by Vanessa Kier
Perhaps Hughes was lying about the demand to hand over the diamonds to Bureh?
Rio shook his head. Why? Hughes wouldn’t benefit from seeing Morenga and Bureh fight it out at the concert. Given the hotheaded nature of the rebels, any escalation in violence could result in the deaths of all the people connected to the concert who were holed up in the restricted area.
The road finally cleared, so Rio accelerated.
The person who’d sponsored Dietrich, and now supported Morenga along with several rebel factions, had enough power to have demanded that Hughes turn the diamonds over to Bureh. The sponsor had a track record of helping whoever promised to create the most chaos in the region, yet why cause trouble for an ally such as Morenga? And why involve Hughes?
Could it have something to do with the reason why a military assassin was after the pilot?
Rio snorted. Was it really likely that the man who’d supported Dietrich, Natchaba, and Morenga was also controlling Hughes? Or was he so desperate for another lead on the traitor he’d been chasing for years that he was making connections where none existed?
The rebel slammed the stock of his rifle into Kirra’s stomach. She’d tightened her muscles, but even so, the pain from the blow doubled her over in the heavy wooden chair. She gasped for breath. Her heart beat too fast. Panic clawed at her consciousness and memories threatened to flood her.
No. She would not show fear in front of the rebels. Bringing the stage floor into focus, she concentrated on breathing through the pain until her fear receded.
“Where are the diamonds?” the rebel demanded again.
To spare her abused abdominals, Kirra pushed her bound wrists and ankles against the chair, straightened her elbows, and sat up. The chair sat against the back curtain of the most intimate of the six stages. It had probably been brought in as a prop for one of the performers. Heavy drapes fully enclosed the stage, blocking out the growing dawn. A single lantern sat stage right, casting sinister shadows that turned the angry glares from the two rebels into something demonic.
Swallowing the last remnants of her fear, Kirra looked the rebel leader straight in the eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Do not lie to me!” He backhanded Kirra hard enough to whip her head to the side and split her lip.
She absorbed the pain and slowed her breathing until she was confident she could speak without a tremor. “Why do you think I have these diamonds you’re after? I’m simply a musician here to perform at the concert.”
The rebel leaned forward until his foul breath bathed her face. Kirra fought the urge to gag.
“The thief was on your bus,” he bit out. “I know he passed you the diamonds. Tell me what you did with them and I will let you live.”
“I have no idea where the diamonds are.” Technically true. She’d left them on the table in the bedroom. Since she hadn’t actually seen Seth pick them up, she couldn’t say with one hundred percent certainty where they were. It was always better to stick as close to the truth as possible.
“Did you give them to the white man?”
“What?” She had to keep stalling for time.
“Speak to me, woman, or I will have my colleague here shoot your hand.” The rebel leader nodded at the other man, who stepped forward and pressed the tip of his rifle against the back of her hand. “You won’t be able to play your instrument without your hand, will you?”
Her heart jackknifed inside her chest. Every cell in her body rebelled against the thought of being denied the solace of her music.
The leader gave her a cruelly satisfied smile.
Somewhere in her darkest memories, Franz laughed and taunted her. “Let’s see how much pain you can endure before you die, you stupid bitch. Let’s see what it takes to make you scream.”
Kirra’s stomach cramped and she fought with all her strength not to curl over at the pain. Sweat trickled down her spine, but she straightened her shoulders and glared defiantly back at the rebel leader as if the turmoil inside her didn’t exist.
Hatred filled his dark eyes.
An odd sense of calm settled over her. She’d already come back from death three times. She’d endured so much pain her mind refused to remember it. No matter what happened in the next few minutes, she would survive. If they blew off her hand, then she’d find a way to play guitar with one hand.
She continued to hold the rebel’s gaze while steeling herself against the pain to come. Even if she wasn’t counting on Seth to rescue her colleagues in the restricted area, she loved him too much to point the rebels toward him.
No one else would suffer because of these diamonds, not if she could help it.
Are you willing to die for them?
For the diamonds, no. To protect Seth? Yes.
“Do you refuse to answer?” A glimmer of excitement lit the rebel’s eyes.
“What white man?” she replied. “I was in a plane crash and the white pilot died. A local family found me and offered me shelter. I haven’t seen any other white men.”
“Who are these people? We will find them and search their home and vehicle.”
Kirra shrugged. “I didn’t ask their names. They dropped me off in town and then drove away.”
The rebel narrowed his eyes, then barked a question in one of the local dialects. Whatever the man with the rifle said in reply, it didn’t satisfy his leader. “I think my man should go ahead and—”
The staccato crack of gunfire drew everyone’s attention stage right, the direction of the bridge. Shouts of alarm and anger filled in the breaks between gunshots. A man cried out in pain and was abruptly cut off.
The curtains at the bottom of the stairs parted. A man stuck his head in, snapped out a command, then ducked out of sight. At a nod from the leader, his underling pulled his rifle away and hurried outside.
The leader glared down at Kirra. “It seems we are required elsewhere, woman.” He pulled a combat knife out of the sheath attached to his belt. “If you do not cooperate when we return, this is where my man will shoot you.” He sliced a line across the back of Kirra’s right hand.
Pain shot up her arm and exploded in her mind. The walls holding back her memories shifted. She saw Franz’s taunting grin as he sliced his blade across her arm.
“How much torture can you survive before you beg me to die, Kirra?”
Helplessness and fear flooded her. Oh, God. She was going to die!
She tried to suck in air, but she couldn’t breathe. Franz laughed, sounding so close that she flinched and reared back.
Her head met the back of the chair and she stared wild-eyed at the dim light of the stage.
No. This wasn’t the warehouse.
The rebel cut an intersecting line on her hand, forming an X. When he stepped away from Kirra, she saw blood welling out of the cuts.
She kept her eyes on the blood until her stomach twisted. Then she leaned as far forward as her bindings allowed and expelled a thin stream of stomach acid at the rebel’s feet.
As she’d hoped, the man leapt back. Snarling in disgust, he pivoted away. With an angry mutter, he marched over to the stairs, jumped to the ground, then strode outside.
Kirra sat back until the nausea passed. Then she twisted her wrists to test the feel of the ropes. They were tight, but not tight enough to stop her from escaping.
The commotion outside continued to distract the rebels. From the pattern of the gunfire and the angry shouts, it sounded as if the rebels were under attack. Had the government’s men arrived?
She jerked her wrists to loosen the bindings. Keeping alert for signs that the rebels were returning, and keeping her eyes averted as much as possible from her wrists, she tilted her right hand up so that some of the blood would slip down and lubricate the ropes.
She panted through the pain as the ropes scraped away the scabs on her right wrist, reopening the wounds from escaping the handcuffs. With the additional blood providing extra lubrication, she slipped her wrist free. She had to look in order to see the
knots she needed to undo at her left wrist, but the sight of her bloody right hand and wrist caused her stomach to heave again.
This time, nothing came up. She sat back as the room spun around her.
No. She wouldn’t faint. She had to escape, then find Seth. Because she fully intended to have a future with him.
At the back of her mind, Franz laughed at her. But she was done being ruled by fear. She wanted to live her life based on love.
She started picking at the knots holding her left wrist.
“Halt!”
Kirra’s gaze flew to the exit. Her fingers stilled. The curtain shimmied, as if someone had touched it from the other side, but no one walked through.
The cuts on her right hand made her fingers clumsy, but she finally slipped her left wrist free.
“You. What do you think you’re doing?” Kirra recognized the voice of the man who’d cut her. He sounded so close that he must have been standing on the other side of the curtain. Any second he would push it aside, walk in, and discover her trying to escape.
She made quick work of the knots at her ankles, removed her socks and shoes, then pushed to her feet.
“We understand you took the white woman prisoner,” said an unfamiliar male voice. “Our leader has first claim to her. So we will take over the interrogation.”
“No. She is our prisoner.”
“We shall see.”
Boots scuffled against the hard-packed dirt. One of the men grunted in pain.
Kirra bolted stage left. Black metal support poles held up the backdrop and she scrambled up the closest one. Her bare feet made no noise and gave her a more tactile grip than if she’d attempted it in the tekkies.
Most people didn’t instinctively look up when entering a space, so if the rebels entered she’d have an extra few seconds to escape. Yanking her bandanna from her pocket, she wrapped it tightly around her right hand and wrist. Then she climbed to the rear right corner and peered out the square hole that allowed the electrical wires to pass through.
The electrical scaffolding extended over a dirt path that separated her stage from the next stage. Tall speakers ran along the side of the other stage, looming over a bank of generators. To her left, the path dead-ended at an access lane that ran between the exterior wall and the rear of the stages. A guard stood at the open door in the wall.
He faced in her direction, but his gaze was down and his head was tilted as he listened to the fight on the other side of the stage.
To her right, a tall security fence with a gate marked the boundary between the public and private areas. Too much open space lay beyond that.
Keeping a wary eye on the guard, Kirra eased out of the little access window and crawled onto the closest support beam. To minimize her silhouette against an early dawn sky that was quickly becoming lighter than the shadows below, she pressed as flat to the beams as possible as she inched her way along.
As she crawled, she estimated the distance to the speakers and the generators in case she had to drop down in an emergency. Her blood sizzled with excitement, but the painful throbbing of the cuts on her hand provided a somber reminder of the consequences should she get caught.
Behind her, boots pounded onto the surface of the stage, then her interrogator bellowed, “The prisoner has escaped!”
From his hiding place at the edge of the forest, Seth glanced across the steep river canyon at the walls surrounding the concert grounds. God, the things the rebels might be doing to Kirra—
Don’t think about it. Focus on your mission.
He rolled his head left and right, then shook out his hands and felt calm settle over him.
It would be a lot easier to coordinate his plan with Dev if they had comm gear. Since there were no other bridges over the river, Dev was driving the 4Runner north. In a mile and a half the river would disappear underground, connecting the peninsula to this side. Dev would circle east and approach the concert from the rear. He’d bypass the fighting between the rebels and the security team, sneak into the concert venue, and rescue Kirra.
They’d agreed that whether or not Dev reached the back of the concert in time, Seth would start his diversion after fifteen minutes.
His phone vibrated.
Thinking it might be Dev with an update, he pulled it out. But it was another photo from his blackmailer. This one showed his sister in the sniper’s sights.
There was no message.
Shit. Had Dev lied to him?
Seth checked the time. He had two hours until his blackmailer’s deadline.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. Whether or not Dev had told the truth didn’t alter his own life expectancy if everything went belly-up.
He checked his watch.
Showtime.
Seth climbed to his feet, pulled his bandanna out of his pocket, and stepped into the open with his hands in the air.
The sky had brightened enough that he should be visible to the rebels on each bridge. Rebels that belonged to two different factions, neither of which owed loyalty to Bureh.
Both groups came to alert as soon as they spotted him. Rifles swiveled in his direction. Men spoke into walkie-talkies.
“I wish to speak to men loyal to Frederic Bureh,” Seth hollered as he paced toward the edge of the cliff that dropped down to the river.
A few hundred yards to his right, not far inland from the end of the other bridge, the media had parked their vans in the area designated for attendee parking. One enterprising reporter stood in front of that bridge, her back turned. She spoke into a microphone and occasionally gestured to the rebels behind her.
As soon as he heard Seth’s shout, the cameraman swiveled in his direction. Seth inwardly winced, even though that was what he’d intended. Still, hiding his identity had been crucial to his survival. Letting the media broadcast his image now made him uneasy.
It’s necessary to protect the ones you love.
Right. His blackmailer needed to see that Seth had attempted to follow through on his orders.
Two rebels, one from each faction, detached themselves from their respective groups and marched toward the edge of the other river bank. They exchanged glares with one another, then the man on Seth’s right called out, “Bureh’s men are not here.”
Uh-huh. Right. If his blackmailer said Bureh’s rebels were here, they were here.
“Tell me why I should not have my men kill you.”
“I know where the diamonds are. But I will only deal with Bureh’s men.”
The rebel on Seth’s left shook his head. “As this one told you, Bureh’s men are not here. You will deal with me.”
The rebels on the far bridge took advantage of the distraction and fired. The men across from Seth fell. The rebels on the nearer bridge returned fire.
What the fuck?
Seth backpedaled away from the edge, but the rebels were too busy shooting at one another to pay attention to him. Time for Plan B. Help Dev rescue Kirra, then, if the SSU hadn’t yet secured his family, he’d find the assassin.
The reporter took a hit and fell. Her cameraman lunged forward and dragged her body back behind the nearest van. Then he picked up his camera and panned from one bridge to the other.
Seth had almost made it to the woods when an arm snaked around his torso, trapping his upper arms against his sides. He felt the kiss of metal as a pistol was jammed up under his chin. “Lower your hands, don’t do anything rash, and I won’t hurt you,” Rick Martin murmured in Seth’s ear as he walked them backward into the woods.
Seth’s heart sank. He’d hoped for the assassin.
The cameraman turned in their direction.
Fan-damn-tastic.
Seth remained quiet until they were well into the trees, then he gasped, “What the hell are you doing here, Martin?” The man was about to ruin everything.
“I told you. My boss wants the diamonds. I was sent to take them from you either willingly or by force. Good thing, too. Because if you’d given the diamond
s to the rebels, I would’ve had to turn you over to Morenga so he could make an example of you.” He let up slightly on the pressure of the pistol under Seth’s chin, but didn’t loosen the hold he had on Seth’s torso.
“Now, reach slowly into your pocket and hand me the bag of diamonds.”
“Listen,” Seth began. “I just need—”
Gunfire tore into the trees in front of them.
Martin flung Seth left as he dove right. Seth hit the ground in a roll, then sprang to his feet and bolted away.
Martin didn’t follow. Instead, he returned the rebels’ fire.
The man had let him get away. What game was he playing?
Forget that. It didn’t matter. He was free. He was going after Kirra.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Fear told Kirra to hurry, hurry, hurry, but training and experience told her that moving stealthily was less likely to attract attention.
She’d almost reached the other end of the support beam when her interrogator raced into sight beneath her.
“Have you seen the white lady?” he shouted to the gate guard.
“No.” The guard pulled out his walkie-talkie.
Kirra’s right hand—slick with blood seeping through the bandanna over her cuts—slipped. For a terrifying second she imagined plummeting to the ground and being recaptured by the rebels.
She stopped her momentum by hugging the beam with her left arm and leg, but her right leg dangled in thin air.
Don’t notice me. Don’t notice me.
She slowly pulled her leg back onto the beam. Almost—
“There she is!”
Kirra quickly hauled herself across the remaining distance. One of the men fired at her. The bullet whizzed past her foot. When she reached the end of the beam, she dove through the hole into the stage’s interior.
She took refuge behind a row of spotlights and listened to the rebels. They expected her to run to the opposite end of the stage and agreed that one would head that way via the rear path, and the other via the front. Once she heard the sounds of their boots running away, she sidled over to the opening.