by Fiona Quinn
It was an old saying that Rooster hadn’t heard in a while. Something about the way she said it worked a shot of adrenaline loose in his system. He took a moment to do a thorough scan of the area. Randy caught the move and added his eyes to the search pattern.
Meg seemed oblivious of the sudden tension as she tucked her hand around Randy’s arm and started down the street. “What led you to that kind of work, Rooster?”
Randy twisted his weight to glance back at Rooster. “He fell into the job, literally. That story is classified, but I can tell you he has an uncanny way of knowing things about people. Don’t you, Honey?”
Rooster thought Randy was trying to sell him a little too hard.
Meg spun toward Rooster and stopped. “Is that true? I challenge you, then.” She grinned. “Tell me three things about me that Randy couldn’t possibly have told you.”
Rooster sent her a long, speculative glance. “And if I get all three right? What’s my prize?”
“Round two at the pub.”
“Fair enough.” Rooster ran an assessing gaze down her body to the pink paint on her toenails, up the length of her dress—making sure not to stall at her breasts—then up her neck to her hairline and back down to her eyes. She was blushing again. Randy thought that was her “tell” that she was interested. Rooster read it as modesty. He rubbed his thumb along his jawline. “One, your mom put you in dance class as a little kid even though you preferred climbing trees with the boys.”
“Yes.” Her smile held as she looked up at him expectantly.
“The first time you fell in love it was with a horse.”
“Yep.”
“Your father was left-handed.” That one slipped out. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It was unlike him to throw words around. Words were tools. You picked the right tool for the right job. If his job was to wrangle himself out of the friend-of-my-brother corner, he shouldn’t pick up a crowbar and start prying when a little oil would do him better.
Meg’s smile turned lopsided as she looked up at him.
“Ha,” Randy chuckled. “You got that one wrong. Jim is right-handed.”
Meg held Rooster’s gaze; a spark of curiosity lit her eyes. Rooster realized that the green in her iris was broken up with flecks of blue, changing her eye color like those mood rings the girls wore back in high school.
“No, Randy, he’s right. He said my father was left-handed.” She pulled her gaze away from his to focus on Randy. “Jim is my step-dad. My biological father, Paul, was left-handed. A southpaw pitcher in the farm leagues.” She took a step back. “Wow that’s…amazing. We don’t really talk about Paul around our house, so I seriously doubt Randy knew that one.” Her eyes back on Rooster, she tilted her head. “Are you a bit psychic?”
“I think every soldier in a war zone develops their sixth sense to some extent.”
“I agree. Anyone who’s in survival mode over a period of time does.” Meg adjusted her scarf over her hair. “Well, I am duly impressed, and it will be my honor to buy the first round that I promised for your work just completed, and my pleasure to buy the second round that you just won so handily. But first, you have to try the famous Zanzibari pizza.”
“What makes it famous?” Randy asked as they started off in a different direction.
“You have to see for yourself.” They moved toward yet another table prepping street food. Meg ordered three chicken pizzas. The cook spread three very thin pieces of dough. With the knife skills of a martial artist, he chopped an onion. Rooster watched Randy’s face with amusement. Rooster? He’d eaten everything from slugs he pulled from under rocks in the South American jungle, to Balut—an aborted duck fetus—in the Philippines, to scorpion in Beijing. He could and would eat anything required for survival or to honor his host. Randy’s tastes tended toward the more delicate, even in his MRE choices.
The dough went onto the hot griddle, chicken, onion, processed cheese, mayonnaise and a raw egg were added and swirled together. Meg was delighting in the whole event, and Rooster thought she had brought Randy there specifically to tease him about his refined pallet. Randy wrapped his arm around Meg and pretended to weep into her shoulder. “You are so mean. Raw egg?”
Meg swatted him off. “You’d never guess that such a wimp was a Ranger.”
“I did my stint eating crap for Uncle Sam, and I swore to myself that when I finished my stretch, I’d eat only good things, like your mama’s peach cobbler.”
Meg closed her eyes. “Mmm, that is so good.” With a sigh, she opened her eyes. “If you think this is challenging—and it’s not, it’s actually really good—just think how bad tomorrow will be.”
“Why? What’s tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow when we visit the Maasai, you’ll probably be offered some warrior soup.”
“Which is what?”
“The main ingredient is blood.” Meg reached out for the first paper plate being handed to them and passed it to Rooster. “You’ll have to be brave and be the first to taste test.”
She handed another to Randy then gathered one for herself. They moved to the nearby benches to sit down.
“Okay,” Randy said as Rooster pulled his phone from his pocket. “It should be disgusting, but it’s actually pretty good.”
Rooster glanced up to catch Randy’s eye then turned to Meg. “You’ll excuse me for a minute? This is Headquarters.”
Chapter Seven
Rooster
The Streets of Stone Town, Zanzibar
“Honey here.” Rooster moved to the side of a building, tucking himself into the indentation. He had a good view from this position and was out of the stream of traffic.
“How’s the R & R going?” Nutsbe asked.
“So far so good. We just got in and hooked up with Randy’s sister. What’ve you got?”
“Two things. First, the Bowens. They’re in Germany at the Army hospital. Mr. Bowen was released, his wife is stable. The doctors are saying you got her out of there in the nick of time. Anjie Bowen’s got a shot at surviving her adventure.”
“Good to know. What’s the second thing?” Rooster had his eyes on Meg. She had gone to toss her plate into the trash when the wind had kicked up. It tugged at her dress, plastering it along the smooth curves of her body. She turned to face the gust, her fingers catching hold of her scarf, letting it fly out behind her like a kite as it whipped from her hair. Copper curls blew around her shoulders. Her head was thrown back, and she was laughing like she was in the picture Randy had shown him back at the airport. He caught himself smiling at her antics.
“I’m still on the first topic.” Nutsbe’s tone refocused him. “We forwarded the last audio file of Brilliant to the CIA, since he spoke in actual sentences this time. Their chief of station in Djibouti says he knows the voice. It’s a guy by the name of Momo Bourhan. That’s: bravo, oscar, uniform, romeo, hotel, alpha, November.”
“Got it.”
“After the spook heard the tape, he went looking for Momo. He was safe and sound at the airport, heading out of Djibouti. He wasn’t part of the group who went to move the Bowens from the Afar camp.”
“But the CIA knows his affiliations?”
“Low level Al-Qaeda.”
“Well, shit.” Rooster stabbed a hand onto his hip.
“I’d say that’s about right. Ready for item number two, that makes number one so much more interesting?”
“You have an ID on the guy hanging out with us in Djibouti?”
“Roger that. You sent us a crap photo, but the computers are giving it a good probability that your secret admirer is Hiram Follman. He was Sayeret Matkal.”
“Israeli Special Forces? You’re speaking past tense, what’s he doing now?”
“Moldering in the grave. He was blown up in an explosion targeting a fair number of the Israeli elites.”
“Are you kidding me? Is this the same explosion that gave us the Rex Deus band of kidnappers in DC, trying to get hold of Zoe Kealoha and her microrobotics res
earch?”
“One and the same. Seems that explosion helped move a shit-ton of Special Forces guys off their census. They’re ghosts.”
“So how are we classifying them?”
“Consensus has it that they’re now a Mossad black ops group. Complete disavowal. They’ll probably work with the US if it serves their present purpose. But you never know what their long game is. Did you catch a look at the guy’s left wrist? He got the tattoo?”
“I wasn’t close enough to pick up details in Ethiopia. Randy and I think we spotted him at the hotel when we got in. How he beat us here, I can’t figure. But the hair on the back of my neck is telling me that someone’s got us on their radar. Any clue why Mossad is interested in Randy and me?”
“Kane and Spencer had a powwow over at Langley. They’re speculating that Follman had his eyes on Brilliant and found you as a by-product. There’s concern in Israel about the spread of extremism in East Africa. Things have been nervous ever since the El Adde attack on Kenyan soldiers in Somalia. So far that’s been tied to Al-Qaeda, but as the US and our allies are stripping Al-Qaeda of power and prestige, there’s intel that says ISIS might be stepping into the game.”
“Why is this Momo guy picking up American executives in the Red Sea?”
“Terrorism is expensive, man, they need money. And if that doesn’t work, then there’s always video footage of American deaths for propaganda. They’re probably pissed as hell that they got neither out of this deal.”
“Follman isn’t targeting us in retaliation for Panther Force taking twelve of their operatives off the playing field?”
“They were all returned—both the warm bodies and cold ones—with a bow on top as a gift from the CIA to the Mossad. To answer your question, we don’t know what this guy’s up to. Could be he’s gathering intel. Could be he thinks that, now that you’ve saved the hostages, you’ll press on, maybe lead him to bigger players. Could be he’s gunning for you guys. Could be none of the above. It’s a coin flip. The CIA reached out to the Mossad for answers. I don’t have anything for you yet. I’ll get hold of you or Randy as soon as I do.”
“Should Randy and I head out?” Rooster rubbed a hand across his forehead. “There are civilians who could be at risk if we stick around.”
“If Follman comes for you, it won’t be public. I don’t think your presence puts civilians at risk. The reigning theory at Langley is that Follman is on his own assignment, and he’s finding it curious that there’s an Iniquus team on the same route. He might be trying to figure out what you know that he doesn’t. And he could also be making sure that you aren’t stepping on his toes. He might even reach out to you. And the CIA would appreciate it if you’d have that conversation.”
“Understood. What I’m hearing is that you all have a lot of speculation, and you don’t know what the hell’s going on, but we should enjoy all this rest and relaxation, and maybe make a new friend along the way.”
“Your call if you stay in Tanzania. But Randy said you all are headed to the crater in the morning and then Kilimanjaro. Small groups with arranged guides, remote hotels that cater only to tourists, you’re taking two other people’s places and your names aren’t even on the rosters, how the hell could he follow you without you being abundantly aware?”
“All right, we’ll stay on course. Call me if you get anything new. If we see this guy again, we’ll check for a tattoo.”
Chapter Eight
Meg
Poseidon Bar, Overlooking the Indian Ocean, Zanzibar
Randy slid onto the bar stool at the round table they’d picked in the corner. Meg knew very well that he’d position himself where he had the widest view and nothing obstructing him from seeing the exits. She also knew that by the time she climbed onto her own stool, he would have mapped six different escape routes, and had a plan for how he’d get her out safely. She never worried about her well-being when Randy was around. And with Rooster thrown into the mix, it would take a car bomb barreling through the front door to put her in harm’s way.
Meg slid onto the seat with her back to the room.
“What was that stupid song your sorority sang, Meg? Drink beer, drink beer, drink beer, God—”
Meg put her hand over Randy’s mouth. “I’m not singing the song in public, and I’m certainly not cussing in a bar in a Muslim country.”
Randy looked over at Rooster. “She won’t drink beer here either. I bet you ten dollars she’ll order wine.”
Rooster looked at Meg for an explanation.
“When she drinks beer, she belches like a sailor,” Randy said.
Meg’s eyes rounded. “Randy, that was one time. I burped one time ten years ago. Why would you say something like that to Rooster?”
“I wanted him to see how fiery you can get.” Randy looked over at Rooster. “Born redhead with the temper to match.”
Meg swatted at him.
Randy caught her hand and held it to his chest. “See what I mean, Honey? Vicious. And they say that Latin blood runs hot? Nothing like a redheaded woman.”
Meg turned her attention to the waiter who had moved toward them with his pad, and Randy released her hand. “Jambo! I think we’ll start with three Tuskers, please.”
The man nodded and went off.
Meg turned back to the guys. “Tusker beer originated in Kenya, but they make it in Tanzania now too. It’s a good starting place because it’s not got as much alcohol as the others. And while you guys can probably drink a swimming pool’s worth of alcohol and still recite the alphabet backward, I can’t hold my alcohol very well anymore.”
Randy chuckled. “That wasn’t always true, I remember when—”
“You remember when I was in college. Now I’m older and wiser, with a lot less tolerance. I’ll probably be mostly a tour guide on this bar trip.”
The waiter brought them three bottles and set them down.
“Tusker is the name they call either a wild boar or an elephant who has developed huge tusks.” Meg held up the bottle with the yellow label and a black picture of an elephant. “Back in the 1920s, this guy named Hurst and his brother Charlie went to Kenya and started a distillery there. Hurst was an avid hunter, and ironically, when he went out to hunt elephants, one of them killed him. Charlie decided to memorialize Hurst’s death by naming their company’s beer after the elephant that gored him to death.” She raised the bottle up. “To Tusker. Cheers.”
Randy clinked her bottle then took a long swig. “That was a bit grim.”
“Says the Ranger. Did I make you worried about the safari tomorrow?” She patted his arm. “Speaking of which, we need to be out of the hotel early. We’ll be flying to Arusha at the crack of dawn.”
“Crack of dawn means different things to different folks,” Rooster said.
Meg grinned. “I can’t tell you how funny I find it that a man named Rooster is asking me to define crack of dawn.” She propped her elbows on the table and squinted her eyes. “If Rooster isn’t your call name, there must be a story behind it.”
“My mom has a weird sense of humor. The story goes that before I was born I used to wake her up every morning at the break of day by kicking her in the bladder. One day she got pissed off—pun intended—and said, ‘I swear to God if you do that one more time, I’m gonna name you Rooster, and you’ll have to explain yourself for the rest of your life.”
Meg chuckled. “So you did it anyway. You kicked her again.”
“Seems so, and she’s a God-fearing woman. If I got her to the point of swearing, she was darned well going to follow through.”
Meg looked from Randy to Rooster then back to Randy. “He’s lying.”
Rooster grinned. “Rooster is a family name. On my mother’s side of the family, they follow the old southern tradition of the firstborn taking the mother’s maiden name as a first name. Lucky for my sister, I got there first.”
Meg peeked over to Randy to see if Rooster was telling another tale. Randy sat there, blank-faced. Rooster’
s name was actually Rooster. “I’ve heard about that before. Langston Hughes’s mom was Caroline Langston. What’s your sister’s name?”
“Mary Margaret. Another southern tradition. Why give a girl one first name when two would be twice as nice?”
“Rooster. Huh.” She slid her bottle back and forth between her hands. “Did you get teased as a child?”
“I was always pretty big, people didn’t tease me much. Rooster isn’t bad, I have a female cousin whose name is Stanley.”
“Seriously?” Meg looked at the men’s bottles. Both were empty, while she was still on her first sip. She glanced over at the server with a little wave.
“She decided to go with Ley so people would stop asking.”
“I would.” Meg caught the eye of the server who had made his way over and was gathering the men’s bottles. “Can you bring them some banana beer, please?”
“Nuh-uh.” Randy waved his hands in front of him. “This is supposed to be Rooster’s prize. You have to pick something good, not beer that tastes like a fermented banana.”
“One sip. If you don’t like it, I’ll order something else.” She held up two fingers to the waiter, and he moved toward the bar. “It tastes more like hard cider than anything else. I have to warn you though, it’s about twice the strength of most beers.”
Rooster crossed his arms and rested them on the table, leaning in. “Tell me about your project. What’s it called?”
“The Key Initiative—we’re trying to facilitate conversations between scientists and those people our findings will impact on a day-to-day basis. There’s anger and fear and entrenchment between modern and traditional, science and myriad belief systems, old and young, and most importantly, survival in the moment and survival over time. Right now, we’re at a deadlock. Emphasis on the dead. Species and cultures are dying out faster than predicted.” Meg looked down at her bottle, spinning it in her hands. In that moment, she felt the pressure, the panic that went along with this task. Her newest satellite photos of the great migration—where millions of animals moved with the rains during the wet season to fresh pastures—had been dire this year. Again.