabouts. But my guess is that once Mr. Marsik learns that his daughter is in London, he’ll go there as well. He may already be there. So, redirect all the field officers assigned to find him to London. Ensure that they leave no bar, hospital, hotel, or brothel unchecked. We’ve got to find him and get that data stick.”

  “I’ll implement the reassignments immediately.”

  “Good.”

  Jackie returned her gaze to the te
levision. She wished they had a way of warning Portia that the PR might be nearby. “I know Portia to be a strong person,” she said, “but she’s in serious danger until we can pick her up. Do you think she can handle it?”

  “Yes.” Saxe gripped the back of a chair. “She’s one of the best soldiers I served with. She’ll find a way to overcome, but we—”

  “Never know anything for sure.”

  She peered into his dark eyes and saw a pulsating heart.

  CHAPTER 21

  Altan sat stiff in a chair, his ankles and wrists sadistically bound together by a thick rope that rubbed his skin into a bloody mess. A burlap bag that smelled like rotten eggs covered his head. A coffin’s darkness was his only sight. Suddenly, without warning, the bag was snatched off his head. He blinked several times, trying to focus on his surroundings.

  His tormentor sat as a tyrant in front of him, puffing on a cigarette with the skill of an experienced and hardened chain smoker. He was intimidatingly huge from his wide pig ears to elephant neck to overindulgent gut down to oak-size thighs. He had a surprisingly pointed chin that was out of sync with the roundness of his body. His hair was black as coal, styled in a faux hawk. He wore dark aviator sunglasses, a tight-fitting cotton shirt that showed off bulging biceps, loose blue jeans, and leather dress shoes that were Italian and made for a successful businessman, not a dangerous thug.

  From a nearby table, he picked up Altan’s Smith & Wesson and stared at it like a boy who had stolen his father’s prized possession. He placed the cigarette on the edge of a clay ashtray that was on the table, letting the smoke climb upward in a whirling dance. He pointed the barrel of the handgun at Altan’s head. “Did you buy the gun in Harare?”

  “What does it matter?” Altan answered. “I wanted it for protection. That’s all. Why have you kidnapped me? I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m an American citizen here on vacation. Please let me go.”

  “An American citizen? It will be ironic that this gun kills you. It is an American weapon, is it not? Don’t you see the irony?”

  “I’m having a hard time seeing anything. The stench of that bag is still distracting me.”

  “You keep your humor. That is good. Do you want to live?”

  “Yes.”

  “To live, you must cooperate.” His cold eyes narrowed, and he pulled the trigger of the Smith & Wesson with the ease of an experienced killer. The metal click of the hammer striking the firing pin cracked the silence like a thunderbolt.

  Altan kicked his legs toward the ceiling and twisted his body to the side. Hot sweat showered down his forehead and soaked his hands. Yet, he somehow managed not to fall off the chair. “No!” he said.

  A hush that sucked the air out of the room followed.

  Altan’s body trembled with fear, and he gasped for breath. He waited for pain, but he felt nothing but the shaking of his body and a sticky dampness on his hands, as he realized that no bullet had been fired. He tried to draw strength from his army and CIA training, but his mind was a whirlpool of anxiety. He was surely about to be tortured and murdered.

  His tormentor slowly placed the weapon on the table for dramatic effect. He leaned back and relaxed, as though he were about to watch a movie. He picked up the cigarette. “You should know better,” he said. “This is just the beginning. You will not die so easily.”

  Altan silently counted to fifty, but unnerving thoughts, the kind that only appear late in the inky black of the night, stabbed his mind with stunning color. They’d cut off his head, he thought. No, not just cut off his head; they’d saw off his neck like it was a damn log being cut in two. Stay calm, he told himself, stay calm. He tried to reassure himself that as long as he was breathing, he was alive. If he was alive, he could fight. If he could fight, he could win. The shaking of his body thankfully calmed. “I’m a salesman from Florida,” he finally said. “I really don’t understand why you’ve kidnapped me. Can’t you tell me what you think I’ve done? Sir…what should I call you?”

  “Caleb,” he answered.

  “All right, Caleb. This must be a big mistake, but we can correct it and—”

  “Where is Chessa Marsik?”

  “You’ve got this all wrong. I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “Why are you in Zimbabwe?”

  “I’m here on vacation. I wanted to bungee jump off Victoria Falls Bridge, but my…my wife…she got cold feet and decided she wanted to do something else. So we had an argument, and I went to the bridge by myself. The police were there trying to arrest someone. I don’t know who or why he was being arrested. Anyway, a gunfight erupted…crazy situation, really crazy, believe me, and I was injured…shot in the leg. Luckily, it’s a superficial wound, but I still needed stiches. That’s how I ended up at the medical clinic.”

  “Who is your wife?” Caleb asked. “What is her name?”

  “Madison.”

  “Madison Walker? Your last names are different.”

  Shit, Altan thought, how much does this bastard know? “How do you know her last name?”

  Caleb took a long puff on the cigarette. “Our sources aren’t your business. All you need to know is that we know.”

  Altan lowered his head. “Of course.”

  “Your wife should have obeyed you. Women are one of your biggest problems in the West.” Caleb enjoyed another drag on his cigarette. “They disrupt God’s order and will cause your greatest defeat. Now, I’m growing tired of your games. Where is Chessa Marsik?”

  “I don’t know her. Please believe me.”

  “Your lies will go badly for you. I know you’re a field agent for the CIA.” He stared at Altan with eyes as wild as a bobcat watching a rabbit. “Now, tell me, where is Chessa Marsik?”

  How was my cover blown, Altan wondered? It didn’t matter now. He could try to play it tough and continue to lie about his identity, but it wouldn’t work. This bastard would dole out torture like it was a gourmet meal, and Altan would eventually break or die or both. Disclosing minor information would give him more time to figure a way out of this mess and still not seriously compromise Fox Hunt. “I’ve heard of Marsik, but that’s all.”

  “I don’t like your answer. Extend your hands.”

  A shivering terror crawled under his skin like a snake. “Wait.”

  Caleb stood and walked over to him. The cigarette smoldered between his fingers. “Extend your hands.”

  He had no choice but to do as he was told. Taking a big breath, he extended his bound hands, trying hard not to shake.

  Slowly, with the pace of a snail, Caleb lowered the cigarette and twirled the lit end into the top of Altan’s left hand, as if his hand were an ashtray.

  The burning sensation was uncomfortable at first, only to become stunningly painful. Altan jerked his hands away. Beady drops of perspiration ran freely down his forehead.

  “Does it hurt?” A perverted pleasure coated Caleb’s deep voice. “Next, I begin chopping. Tell me where Chessa Marsik is hiding.”

  “I don’t know.” Altan said in between deep breaths. “She’s not the reason I was sent to Zimbabwe.”

  “That’s the wrong answer. You’re smart, Mr. Boyer. Why would you tell me something that isn’t true? You must know the consequences will hurt you greatly.”

  “If I tell you the truth, what’s in it for me?”

  “Ten fingers. Your hands. Your nose. Both ears.”

  “You’ll kill me once I tell you what I know.”

  Caleb shrugged his thick shoulders. “That’s true. So, I’ll offer you a nice-looking corpse and a quick death. Your family will appreciate seeing you again, even though you’ll be dead. Think of them.”

  “You’re a real—”

  Which sound came first? The rapid fire of bullets or Caleb’s high-pitched cry of pain? It didn’t matter, Altan thought. The noise was a beautiful concerto. Next, a blessed peace embraced the room. He looked around.

  Caleb lay on his back on the dirt floor in a pool of his own blood. A man
well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and long legs stood over him. He bent down and checked Caleb’s pulse.

  Altan half smiled. His liberator was a surprise: He looked like a local bum—a lightweight, collared shirt that was badly in need of washing, knee-length shorts that were soiled with dabs of dirt, and leather sandals that were shabby and falling apart. His dreadlocked hair, which fell below his shoulders, was messy, and his black beard and moustache were so thick and unkempt that a tiny mouse could’ve used them as a home.

  Beggars couldn’t be choosers, Altan thought. “You saved my life,” he said.

  “That was the idea.” The man’s accent was distinctly British. He stood and walked over to Altan. “Are you all right, old man?”

  “I am now.” He wasn’t sure if he was fine, but it didn’t matter. He had to move on with the mission. “I owe you, brother. Believe me, I’ll never forget this.” He studied his hero closer. “MI6?”

  “Agent Stanton, and you better be Officer Boyer.”

  “Yes.” He exhaled with relief. “How did you know I was kidnapped?”

  “Your boss contacted me.”

  “Riley?”

  “Yes. We used to work joint missions together when he was a field agent.” Stanton stared at Altan, his expression sewn in an unhappy frown. “You’ve been through an ordeal, but you’re safe now. That bloat is dead. Don’t worry about his last meal. From the size of him, he was a glutton.”

  “Sympathy wasn’t on my mind.” He extended his bound hands. The cigarette burn was a nasty red lesion.

  “There’s a medic outside who’ll take good care of you before we head south.”

  “South?”

  “That’s right. Your orders are to reunite with Portia Marks.”

  “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Go with God’s grace,” the Methodist minister said. He stood at the pulpit in front of a modest-sized congregation, his wispy build and sharp features like those of a scarecrow. His thick black hair—short, shiny, and perfectly cut—was his only enviable feature. “We’re all his children. Like any kind and good father, he wants the best for us. In that my friends you can trust, but we must do our part to be kind and good children. Any relationship involves a two-way effort and commitment, if it is to be successful and lasting.” A slight smile crossed his V-shaped face, as though he knew a secret that no one else did. “Good night, and God bless you all.”