by Vanessa Kier
Dev held his breath. Shortly after the Hospital Massacre, Obi had killed a former school mate. The man had been one of the rebels under Sani Natchaba who had kidnapped Helen. Obi had been talking to a therapist about his decision to pull the trigger. He also talked to Helen, who had similar issues regarding her own use of violence to free herself and her boss, Mrs. N’Dorah, after being kidnapped by Natchaba.
But when talking to the rest of the team, Obi never so much as alluded to his own personal conflict, even though Dev knew he must constantly fear whose face he’d see next on the other end of his scope.
“We only get to exercise our free will in regard to how we set up and take the shot. When the mission objective calls for stealth, we do not get to decide that the entire world should see us take the shot. Yet this assassin has moved publicly against Jarrod. Worse, if we are correct and his official target is Jarrod, then he has stepped over the line. Instead of following orders, he is making his own. He’s no longer thinking of himself as a tool without an ego. Instead, it seems to me that he wants attention. He wants everyone to know that he’s after Jarrod. Taking out civilians could be seen as a way to put mental pressure on Jarrod.”
“Make Jarrod feel guilty for the innocent lives taken.”
“Yes, precisely that. It suggests a personal motive.” Obi paused. “If Haig believes that Jarrod killed his brother, then it’s possible he’s out for revenge.”
“Bloody fantastic.” Dev massaged the muscles at the back of his neck. “Bottom line is that we have an unpredictable, highly trained killer on the loose. And as long as my sister is with Jarrod, she’s in the assassin’s sights.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Be careful, Dev. If he discovers that you’re trying to bring Jarrod in, he’ll likely attempt to take you out as well.”
If it were anyone else, Dev would have replied with a smart-ass comeback. But although Obi was an integral part of the team, he always maintained a bit of an emotional distance from the group. So Dev simply said, “Thanks for the warning. Have the concert organizers been given this latest information?”
“Yes.” Obi took a deep breath. “I wish I could be there to help, but you know how it goes. We are on our way out again.”
“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it. I have no intention of letting this guy get another shot at my sister or Jarrod.”
“I’m going to scout for a drier place for us to spend the night,” Kirra announced.
“Ungh…” Seth turned his head slightly so the rain didn’t trickle down his cheek and into his mouth, then tried again. “You’re okay?” He forced open his eyes, but Kirra was behind him so he couldn’t judge for himself how much damage she’d suffered. All he saw was a wet tangle of leaves and branches.
Damn. That blow had seriously knocked the wind out of him. His upper back and shoulders felt as if they’d been slammed into a wall. Part of the branch must have whacked him on the back of his head, because it felt as if a helicopter’s rotors were knocking against the inside of his skull, each hit amplifying his headache. At least, now that Kirra had removed the branch, his lungs were slowly remembering how to fill with air, making it easier to talk.
Kirra crawled into view. She smiled at him, then brushed some wet leaves off his face. “I’m fine.” She swiped her forearm across her eyes to clear the stream of rain. “Do you think you can sit up or move onto your back?”
He made a minute movement of his head, but even that motion left him gasping with pain.
“Not…yet. Headache.”
Her lips pursed as she studied him. “Will you be okay here on your own?” She pointed to his flashlight. “I’ll have to take that with me.”
“I’ll be fine. But…ah…talk to me while you’re exploring and don’t go too far. I need to know you’re nearby and okay. That the assassin or the rebels haven’t nabbed you.”
She nodded.
“Take my knife,” he said. “It’s sharp enough to cut through small branches.”
She hesitated, and the bleak look in her eyes made him feel like an insensitive idiot. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“No. It’s okay.” She pushed her shoulders back. “My self-defense trainer taught me knife work. I’m just tired, that’s all.”
All right. If that’s the way she wanted to play it.
Kirra slid his knife out of its sheath. She studied it a moment, turning the blade this way and that before adjusting her grip on the well-worn hilt. There was nothing to identify it as his army-issued knife, yet there was also no disguising the fact that this was primarily a combat blade, meant to slice through flesh. Her eyes rose to meet his with a question.
“Long story,” he said.
“I’d like to hear it some time,” she replied. Leaning forward, she kissed his forehead. Then she climbed gracefully to her feet, balancing the knife in such a way that he knew her trainer had been an experienced fighter. Given what she’d told him about her past, he was glad someone had taken the time to teach her to defend herself. Even if a part of him felt jealous at the close contact that training would have involved.
“Stay safe,” she ordered. Then she climbed through the tangle of branches and disappeared from sight.
His heart lurched and he fought the urge to push to his feet and go after her.
But a moment later Kirra began singing in a low, raspy voice, clearing her throat every few bars until her voice settled into a strong, confident rhythm. She sang what sounded to him like traditional African songs, mixed with simple songs in Afrikaans such as a child might learn. Every now and then her singing was replaced by a grunt or a low curse and the sound of his knife sawing against bark.
Dammit, this was all his fault. If he hadn’t been in deep with his blackmailer, then he’d be just another pilot trying to make an honest living. He’d have friends and colleagues he could have trusted with Kirra’s safety. But now she was stuck with him. A man with an assassin after him. A man who couldn’t even keep himself safe.
So how was he going to protect Kirra long enough to find her a safe haven?
No matter what kind of training she’d received, it didn’t mean much against an experienced fighter. Or against fighters such as the rebels, who were often too jacked up on drugs to notice pain, making them nearly impossible to stop.
He had to get up so he could protect her. Yet the soothing melody of her singing lulled him closer to sleep.
No.
He couldn’t afford to drift off. They were too vulnerable. He began slowly moving his body, breathing through the pain in his head until he managed to lift himself into a hands-and-knees position.
But he couldn’t see squat in the darkness. He reached out his hand to get a feel for his surroundings.
Light speared toward him. He cursed and turned his head away. The sharp movement intensified the pain inside his head.
“What are you doing?” Kirra snapped. Crouching in front of him, she put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Need to…move. Protect…you.” Okay, that sounded pretty pathetic. But even with his head pounding and rain streaming into his eyes he could still hit whatever he was aiming at. As long as it stood still and was a big enough target.
Such as an airplane hangar.
“Uh-huh. Right.” Kirra sounded both skeptical and amused.
“Help me up.”
“Okay.” She held out her hands and he grabbed them. “Ready?”
“Always.”
Kirra rolled her eyes.
With her support, he stood up. He swayed precariously at first and almost toppled them both to the ground, but he ground his teeth and hung on until the dizziness passed.
“I found a new place for us to shelter, just down here,” Kirra said, shining his flashlight toward a giant tree with buttressed roots that extended past his head. As they picked their way toward it through the aftermath from the fallen tree, he saw that she’d cut branches of wide palm leaves and spread them over the roots, forming a canopy.
With e
ach step he took, his energy returned. By the time they reached the shelter, he felt almost normal. Normal for a man who was soaking wet, still had a roaring headache, and had just had his lungs freeze up thanks to a violent impact, that is.
He examined the construction of the shelter. “Not bad for a city girl, but I want to add another layer in case the wind picks up.” He held out his hand for his knife.
Kirra raised her brows and put the knife behind her back. “If you insist on staying out here in the rain instead of going inside the shelter, then you can tell me what to do.”
“Is that right?” She looked so strong, so beautiful, as she glared at him. The light from his flashlight threw harsh shadows on her that did nothing to detract from the lush female curves revealed by her rain-plastered clothing. He stepped toward her until only inches separated them. Then he reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand. “If I told you to kiss me like you did earlier? What would you say?” Dammit, where had those words come from?
But despite the diminished pounding in his head, he wanted to taste her again.
She shoved a lock of wet hair out of her face and met his eyes. He couldn’t for the life of him tell what she was thinking. Was she getting ready to smack him?
The corner of her mouth lifted. She leaned up and settled her mouth on his. He groaned in pleasure. Her lips were hotter than the lukewarm rain. His arms closed gently around her, pulling her flush against his body as he deepened the kiss. The rainwater mixed with Kirra’s unique taste to turn the kiss fresh and new.
A hidden part of him began to relax.
Thunder boomed overhead in a long, ear-splitting roll.
The reverberation spiked Seth’s headache. He jerked back and put his hands over his ears until the tumult died down. Then he dropped his hands to his sides and stared at Kirra.
Stupid. You had no business kissing her. Remember your mission. You have to say good-bye to her so you can protect your family.
“Your head must be near exploding if the thunder hurt you so much,” Kirra said cooly. “Tell me what branches to cut and where to put them, and I’ll fix the shelter.”
He stared at her, humbled by her attempt to protect him. He wanted so badly to pull her into his arms again and show her how much he did want her. Even if his circumstances had been different, a woman with such a generous spirit deserved a better man than him.
“I promise not to kiss you again.” Kirra’s expression had lost all that sensual feminine heat.
He hated it.
Clenching his fists, he directed her on how to strengthen the covering over the shelter. All the while cursing fate for bringing this woman into his life at the moment when it had become crucial for him to die.
“You know what to do?” Rio asked.
The man on the other side of the table nodded.
“Good. I will make certain that Morenga hears of your cooperation.”
The man ducked his head, then left the room.
Rio leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He’d presented the task he’d given the man—to inform Rio of any sightings of the white assassin—as if Morenga had sent down the orders. But although Rio could use help chasing down the assassin, he didn’t trust Morenga. He couldn’t risk that if Morenga sent a small team in to assist Rio, they might kill the assassin before Rio could hand the man over to Wil.
God forbid that Morenga learn the identity of the assassin. It didn’t matter that the assassin was no longer a member of the military. Questioning him about his past knowledge of U.S. military procedures would still gain Morenga valuable information. Which would undermine all the work Rio had done to gradually weaken Morenga’s organization from the inside.
Bureh’s rebels posed a more immediate threat. So far, they hadn’t shown up in the same location as the assassin. If that ever happened, Bureh’s men would do their best to take out the assassin. Whether the assassin had the skills to survive such an assault, Rio didn’t know. But there hadn’t been another sighting of him after his little stunt at that roundabout.
Rio only wished that someone would catch Hughes and the white woman, Kirra Neilson, on cell phone video and send it to one of his informants. Because he still had no clue where they were.
Rio was doing his best to interfere with the search by Bureh’s rebels. He’d hired a few of his more reliable local contacts to sabotage the rebels’ vehicles. Yet with several rebel platoons now participating in the hunt, there were too many search parties for Rio to be able to disable them all without tipping his hand to Bureh. Which was why Rio had also tapped into the rebels’ communications network.
Right now, even the rebels didn’t know which way Hughes and the woman had fled. For a pilot, Hughes sure knew how to evade pursuers on the ground. It made Rio wonder what had driven him to learn such advanced escape-and-evade techniques.
What really pissed Rio off was that he didn’t know for certain that the Neilson woman had the diamonds. If all this effort proved to be in vain, and Rio returned to Morenga empty-handed, he could kiss his job good-bye. And probably his life.
In that case, maybe turning the assassin over to Wil would earn him protection against Morenga’s guys.
He shook his head. No. He’d worked with Wil long enough to know that the man was a loyal son-of-a-bitch. Unlike the CIA, Wil wouldn’t abandon Rio if his cover broke. It was just Rio’s cynicism talking.
He rolled his head, trying to ease some of the tension in his neck. WAR must be busy elsewhere, otherwise Wil would have enlisted their aid with the assassin instead of his.
Which meant that the only way to take down the assassin would be to work with Dev Neilson and Michael Hughes. Assuming he could convince them that he was on their side.
He snorted. Sure. Like that was going to happen.
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday
Seth awoke the next morning to sunshine warming a spot on his cheek, the sounds of birds calling, and a warm, female body snuggled up against his. He nuzzled against the wild riot of blonde curls, taking in the underlying female scent of Kirra. His palm rested just under her breasts and he allowed himself a long moment to savor the feel of her. It felt right. Necessary. He could stay like this all day.
Drowsy and achy, it took his mind a while to come fully alert. Assassin. Rebels. Storm.
The crushing weight of the tree branch.
His eyes flew open. A bird cried out nearby, then flew out of the bushes. The movement jostled the branches overhead, sending a trickle of water onto Seth’s cheek. Sighing, he tested the state of his recovery by slowly circling his head and tensing his muscles. Yesterday’s headache had vanished and nothing else hurt enough to be a hindrance. Good.
He reluctantly extracted himself from Kirra, then crawled outside to take care of his personal needs. She was still sleeping when he returned, so he grabbed his satellite phone, the charger, and the extra battery and headed back outside. He swapped out the battery and set the old one to charging in a patch of sunlight, then bit the bullet and checked his messages.
He had fifteen missed calls. All from unknown numbers. But only two voicemails.
The first voicemail simply said. “Call me.” Nothing else. But Rick Martin, Morenga’s second-in-command of security, had a memorable voice. One guaranteed to confuse anyone trying to pin down his nationality. Sometimes he sounded American, with maybe a hispanic tilt. Other times he sounded Middle Eastern. When Seth had met the man in person, Martin had spoken with a slight West African accent. Which made Seth think that the guy’s real name was nothing close to Rick or Martin. The guy’s history was probably as complicated as Seth’s own.
Not that it was any of his business. Like most people living off the grid, Seth never asked about a man’s past and expected the same courtesy. Still, he wondered about Martin’s past and what had brought him to work for Morenga.
Seth frowned at the jungle. The first time he’d worked for Morenga it had been set up by his blackmailer. After that, whenever Mor
enga needed his services, Seth had dealt with the operations team. Not the security team. So why was Martin calling him?
He paced slowly along a break in the vegetation. Did he dare call Martin back? He didn’t like the coincidence of the man contacting him in the middle of this situation. Worse, if Morenga was somehow involved, then the stakes had just been raised.
Seth liked Martin. The guy was a tough s.o.b., but fair. His reputation said that he didn’t engage in ass-kissing or backstabbing. If he had a problem with you, he’d tell you to your face. Still, his fast rise within Morenga’s organization indicated a ruthless streak. Seth didn’t want to get on Martin’s bad side. Of course, since Martin was likely calling on behalf of Morenga, then the consequences of not returning his call could be dire.
On the other hand, Seth preferred to stay under the radar until Kirra was safe.
He listened to the second message. This voice identified itself as belonging to Bureh’s head of security. Jesus, he was suddenly popular in the security realm.
“Mr. Hughes,” the man said. “We have information that suggests you are harboring a fugitive. My boss wishes you to bring the white woman to us immediately. Should you fail to do so, he will let your mutual friend know that your services were unsatisfactory and that you should be appropriately punished.”
“Bastard.” Fury pulsed through Seth.
“When you are ready to turn over the woman, call this number and you will be given further instructions. I trust that you will not fail us in this, Mr. Hughes.”