Brady Hawk Box Set

by R. J. Patterson

  Standing a few meters away, Blunt broke into a sprint. The doors started to close, but not fast enough. Blunt managed to slip between them, crashing into the man. Several people lost their balance, including Blunt’s target. The man also lost his grip on his paper.

  Blunt knelt down and rose up with a paper in his hand. “I believe this is yours.”

  “Thanks, but watch where you’re going next time,” the man muttered.

  “Will do,” Blunt said before diverting his eyes.

  At the next station, Blunt got off and went to the restroom, locking the door behind him. Having successfully switched newspapers with the man, Blunt pulled out the paper originally intended for him. He turned to the crossword puzzle, opened his decryption app on his phone, and started to decipher the message.

  Then he gasped when he read the target’s name.

  CHAPTER 9

  THREE DAYS AFTER MEETING with Colton, Hawk stepped off a plane at Lungi International Airport in Sierra Leone. His legend as a well-known taxidermist from New Zealand swung into full effect the moment he approached customs. With a strong accent, Hawk didn’t even give the customs agent reason for pause.

  “What’s your business here?” the agent asked.

  He fed the agent what he needed to hear. “I’m here doing volunteer work for a conservationist group.”

  The agent stamped the passport.

  “Have a nice visit,” he said as he waved Hawk through.

  Hawk stared at his passport. Oliver Martin, twenty-six-years of age, six foot two, brown hair, blue eyes, born in Christchurch, New Zealand. He shrugged. Everything but the name and town were correct.

  Three hours later, he secured his car rental—a Toyota Forerunner—and was bumping along the Lunsar-Makeni Highway toward Yokodu, a small village just outside Koidu in the Kono district. Kono was known for its diamond-rich mines. But its location just two hours northwest of the Liberian border made it a prime location to sneak diamonds out of Sierra Leone and into the diamond smuggling capital of the world.

  Hawk’s final destination was Joubert Safaris, an off-the-books South African outfitter that officially shuttered its business during the Ebola outbreak and had recently re-opened for more unofficial business. With the government urging citizens not to eat bush meat, the bay duiker population surged in some parts of the country. They had reportedly begun roaming the streets and were becoming a nuisance in some of the smaller villages, and Joubert Safaris secured unofficial permission to round up several dozen and hand them over to conservation groups to be dissected and studied.

  Only Hawk wasn’t presenting himself as a conservationist to anyone else. From here on out, he was Oliver Martin, Kiwi taxidermist and hunting enthusiast.

  After an hour of rumbling along Sierra Leone’s poor excuse of a highway, he called Alex on his satellite phone. The six-hour time difference meant she might be in a better mood than when he’d called her from the Middle East.

  “You do realize I was just about to leave for my lunch break?” Alex said once she answered the phone.

  Hawk chuckled. “I purposely waited to call you. Better to get you now than in the morning before you’ve pumped coffee into your veins.”

  “Perhaps—but I’ll only be slightly more pleasant now. Keeping me from my lunch is a move that might backfire on you.”

  Hawk turned on his headlights and eased onto the gas. “Well, I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to let you know I’ve arrived and am on my way to the destination.”

  “Excellent. I’ll make a note of your progress.” She paused for a moment. “As a matter of fact, I think I have you on our satellite feed. Are you driving a light-colored Toyota Forerunner?”

  “That’d be me, though so is the rest of the country.”

  “Unless the rest of the country has already been tagged with GPS tracking devices that match your identifier, I think it’s a safe bet I’m looking at you.”

  “Excellent. You can watch me screw everything up on a slight eight-second delay.”

  “That’s hardly a delay at all.”

  “Long enough to win a bull riding competition.”

  “Well, at least I’ll know where to send the team to retrieve your dead body once you fall off a bull.”

  “Actually, I called for another reason.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I heard you got caught trying to sneak into The Vault at CIA headquarters.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Blunt, but that’s not important. What is important is why you did it—and please tell me you didn’t do it for me.”

  “So you’re okay with me lying to you?”

  “Come on, Alex. This isn’t funny. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me regarding my father, but I don’t want this to be something that jeopardizes your own future. It’s not worth it. I’ve survived this long without knowing all the intimate details about who he is; I’m sure a few more years won’t be the death of me. However, it might be the death of your career.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t find much on your father.”

  “Actually, that makes me feel worse.” He paused. “Did you find anything?”

  “An empty folder with Franklin Foster’s name on the tab. For whatever reason, someone at the CIA thought it best to remove the files altogether. The folder is likely the only trace of him ever existing at the agency.”

  “Did they know what you were after?”

  “I doubt it. Believe it or not, The Vault is one of the few places that doesn’t have surveillance cameras inside. They had to play their hunches because I didn’t tell them anything.”

  “How’d you get out?”

  “It always helps to have leverage on the Director.”

  “You have dirt on Coker?”

  “Something like that.”

  Hawk laughed. “You’ve got guts, Alex. I’ll give that to you.”

  “Without them, I’d be nowhere in this business.”

  “I hope they serve us well on this mission.”

  “They will.” She sighed. “But I didn’t leave headquarters empty handed.”

  “Did you use the magic trick I taught you?”

  “Actually, it came in handy in acquiring a cell phone after they caught me.”

  “This I’ve got to hear.”

  “I’d love to talk more, but I’ve got a meeting with General Johnson in ten minutes that I need to prepare for.”

  “Okay, fine. Leave me hanging.”

  “I will forward you the entire itinerary for your trip so if you go dark, you have everything you need and won’t have to compromise your mission.”

  “Roger that.”

  “But Hawk,” she said, “I do have something we need to talk about.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “No, this isn’t the kind of thing we need to talk about over the phone. We’ll talk about it when you get back.”

  “So, you’re giving me something to live for? Trying to make sure I don’t act foolishly during this mission?”

  “You can take it however you like. But you’re gonna want to hear it.”

  “Don’t worry—I’m already looking forward to it.”

  Hawk hung up and stared up through his windshield at the first stars of the evening twinkling on the horizon. He needed to stay focused on the mission, but he couldn’t help but wonder what Alex had learned.

  CHAPTER 10

  MUSA DEMBY PEERED through his scope at the target set up two hundred meters away. He always thought it was ridiculous that anyone ever shot at a piece of paper with a circular target highlighted with a bullseye. “There’s no single point that’s a bullseye,” he often said, scoffing at his aides. “Bullseye is when you hit your target—and he dies.”

  He steadied his hand and his breathing. The target he saw through his scope was that of an armed dummy perched in a tree. His spotter would confirm if he hit it or not.

  Slowly, Demby squeezed the trigger—crack! He’d b
arely moved, keeping his eye trained on his mark. He didn’t need his lackey to tell him if he hit the target after he watched the dummy tumble to the ground.

  “Direct hit!” Demby’s lackey said as he jumped into the air. “Excellent shooting!”

  Demby slapped the aide in the side of the head. “Even a water buffalo in Kenya could’ve seen the target fall out of the tree.”

  “Sorry, sir,” the lackey said.

  “Go set him back up,” Demby said in his choppy English accent. “You’ve got five minutes before I start shooting again.”

  The lackey raced toward the tree, grabbed the dummy target, and reset it. But Demby didn’t wait five minutes. He barely waited three before he fired again, hitting the target in the head and sending it back toward the ground. The aide pivoted and rushed back toward the it—but he didn’t get far.

  Demby snickered as he squeezed off another shot, this one exploding in the back of the lackey’s head. He turned toward the rest of the handful of men who’d joined him. “So, who wants to replace the target now?”

  No one budged.

  A grin spread across Demby’s face. “No worries. I can barely see anything now anyway. Let’s call it a day.” He rubbed the head of a young boy toting a rifle next to him. “What do you say?”

  The boy, who barely looked a day over ten years old, looked up at Demby and flashed a faint smile.

  Demby slung his rifle over his shoulder and marched toward the three vehicles waiting near the road just off the small clearing. The drive back to Koidu wouldn’t take long, and it’d give him time to contemplate how he was going to deal with the most challenging problem he’d faced in a while: getting his product to clients.

  From every visible standard, Demby ran a legitimate diamond export corporation. Sefadu Holdings, located in Koidu, was founded when many of the multinational mining operations pulled out, leaving several mines abandoned overnight. The companies cited reasons for their sudden departure: civil unrest, Ebola outbreak, and inability to recruit competent staff to Sierra Leone. But all the locals knew the truth: The mines had been stripped. With nothing much of value remaining, the companies didn’t want to continue hemorrhaging money.

  But Demby was managing one of mines for a Belgian firm and lied to management about the lack of diamonds in one of the open-pits he oversaw. He’d begun pocketing some of the diamonds and had amassed a healthy bank account in the process. Desperate to get a higher yield, the company used block caving to extend the life of their surface mines by sending them underground. However, it wasn’t enough to sustain operations. When the firm decided to pull out, Demby made them a paltry offer for the land rights and equipment, but it was far more than they could earn if they dismantled everything and returned it to Belgium. So they agreed to his proposal and Sefadu Holdings began operations.

  Demby was careful not to announce an ore discovery too soon. And when he did, he made sure it sounded modest. His shrewd business dealings ensured that he didn’t bring scrutiny on himself from his former employers and that he could quietly create a black market on the side that might be far more profitable. To industry observers, Sefadu Holdings looked like a struggling mining operation. Meanwhile, Demby was cashing in on his calculated efforts to create a small empire. In less than two years, he’d gone from being an underpaid employee to the de facto King of Koidu.

  When Demby and his convoy arrived at The Errant Apostrophe’s, a bar run by an aspiring British writer, they crammed into their usual booth in the back. A thatched roof was all that separated patrons from the natural surroundings as the pub was built in the foothills of the Tingi Mountains.

  Demby spoke in English with a thick African accent, splicing in a few words in Krio whenever he couldn’t find the word he wanted. He ordered a shot for all his cohorts and proposed a toast.

  “To the good life,” he roared.

  The men clinked their glasses together and downed the liquor. Demby motioned for the bartender to come over and deliver another round for everyone. After two more shots, he was ready to start talking.

  “Gentlemen, we have a serious problem,” he said as he leaned forward on the table, his arms crossed. “And I need your advice on what we should do about it.”

  One of his most trusted aides, Ibrahim, eyed his boss closely. “What kind of problem?”

  Demby stroked his thin beard. “Government interference is making it more difficult for us to get our diamonds to Al Hasib.”

  “We can’t transport them using airlines?” one of the other aides asked.

  Demby shook his head. “It’s getting too expensive. Someone else has taken over the customs department and has raised our price. Unfortunately, it’s a price we can’t afford to pay. So, we must seek an alternative.”

  “What about a run to Liberia?”

  Demby shrugged. “That’s a last resort. It’s still expensive to pay the border agents there, plus there’s the added expense of employing more people, which means less profit for everyone.”

  “We certainly don’t want that,” Ibrahim said.

  “Exactly. We must consider other alternatives.”

  Ibrahim stared out into the distance for a moment before responding. “What about your humanitarian agency?”

  Demby’s shrewd skills as a businessman extended far beyond swindling and lying to his former employer. When an opportunity arose, he sought an easy solution, choosing to grease palms rather than exchange punches. He also surmised that convincing locals that he had their best interest at heart through his investments was better than trying to plead with them. This epiphany led to the development of SLAM, Sierra Leone Aid & Medical Supply Company. He admitted it could’ve had a better name, but it was effective enough with the locals, especially when the clinics started cropping up all across the eastern region of the country.

  He hired an American doctor, Alissa Ackerman, to run SLAM and wasn’t disappointed. In just under two years, she’d managed to make the organization a household name with locals for all the services it provided. People living in the bush would walk three days through the jungle to a clinic if they got injured during a hunt. Women who normally would’ve lost their babies during pregnancy were now being monitored more closely, resulting in a much lower mortality rate for both mothers and babies. Ebola education spread rapidly throughout the eastern region of the country, resulting in the decline of Ebola deaths. And it was all due to her efforts.

  “Alissa wouldn’t let me risk SLAM’s reputation on an endeavor like this,” Demby said before he tossed back another shot.

  “Since when did you ever ask for permission?” Ibrahim asked.

  A smile spread across Demby’s face as he slapped Ibrahim on the back. “You’ve got a point.” He paused. “But she must never know. If she ever finds out, I’m blaming all of you.”

  “If I ever find out what?” came a woman’s voice from behind Demby.

  He looked over his shoulder, and his eyebrows shot upward as he realized Alissa had made it to the bar. “If you ever find out how much I care about you.”

  “You? Care about someone?” she scoffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Realizing he’d avoided revealing the true nature of their conversation, he smiled at her. “I do care about people,” Demby said. “I know it may be difficult for you to believe, but it’s true.”

  She sat down at the table across from Demby and ordered a drink. “The only thing that’s difficult for me to believe is that you have a heart.” She paused and slowly shook her head, never taking her gaze off Demby. “Even when I press my stethoscope against your chest, I still have a hard time believing that anything beats inside of there.”

  He stared at her. The feisty American brunette always managed to rile him up. He’d only made one advance on her and was summarily rejected. But he figured that she’d eventually succumb to his charm.

  Demby looked at Ibrahim, who stared at her, mouth agape.

  “She just insulted you,” Ibrahim said.

/>   Her jabs didn’t bother Demby. “She can insult me all she wants. I just want her.”

  “The one woman you can’t have,” Ibrahim quipped.

  “One day, my friend, one day.”

  She threw back another shot and stared at Demby. “I know you’re lying.” She took a deep breath. “What were you really talking about?”

  “The weather,” Demby said. “We were talking about the weather.”

  In the background, some reggae beats pumped from the jukebox.

  She laughed. “You’re a terrible liar. How you ever gained so much power in this city is a mystery to me.”

  Demby paused and decided to tell her the truth—in a light-hearted way. He was betting that she wouldn’t believe him. “If you must know, I told them that we were going to smuggle diamonds out of the country to terrorists using SLAM.” He froze and watched for her reaction.

  She broke into laughter. “You really are insane. Maybe next time I’ll inspect your brain.”

  “It’s all there,” he said. “Skull and all.”

  “It’s not the skull that I’m worried about. It’s what’s inside the skull that frightens me; there’s a distinct possibility that there isn’t much left inside there,” she quipped as she pointed at his head.

  “I promise you, there’s more there than you can handle.”

  She flashed a wry grin. “If you insist.”

  “Oh, I do,” Demby said. “In fact, I’ll prove it to you.”

  She winked at him. “What? By killing a few brain cells?”

  One of Demby’s assistants dropped a glass bottle of rum on the table. “Let the brain cell killing begin.”

  Demby snatched the bottle up and filled both his glass and Alissa’s. “I hope you like the taste of defeat.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “I hope you like the taste of rum,” she said, raising her glass. “That is, if you think you can keep up with me.”