Why was Ky back at ground zero? Because a man really couldn’t fight the world by himself, no matter how angry or desperate he became. Because a pack hunted better than a lone wolf, and these three arrogant alphas were his only hope. His last hope.
Director Strong had chipped in, too. He’d offered all the resources and man-hours of the FBI he could, but he had an agency to run and a president to answer to. Besides, he didn’t need to know how black or how dark Operation Find Eden would get. Strong needed that fairytale myth of deniable plausibility to cover his ass. No one else bothered with it.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Tucker. Always the disbeliever. The friggin’ pain in the neck.
Ky nodded. “Mother and Ember sighted him again in Freetown at oh-six-hundred hours yesterday. Your man’s on him, Sam. Thanks for that.”
Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone, West Africa. The heart of rampant government corruption that had led to a decade-long war that left tens of thousands dead. Impoverished as hell. One of the few countries on Earth where the life expectancy was less than fifty years. Known for its multi-million-dollar blood diamond trade. Also known for the wicked Ebola virus.
But those things meant nothing to Ky. They didn’t seem to slow Alex, Sam, or Tucker down, either. They were military to the core with their intensity and attention to detail.
Sam had a confidential informant on the ground in Freetown he’d only referenced as Chappy. Who knew what his real name was? Who cared? He’d gotten close to one dirtbag, a.k.a. ex-FBI Agent Cameron Levine, after Mother and Ember found the bastard, now one of Interpol’s most wanted.
“Your satellite makes how many revolutions each day?” Tucker asked curiously, the tip of his index finger running annoying squeaky circles on the rim of his empty coffee cup.
Alex shrugged. “Jed owns five, not me. Does it matter?”
“Not really. It’s just interesting the difference a little money makes.”
Ky plowed through the latest Tucker Chase inquisition. He never gave a man credit, just poked and prodded until said man came up swinging at the persistent insinuation. “Who’s going in with me?”
Tucker nodded, Sam, too, but Alex met Ky head-on. “I’ve already got a man inside.”
“Who?”
“Tate Higgins.”
Ky caught the wink that went with the revelation. Like Sam, Alex was one step ahead of the game. He knew people the world over, too, and what was more, Tate was solid—one of Ky’s tried and true friends. Maybe this would be the covert op that finally brought Eden home.
Ky pushed back his chair, hopeful, please God, that he’d find her this time. That this was the last wild goose chase. That he’d finally end Cameron Levine’s treachery. But most of all, that Eden was still alive.
Forgive me. Eden stood at her open deck door facing west one last time, projecting her heart and soul across the gray Atlantic. To the land that she loved. To Ky. For what it was worth.
She hadn’t had a vision since this ordeal began, and her second sight remained useless. Or dead. As quickly as she’d been kidnapped from Ky’s home that terrifying morning, the end of her world had begun. She wasn’t entirely sure he’d been left alive.
Cameron Levine boasted that he’d gotten past the FBI guards and killed Isaiah and his father, but he dwelled on how he’d killed Ky, or rather, how one of his mindless drones had killed him. Levine enjoyed sharing the minutest of gory details. That Ky had cried out for her when he’d died. That he’d begged for mercy. That he’d been left gutted in his bed, his belly split open and his blood and entrails poured out on the floor. Over the sheets. Dripping off his fingertips into the carpet below.
At first she’d been too traumatized to think clearly. She’d blamed herself, especially after Levine had punctuated his wicked control over her by shooting one of his poor drones at point-blank range. Right in front of her horrified eyes. She could still smell the poor man’s blood in the air. The horror never faded.
But doubt persisted and logic had prevailed through her shock. She, after all, had been with Ky in his humble home. He didn’t own a bed, so how could he have been murdered in one?
And yet, Levine had made it sound so real. Almost believable...
The liar.
A truly frightening man, he’d lost the human capacity for compassion somewhere during his miserable life, which was the reason for the upcoming visit to his diamond mine. He hadn’t said specifically what he intended to do with her there, but she had every right to suspect that the foulest play in this horrific chess game she was caught up in was yet to come.
Eden meant nothing to him, was merely intended to be the queen who controlled the poor pawns—if, that was, she ever got her second sight back. He’d kept back at least two dozen of Zaroyin’s drones instead of sending them north to be rehabilitated at the doctor’s hidden medical facility in Canada. What were they good for? Assassinations. Abductions. You name it. They did whatever Levine programmed them to do, and none of it was good.
His greed responded to one thing only. More power. More wealth. Despoiling the already impoverished country of Sierra Leone. He wanted the titanium and bauxite. The gold. The rutile, the lovely red crystalline known for its refractive powers and technology’s need for it. But especially the diamonds.
His insane plan hinged on spreading panic and chaos amongst the diamond-rich countries of Africa. He banked on it. Literally and figuratively. At that very moment, two drones were in transit to assassinate the president of Liberia, a neighboring diamond country where unrest and corruption had led to civil war in the past. Where it soon would again, only now the mayhem would enable Levine to step in and assume control of eighty percent of the world’s diamond trade.
But she worried. Something in that foul-tasting shake Levine forced her to choke down every morning had compromised her second sight. That was the only thing that made sense. The drink gave her horrific night-sweats, bad dreams, and migraines similar to the ones she’d endured in Canada. It made her dizzy, weak, and nauseous all day long.
But Bick was dead, and his wife, Cassandra, was in jail. Or was she? And why was Levine so anxious to visit the diamond mines? A chill suffused Eden’s trembling faith in herself. Under his thumb, she had no choice in what she ate, drank, or wore. He’d even forced her to cut and dye her hair, to paint her nails. Black. All black. The sad, dark color of her life.
Her poor heart fluttered like the wings of the gulls outside her deck at the thought of what very well might be the last day of her life. Eden was like that bird, only she was trapped in a cage too small to survive. And now, if her suspicions about the upcoming trip to the diamond mine were correct, she’d be left to die below ground. Without breath. Without light or air or space. Without Ky.
It didn’t make sense, Levine’s abducting her only to kill her, but the sense of dread remained. Wiping the sweat of the hot day off her brow, Eden inhaled deeply of the salty breeze from the ocean unfurled at her feet. Normally gray and dotted with whitecaps, today the Atlantic seemed calmer. Bluer. A ribbon of turquoise unraveled in the relentless breakers shattering on shore. Caught in early-morning sunlight, they offered a glimpse of beauty to a desperate soul in need of hope where there was none. In desperate need of rescue.
She glimpsed him then. A young man on a bicycle. With binoculars. She’d seen him on the dunes before, but this was the first time he’d seemed to be watching—me?
Eden held her right hand up, her palm forward, just in case. He waved. Oh snap. He saw me. Her foolish heart catapulted to life in her chest, thumping so hard she could feel it against her breastbone and ribs. She dipped her hand from side to side, and he waved again, just like a little kid wanting her attention. He really waved.
But just as quickly as she’d wanted to shout for joy, she froze. Whoever that brave soul was, he was no small target. He’d be killed if seen. She couldn’t risk another’s life so she stepped out of his view, but—he had waved. At me!
She combed her fingers
over her head, daring to believe. These last three months had been utter hell. Tossing her short inky hair into spikes, an oddly sympathetic reflection of her poor, withering soul, she gulped her trepidation down to a manageable lump in her throat.
I can wait, she promised Ky, wherever he was, with all her heart. I’ve done it before. I will do it again.
Chapter Thirty-Five
People were so damned poor in Freetown, the capitol of Sierra Leone. Mostly Muslim. Mostly black. All scrounging for survival. And thin. Even the little ones, with their little extended bellies and wasted frames. It took a hard man to look away and not empty his pockets to the pitiful beggars at the roadside.
Since he’d touched down in Africa, Ky had rented a car and a dive hotel room on the poor side of Freetown to call home for the duration of his trip. He’d dropped his duffle bag in his room, lowered his Ray-Bans, and ventured back into the one-hundred-degree-plus day to find Tate, one of Alex Stewart’s best.
There was a day when Ky had held that distinction. No more. Now he worked with the guy, not for him, and he was a far cry from being the best of anything. Truth be known, Ky relied a helluva lot on Alex’s deep pockets. There’d be no Operation Find Eden without him, but Ky also knew nothing would stop him from searching for her. Deep pockets or not, FBI assistance or not, Ky was in this to the death.
The search had proved fruitless and demoralizing thus far. The first failed lead came from Cambodia through a trusted informant of Tucker’s, some guy named Smoke. But it had proved dead, damned wrong. That Levine look-alike was an American working with Doctors for Charity. He could’ve passed for a twin, but he wasn’t Levine.
The second lead came from one of Alex’s trusted agents in Peru. He’d spotted a man fitting Levine’s description with a dazed version of a woman fitting Eden’s. Ky had roared to her rescue, because along with that info came the ugly intel from Thailand that Levine had contacts inside the sex trade. Ky had saved the Eden look-alike, but that Levine was the wrong man, too. Yes, he was in the sex trade, and yes, Ky had disrupted the sale of more than a dozen poor girls and women in the bastard’s possession. Just. Not. Eden.
Tate didn’t wave, just stared him down from the open truck door where he stood with his arms crossed and his usual perpetual scowl.
“Hey, brother,” Ky muttered, gripping his buddy’s arm up to his elbow. A friend was a godsend when you were on the mission of your life, and Tate more so than others.
Tate returned the hold with a hearty backslap. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Nah, I’m good.” Ky rolled the tweak out of his neck. He hadn’t slept in the past three months, and food was not high on his list of worries. He ran on caffeine, and when he needed to drop, a few shots of whatever was handy. Usually Jameson. Africa better have a decent substitute for Irish whiskey.
The only comfort he took came from the thin piece of fancy silk Eden had left behind. Her panties. Yes, he’d gotten freakishly obsessive and maybe he was going crazy, but he kept that intimate piece of apparel deep in his front pocket. Just. Damned. Because. He needed something of hers to hang onto, and her bra had straps. It would’ve been more noticeable. Yes, he was mentally unbalanced. Losing his heart made a guy that way.
“Chappy is quite the informant,” Tate offered as Ky climbed onboard. “You met him yet?”
“No. I thought we’d do that first. You?”
Tate nodded one short, quick nod. “Yeah. I’ve been staying at his place.”
Ky glanced sideways at Tate. There was a different tone in his voice today. “No kidding? Alex didn’t put you up in a hotel?”
“I don’t like hotels.” That was Tate for you, a minimalist through and through. “’Sides, I like Chappy’s kids.”
“How many’s he got?” Ky’s mind pinged over what he already knew instead of listening to the answer. Cameron Levine. Ex-FBI. Wanted man. He seemed to come and go abroad as he pleased. Alex still hadn’t determined how Levine had gotten Eden out of the country.
“Hey. You listening?” Tate grumbled.
Ky shook himself out of his trance. “Sorry. What’d you say?”
“I said we’re here.” Tate climbed out of the truck, a battered excuse for a Chevy.
It would’ve been nice knowing where here was, but Ky hadn’t listened. He lit up a Marlboro Red and joined his buddy.
Like every other building on the street, this one sported a flat roof with an industrial-sized air conditioner in one corner that must not work. All the windows in the joint were pushed open. No screens.
Inside wasn’t much better. The blades of a large fan spun lazily overhead, barely moving the air in the empty room. Mud brick floor. Tables and chairs scattered in disarray. A piano in one corner and a grimy-looking bar along the far wall. A section of the floor masking-taped off for dancing. Suffocating heat. Meat sizzling on the grill behind the bar. Flies buzzing everywhere.
Ky joined Tate at the rickety table near the window, on the lookout for the man he only knew as Chappy. He dusted the ash off the tip of his cigarette as a slender black woman smiled from behind the bar. “I see you have brought a friend,” she stated, every last pearly white on display in her dark, shiny face.
“Ky Winchester, ma’am,” Tate answered respectfully. “He’ll be here for a while.”
“Does he need a room? I can put him up.”
“No, thanks.” Ky put an end to that. The only thing he needed was information, and where the hell was Chappy?
“Very good, Mr. Winchester. May I get you gentlemen something to eat?” she asked in perfect English.
“Beed,” Tate replied as he held up two fingers, “and two glasses of Star, please.” He’d certainly made himself comfortable in Freetown if he knew which foods were safe to eat and the local beer on tap.
“What’s beed?” Ky asked as he puffed out of the corner of his mouth.
“Marinated meat. Don’t worry. You’ll like it.” Tate’s nose wrinkled at the cigarette smoke. “Thought you quit that shit?”
“Yeah, well...” Ky didn’t make excuses. Cigarettes were the least of his problems. Meat on the menu was good, though it would’ve also been nice to know what kind. No mystery meat for him. The aromas wafting from the kitchen at the end of the bar stirred his appetite, but swallowing had become an effort, most likely because his body remembered what solid food felt like on the return trip up.
Without Eden in his life, he’d become similar to that heroin addict on lockdown, the one deprived of his fix and going out of his friggin’ mind. The guy who no longer required sustenance because food didn’t cut the high of one line of pure horse. The guy driven to one end and one end only.
Find her.
He drummed his fingertips on the table, lost in the world without Eden. There was no color to the sunset without her. No reason to breathe, and nothing to look forward to except the day he had her in his arms and on her back in that king-sized bed he’d bought out of sheer stupid optimism. But that was what he’d done. He’d planned in advance for the celebration that grew more distant with every failed intel. Every pointless search.
Ky ground out his smoke in the half-filled ashtray. It had been a helluva three months. Tate was right to be disgusted with him. He was not the guy he used to be. God, he just needed a solid clue. Just one.
The kindly barkeep shuffled over with a tray of food and drinks. Beed ended up being char-grilled meat on a skewer alongside three slices of dried, brown bread. The aroma drifting up from the sizzling platter watered his mouth, but his stomach grumbled and not from anticipation. Ky shoved the plate back and cast his eyes to the far corners of the joint, searching for the men’s room. A guy with a bad stomach needed to be prepared.
“You are not well,” the woman said, her dark brown eyes soft with concern. “You need soup.”
“Nah, it’s okay,” he protested, a cold bottle already to his lips and on its way down. “I’m good.”
She shot him a backward glance as she hustled away. “Of course
you are good. Being sick does not make you bad. Soup it is.”
“No, I meant... ah, forget it.” She’d stopped listening, and he didn’t need the aggravation of a nosy woman in his face. He had Tate.
Ky took a long swallow and wished for another cigarette. The woman was headed his way again, another tray in her hands. Why didn’t people listen? He wasn’t hungry for food, damn it.
He looked away. “Where the hell is this Chappy guy I’m supposed to meet? When’ll he show?”
Tate tilted his cold one and smiled, but it was the woman who said, “I am right here.”
Ky looked up into the beaming face of his benefactress, her forehead and cheeks shiny from the stifling heat. “Mama Chappelle,” she said proudly, her chin-lift hard to miss. “But my friends call me Chappy. You may also.”
“You’re Sam Becker’s friend?” Ky nearly choked on his beer. “I thought you said Chappy was a guy?”
Tate shrugged. “I may have said him instead of her. You wouldn’t know. You weren’t listening.”
Chappy replaced Ky’s plate with a bowl of creamy soup. “This is potato and leek—my own recipe. It will rest easier on your stomach than meat and bread. You have not eaten well lately, true?” she asked, her brow wrinkled.
“I’m good,” he said, but Chappy wouldn’t be dissuaded. She cupped his jaw, her thumb smoothing over his cheek. “You are a big man, Mr. Winchester. I think maybe you need more than soup.”
Mama Chappy was one of those women who mothered everyone. Ky could read it in her eyes. A swath of red, yellow, and orange fabric clothed her slender frame from shoulders to sandaled feet, draping her arms up to her elbows. A scarf wrapped her head in pinks, greens, and blues, but her eyes were soft espresso with a splash of concern, not what Ky expected in a CI, a confidential informant. Perfect English rolled off her full lips in a smoky West African alto, deep with self-confidence and character.
Ky (In the Company of Snipers Book 13) Page 33