by Vanessa Kier
“Azumah still won’t release you to provide personal protection for Helen?” Lachlan’s wife, Dr. Helen Kirk, was an American trauma surgeon. Helen had a very personal reason for wanting public opinion to remain against the rebels. She’d been working at the hospital the day of the massacre. The video that had been briefly released by the rebels had shown her and the other foreign staff on their knees, guns to their heads while they screamed and begged for the lives of their colleagues. The rebels had laughed and continued hacking the local staff apart, then left them to die.
Dev understood why Helen wanted to go ahead with the concert. A successful show would raise not just regional awareness of the crimes of the rebels, but international awareness. Such publicity would increase financial and material support for those fighting the rebels.
But he also knew Lachlan would rather his wife stay far out of reach of the rebels.
“Aye,” Lachlan said. “With Kris accompanying Azumah on this trip, he wants my focus completely on WAR. As if continuing to run missions is going to stop me from worrying.”
Dev winced. The tension between Azumah, the founder and leader of WAR, and Kris, the man in charge of WAR’s military teams, had been growing for months. As a former politician, Azumah often put priority on things that made no operational sense. And he expressed little sympathy for Kris’s frequent requests to give his men time off to deal with psychological or physical wounds. Never mind that the teams wouldn’t operate effectively against the rebels if the men weren’t performing at peak capacity.
Azumah only cared about results he could parade in front of potential financial donors.
Which is why Kris had authorized Dev’s vacation without letting Azumah know.
“Has Helen told the concert organizers that Kirra is missing?” Dev asked.
“No. Apparently your sister failed to mention she was coming in early. So no one is expecting her until Thursday night. If you can’t find your sister by then, Helen will notify the organizers so they can adjust the program.”
“All right.”
“There’s just one additional complication,” Lachlan said.
“Of course there is,” Dev grumbled, keeping to the shadows as he continued through the neighborhood, searching for additional skid marks. “What?”
“Based on the ammunition found in the hangar, Wil thinks there’s an American military assassin on Jarrod’s tail.”
“What?!” All right. That did it. He wasn’t sleeping until he found his sister and beat the shit out of Jarrod. Then he’d lock Kirra away where she would never be in any danger ever again.
“Long story short, Jarrod is wanted alive and well by the United States military,” Lachlan continued.
“Then why is an assassin after him?”
“If you’ll let me finish, mate, I’ll explain the rest. Jesus, you’re getting to be as bad as JC or Hoss.”
“Hey. No need to get nasty,” Dev grumbled. The two smart-mouthed Americans had a bad habit of interrupting people and of horsing around. Although, to their credit, they both worked as hard as any men on the team. Still, as second-in-command, Dev had no desire to be compared to those two clowns, no matter how skilled or experienced they were in the field.
“Are you ready for the rest or not, lad?”
“Yes, sir.” No. Not at all. He did not want to hear that his sister was being targeted by some damned American sniper because she was hanging around with Jarrod.
“Confidentiality issues prevented Wil from telling me the exact situation, but Jarrod’s military records are no longer missing. As I said, the Americans want him back alive and unharmed. Wil believes someone else sent the assassin to prevent Jarrod from talking to the Americans.”
“So, faction X wants to question Jarrod and faction B wants to shut him up. Do you think this has anything to do with the lack of American action against the rebels?”
“Nay, something Wil said makes me believe it goes back farther than that.”
Dev thought back to the hangar and Jarrod’s shot-up plane. “If Jarrod wasn’t in the hangar at the time of the shooting, why would a trained assassin bother destroying his plane? Yet if Jarrod was there, how did he survive? Any skilled assassin would have taken him out and left the plane alone.”
“I don’t know, lad. Perhaps the assassin is supposed to frighten Jarrod into a particular behavior.” Lachlan paused and Dev imagined him shrugging. “It’s not our job to analyze the assassin’s motives.”
Dev didn’t like the unpredictability of the assassin. The sooner Jarrod was handed over to the Americans, the safer his sister would be. “When are Wil’s guys going to join in the search?”
Lachlan cleared his throat. “Wil doesn’t have men to spare. So—”
“No. You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m not even American!” Realizing he’d raised his voice, Dev glanced around. But all the police were several streets over and none of the neighborhood’s inhabitants were outside. “I’ve never known the Americans to play nice with others. Wil and his team excepted.” WAR and Wil had a mutually beneficial relationship, but Kris had made it clear that Wil’s superiors would not approve of his unconventional allies. “Isn’t Wil trying to keep his association with WAR a secret?”
“Aye, but you’re on the ground and already in pursuit of your sister. Since Wil believes that Jarrod is still with her, he passed this on to us.”
“Meaning me.”
“Aye.”
Dev swore.
“Jarrod was a special ops helicopter pilot, Dev. He fought in the air, not on the ground. Are you saying that you can’t find him and bring him in?”
Dev got more creative with his curses, this time directing them at Lachlan in both English and Afrikaans. “Ja well, no fine,” he grumbled. “All by myself I’ll find Jarrod and my sister and make sure they both stay safe from the rebels and this damn assassin and everyone else who wants the diamonds.” He rolled his eyes.
“I knew we could count on you, lad.”
Right. He was so reliable, he hadn’t been able to catch up with Kirra yet.
Dev ended the call and headed back toward his Jeep. There was nothing to be gained here. Maybe one of Rene’s informants would know what the police had learned about Kirra’s location, but he wasn’t counting on it.
Slipping his hand in his pocket, he fingered Kirra’s burned cell phone. At least he understood why she hadn’t called or texted him since the attack. They spoke so rarely that he doubted she’d memorized his number. And with their parents dead, she had no one else to ask for his information.
How had it gone so wrong? How had his parents, two generous, intelligent, anti-apartheid activists ended up losing touch with their only daughter to the extent that they hadn’t been notified about Kirra’s attack? Hell, Dev hadn’t spoken to Kirra for several months at that point, but he’d received a call shortly after she arrived at the Accident and Emergency unit. Apparently she’d listed Dev as her sole emergency contact. So it had been up to him to notify their parents.
Dev shuddered at the memory. That had been one of the worst conversations he’d ever held in his life. He’d been so furious over the way his parents had failed Kirra after Kyle’s death, that he’d told them they were partly responsible for the attack on Kirra. If their parents had bothered to talk to Kirra before she ran away from home; if they hadn’t always been negatively comparing her to Kyle; hell, if they’d given her a few hugs and a fraction of the support they’d given strangers during the apartheid years, then maybe Kirra would have been able to pull back from the edge. Maybe she wouldn’t have accompanied Franz across the country and become embroiled in the underworld of Cape Town.
And maybe Franz and his vicious friends wouldn’t have nearly killed her.
But his parents had been too wrapped up in their own grief over losing their precious Kyle to recognize that Kirra was floundering and being sucked into a dangerous crowd.
Dev swiped his hand over his hair and wished he could grab his surfb
oard and head back to the waves. He shared part of the blame for not helping Kirra through her grief, but he’d had a commitment to the military. He’d only been able to get a few days of leave for Kyle’s funeral. If he’d been home more often, or even kept in touch by email, maybe Kirra wouldn’t have turned to that asshole Franz for comfort.
Having reached his Jeep, Dev slipped behind the wheel.
Since those gut-wrenching days sitting by Kirra’s hospital bed, praying for her to live, he’d done his best to let his sister know that he loved her. But he had to admit that he still didn’t really know her. Because if he had, he would have known she was heading to that damned concert before he received her text. He could have taken action to keep her safe.
Instead, he was stuck chasing after her and this damned Jarrod fellow.
At least now that he knew Kirra was traveling with a former U.S. military guy, Dev had a better idea of how to think. Before, he’d been trying to think like a twenty-something girl with no survival skills and no strategic training. Knowing that Jarrod was former military meant Dev could think more like himself in trying to figure out where they’d go next and what safety measures they’d be taking.
Given Kirra’s flighty, temperamental nature, he kinda pitied Jarrod. Keeping her safe wouldn’t be easy.
Yet you haven’t found them yet. So he’s doing something right.
Or I’m doing everything wrong.
“I told you to call off your pet assassin.” The man now in charge of the cabal’s Africa sector stared out of his office window, keeping his back turned to the speakerphone on his desk.
“We cannot afford to have Jarrod testify,” the head of the Southeast Asia sector said patiently, as if Africa were a child who did not have the intelligence to understand the full extent of the matter.
“Nothing has changed,” Africa stated. “Jarrod is too afraid of what I might do to his family to defy me. If I order him to say nothing to the investigators, he will refuse to testify.”
“We do not believe that is sufficient incentive. Should the CID team pick him up, surely he will tell them about the hold you have on his family. They will arrange for protection. Unless, of course, you have managed to secure his family so that no one can rescue them?”
“The Americas section head is supposed to ensure that the CID team does not reach Jarrod,” Africa replied. “Why are they not being called to task? I have plans for Jarrod. In a few weeks, he will be dead, implicated in an attack that will outstrip any that have come before. Could you not allow my plan to play out instead of rushing in and creating unnecessary complications?” Of course the man couldn’t. The head of Southeast Asia was a self-centered, short-sighted man. He’d made the mistake of picking General Sandberg as an ally and that had turned into a disaster. The attack on the American military base in the region had prompted an investigation that had nearly led to the discovery of the cabal, which spent considerable time and effort hiding all records of their existence. Only quick thinking by the head of the Pacific Region—he’d staged a series of attacks that had diverted the military’s attention away from the destroyed base—had prevented their connection to General Sandberg from being uncovered. Africa wished Southeast Asia had not been related to the founder of the cabal, because he was more of a liability than an asset.
“We have a man on the inside,” Americas said. “If Jarrod is picked up, we will be able to find him and eliminate him. Do not fear. What is more important is your lack of progress in destabilizing West Africa.”
“You have failed to meet our goals.” The voice belonged to the one in charge of the Middle East.
“Yes, I realize that.” Of course, they ignored his successes, such as the nearly successful attack on the American base in the Greater Niger Republic. If he had not already suspected that his transfer from being in charge of the Middle East to Africa had been a demotion, he was certain of it now.
“However,” he continued, “we agreed to let local forces dictate the pace. The rebels have splintered into a number of groups, forcing me to pick and choose which leaders to throw our support behind. I have done my best to choose those who showed promise, but there are few men who are skilled at both human resources management and strategic planning.” He paused. “If you wish for an accelerated timeline, then I will require more funds.” He had carefully managed his budget so that his fellow members would not realize that he’d siphoned off several hundred thousand dollars for his own profit. While the main reason for destabilizing the world was to profit from the resulting arms sales, he had no intention of sharing all of his region’s ill-gotten gains with his colleagues.
“We can’t have West Africa falling too far behind schedule,” Northern Asia commented. “We need the region to collapse so that we can start launching the scheduled attacks against the rest of the world.”
“He is correct,” South America said. “I vote that we send more funds in order to hasten the region’s collapse.”
Africa listened impassively as the others debated whether or not to authorize the increased budget. But in the end, the goal they’d set of turning West Africa into a wasteland, then using it to launch attacks against the rest of the world, was deemed too urgent to continue leaving in the hands of rebels who couldn’t follow up on the few successes they’d had.
“We must also see that WAR is unearthed and destroyed,” Middle East said.
“I am working on that,” Africa said smoothly, hiding his annoyance beneath false confidence. Finding informants to keep him apprised of WAR’s activities had proved nearly impossible. He’d finally found one such man he thought he could turn, but the man had kept silent even under torture. The man had died without revealing anything.
“If we do not see progress within the next several weeks, we will have to consider replacing you,” Europe said. He’d elected himself leader, but Africa refused to treat him as such. The man had yet to prove that he was worth Africa’s loyalty or trust.
“I have plans in place,” Africa stated. “It would help if others would refrain from interfering in my business. Such as this matter with the assassin.”
“No. If we call him off now, when he has failed to take out his target, then people will begin to question our commitment,” Southeast Asia stated. “You will simply have to adjust your plans.”
“If that is so,” Africa said with exaggerated politeness, “then I expect that my timeline will be adjusted accordingly?”
“No,” Europe and Middle East said at the same time.
“This is an acceptable test of your capabilities,” Middle East said. “Prove to us that you are capable of achieving our goals despite this complication.”
Africa ground his teeth. “Very well. If there is nothing more?”
After a few more suggestions on how he could manage his region, the call ended. Africa stared at the folders on his desk. In addition to resolving the conflict over Seth Jarrod, he needed to redouble his efforts to bring down WAR. He opened the folder that contained all reports to date on the clandestine organization.
Previously keeping strictly to the shadows, WAR had been less secretive lately. In the past few months, foreigners alleged to be soldiers with WAR had been spotted in public. Africa had a list of those names. With a little pressure, those men would either cave to Africa’s demands and become informants, or they would be lured out and killed, thus destroying the morale of their teammates.
One way or another, he intended to see WAR fall before the year was over.
Chapter Fourteen
“That’s right, Kirra,” Seth snapped. “I’m the one with an assassin on his tail. Don’t ever forget it.”
Kirra hated the bitterness that had crept into Seth’s voice, because she understood it all too well. It came from being so low that you thought you deserved the worst in life. “Seth, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that as a judgment.”
His fingers tightened on the wheel. A muscle pulsed along his jaw. Then he turned his head and threw her an undec
ipherable look. “Your instinct was to run when you first saw me in the bar.”
She opened her mouth to tell him that she didn’t feel that way any more, but he pointed a finger at her. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. I’m not some white knight, Kirra. Don’t go thinking I’m some roaming do-gooder. I’m not. I promised that I’d keep you safe until you got to the concert, and I meant it. But I’m not someone a nice girl like you should be associating with.”
Her temper spiked. She glared at him. “Wow. You sure have built up a whole lot of assumptions about me, haven’t you?” She punched him in the shoulder. Hard. “Don’t you dare go telling me what I should or should not do. Don’t you dare go selling yourself short, either. Maybe, as you’ve so unsubtly hinted, you operate in the gray areas of the law, but if I want to trust you, I bloody well will. Since you’re not the one who’s been shooting at me or chasing me, I think—”
“I flew those exploding MP3 players to the man who distributed them to the festival day crowd!” Seth shouted. Then he grimaced and reined in his temper, switching his expression from self-directed fury to detachment so quickly that it chilled Kirra. Because she recognized it as a coping mechanism.
“The blood of everyone who died there—men, women, children—is on my hands,” Seth added quietly.
It hurt to hear the pain and guilt in Seth’s voice. Kirra slowly turned in her seat so she could see his expression better. “Did you know that you were bringing in weapons?”
His fingers clenched on the steering wheel. “Don’t try to make me out to be a good guy, Kirra. I’m not.”
“Really? Then why do I hear regret in your voice instead of satisfaction?”
He shot her a derisive glance. “What does a soft, privileged girl like you know about regret? Or about the real world, where hard-working people die just for showing up at a festival?”
Oh hell no, he didn’t get to claim the field of self-pity. “What do I know about the real world?” She shoved up her sleeve and thrust her forearm under his nose so he couldn’t miss seeing the cobweb of white scars against her light tan. “How’s this for the real world? Three hundred knife wounds. Seventeen broken bones. A ruptured—”