WAR: Opposition: (WAR Book 3) (6 page)

Since Bogey One supported various rebel factions, Wil also needed to keep intel coming in so that should Bogey One finance a rebel attack against the base, or against any of the few remaining U.S. businesses in the region, Wil’s team could take preventative measures.

Another voicemail confirmed that the extra military police soldiers Wil had requested would be arriving on time next week. It remained to be seen if they’d be an asset or if they’d be as unruly as the soldiers. He suspected that Bogey One had been taking advantage of Washington’s disinterest in West Africa to undermine Wil’s team and the overall effectiveness of the U.S. presence here by sending troublemakers and losers. This was the only U.S. military base still active in the region. Without the military’s flights to evacuate citizens in jeopardy, and without the diplomatic mission next door that allowed displaced persons to file for new paperwork and go home, the region would become much less safe for Americans.

Which was, presumably, what Bogey One wanted, along with all of the rebel groups.

Wil sighed. As long as the media kept the public’s attention focused on other parts of the world, then the politicians received no pressure from their constituencies to do the right thing in West Africa. Despite horrors such as the Hospital Massacre, the media remained focused on the larger war effort in the Middle East and elsewhere, and on the celebrity gossip of the day.

It infuriated Wil that Americans were being captured and killed by the rebels, but Washington refused to take action against the rebels. If not for WAR, the rebels would control much more of the region than they already did.

But, as history proved, it would take hundreds of American deaths to engage the public’s outrage enough to force Washington to act. It made Wil sick. He’d rather have no funding than have to live with the knowledge that innocent people died because he hadn’t been able to convince his superiors that the threat here was larger than they wanted to believe.

In the meantime, Wil and his team would work their fingers to the bone trying to protect the people under their charge.

T
he next night
, Seth settled deeper into the shadows of the front patio at the local bar and took a long drink from his bottle of beer. After a long day that had started before dawn and involved flying rebel-supported businessmen between three countries, he just wanted to relax. But as he stared glumly out at the dark street and the irregular patches of lantern light, he couldn’t stop thinking about the assassin. He supposed that if his damned blackmailer had managed to make the connection between Seth Jarrod and Michael Hughes, then the assassin’s boss, General Sandberg—the corrupt American general who’d destroyed Seth’s life—could have discovered the link as well.

Wasn’t that just his luck?

He took another deep swallow of his beer. No matter how the assassin had ended up in the same market as Seth, the man’s appearance was the answer to his dilemma. After a lot of thought, he’d concluded that his blackmailer’s rules had a loophole. Suicide was out, but not death by a third party. So Seth simply had to allow the assassin to kill him. Preferably near a public place so that someone would find his body quickly. That way, word would reach his blackmailer before Seth was due to show up at Bureh’s airfield. And his family would be safe.

He hoped.

Seth didn’t care if his reputation remained tarred. He’d worked for some of the worst scum of the earth since fleeing Southeast Asia. Death seemed a fitting, long overdue respite from the guilt that tore him awake at night, his throat hoarse from silent screams and shudders wracking his body as he relived the moment when the helicopter carrying his teammates plummeted out of the sky and exploded, shot down by men from their own side.

His fingers trembled and he set the bottle down. He’d carry those deaths with him into hell. If he hadn’t been so ambitious maybe he’d have questioned the general’s offer of a special deployment for him and his team. If they’d remained at the main base, his men would still be alive and Seth would still be flying the helicopters that had been his passion and his life.

So yeah, death didn’t scare him. Better to go out now, when his death would protect his family, than wait for the inevitable double-cross that would make his death less meaningful.

Wiping the condensation from the bottle off of his hand and onto his pants, he picked up his pen. He hadn’t been in contact with his mother or his sister since before that disastrous day. He assumed they thought he was dead. And part of him thought that was probably the best solution. Yet another part of him wanted closure, for himself and for them. Knowing the truth would help them come to terms with his death. Or so he hoped.

Or maybe he was just being selfish, because he simply couldn’t leave this world without letting them know why he’d stayed away. How he’d loved them too much to put them in danger and regretted that he couldn’t be the man they’d wanted him to be. Needed him to be.

Squinting in the faint light from the lantern hanging off the wall to the bar two tables over, Seth added a few lines to the letter for his mother, then signed his name before folding the special airmail paper that doubled as an envelope. For something this sensitive, he didn’t trust email.

He didn’t put a return address on it. What was the point? His mother would recognize his handwriting.

Seth reread the letter to his sister, then signed and folded it. He didn’t seal either envelope yet, in case he decided there was more he wanted to add. Leaning back in his chair, he raised the beer bottle to his mouth again, but movement at the end of the street snagged his attention.

A heartbeat later, a white woman limped into sight.

He blinked. What. The. Hell.

He set the bottle down on the table. How much had he had to drink? He’d thought this was only his second bottle. Had he lost count and was already drunk? Or had Komi, the bartender, spiked the bottle with something stronger? Something had to have triggered this hallucination, because no white woman, particularly not one with a profusion of wild blonde hair and enough seductive curves to make his libido sit up and take notice, would be stupid enough to walk through West Africa alone. After dark.

Setting the bottle gently on the table, Seth closed his eyes, massaged his temples, then once again looked out at the street. Either he was still hallucinating, or the woman was headed right toward him.

The closer the woman drew to the bar’s front gate, the more the lanterns set at the edges of the open drainage ditch illuminated her.

A bedraggled angel. That’s what she looked like, with a pixie’s face and a wide mouth drawn down in exhaustion. A dark scarf covered the front of her hair, leaving the rest of her hair to form a crazy cloud behind her. The tank top she wore underneath a dark, unbuttoned shirt barely contained her generous breasts, and the strap of her backpack cinched the shirt tight against her narrow waist. She wore thin, khaki pants that thanks to the humidity clung to her curvy legs in a way that would have offended the more conservative locals.

Trouble. She looked like five foot something of pure trouble. The kind of woman that once upon a time he’d have run toward.

Yeah, well, he wasn’t that man any longer. So he shifted deeper into the shadows and hoped she’d pass on by.

But of course she didn’t. Instead, she stepped forward into the pool of lantern light on the other side of the gate. Bringing her close enough for him to see that her hair, skin, and clothes were covered with red dust. Several scrapes and bruises marred the captivating planes of her face.

Trouble, for sure.

He flicked his thumbnail against the underside of his bent index finger. Whatever she was doing here, it wasn’t his business. Finding the assassin and dying. That was his business. Ensuring that his family would be safe from his blackmailer’s hit man, that was the only thing that mattered.

Only, the tiny part of his soul that hadn’t been destroyed over the past three years refused to listen. Long dormant protective instincts roared into play. His body tensed, ready to rise out of his seat as the woman pushed open the gate to the patio.

Halfway through the gate, her eyes landed on Seth. She froze. Her mouth opened on a silent exclamation and he didn’t need to be closer to know that her pupils had widened in fear. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes in the dim light, but as she stared at him, his breath caught and something deep inside his chest tightened so quickly it hurt. Rubbing at it didn’t relieve the ache, or the sense of fascination he felt as she stared at him.

She blinked once, closed her mouth, and quickly backed up. The gate swung shut behind her as she spun around and hurried back across the concrete slab that served as a bridge over the drainage ditch.

Yeah, that’s right sweetheart, I’m no knight in shining armor.

Still, it hurt his ego to watch her walk away. Safer for her, for sure, but depressing as hell. Once women had flocked to him. They’d found his cocky attitude and tough, rebellious reputation a turn-on. Knowing instinctively that not only would he overload them with pleasure, but that he’d keep them safe, as well.

Now he brought the threat of death to anyone he cared about.

Shaking his head to stop grief from raising its head, Seth tilted the beer bottle and let the last drops slide down his throat. He raised his hand to knock on the wall behind him for another, but froze as the angel came barreling back through the gate, dashed past him, and raced into the main bar.

Instinct propelled Seth to his feet. A quick glance down the street showed a rebel truck pulling into view. “Rebels!” he shouted to Komi. “Hide the lady.”

“On it.”

Seth shoved his letters into his shirt pocket, then sat back in his seat. He and Komi were the only people in the bar at this hour, so at least he didn’t have to worry about collateral damage.

Trusting that Komi would keep the woman safe, Seth watched the rebels drive down the street. He didn’t think they’d been close enough to see the woman, yet they aimed straight for the bar.

Figured.

Dammit, so much for not getting involved. But it didn’t matter what he wanted. He wouldn’t turn a rat over to the rebels, let alone a white woman. And it wasn’t as if he was messing up his timeline. Once the rebels went on their way, he’d point the lady in the direction of the nearest international airport, and she could get back to wherever the hell she belonged.

Then Seth would set himself up as bait for the assassin. And wait to die.

O
h
, God. Moving with a speed she hadn’t thought possible given her exhaustion and her sore feet, Kirra dashed across the dimly lit patio, past Mr. Scary-and-Dangerous, and into the bar. Slipping to the side of the door so that the rebels wouldn’t spot her, she glanced frantically around for a place to hide.

“This way.” A tall, broad man with medium brown skin stepped out from behind the bar. He led her to a back room, bent down, and opened a hidden door that led into a dark storage space. “Inside. Quickly. And make no sound or the rebels will hear you.”

Kirra stared at the opening in horror.
Darkness. Pain. Struggling to cry out through her damaged throat…

Brakes squealed as the rebels pulled up out front.

“Hurry!”

Kirra took a deep breath, then wedged herself and her backpack into the narrow space.

“Remember,” the bartender said, “no noise.” Then he shut the door.

The darkness pressed against her, heavy to the point of suffocation. Fear spiked her pulse.
She didn’t want to die alone in the darkness. She wanted to see the light one more time. Tears burned the cuts on her cheeks as she struggled to get her damaged body to move. Then pain swamped her and took her under.

Gasping for breath, Kirra groped for the latch. She couldn’t stay in here. She—

Doors slammed on a vehicle, sounding so close that Kirra startled. The rebels called to one another. The gate opened with a crash.

Cold sweat broke out over her skin despite the hot air.

No. She couldn’t afford a panic attack. Not with the rebels here.

Shifting so that she could rest her forehead on the top of her backpack, she pulled the guitar pick out of her pocket and worried it between her thumb and forefinger while she strained to hear what was going on. Now she realized why the bartender had told her to be silent. This space must border the patio, because she could hear the voices of the rebels as clearly as if they were in the next room. Which meant that if she scuffed her foot or sneezed, they’d hear her.

“Hey,
obruni
,” a voice called out. “You seen a white woman come through here?”

“Nope.” The white man’s voice, as gravelly and threatening as his appearance, sent shivers down Kirra’s back. When she’d spotted him on the patio and met his gaze, all of her survival instincts had screamed at her to run. Partially hidden by shadows, he’d reminded her of a hunting cat waiting for its prey. What light had fallen on him had revealed several days’ worth of dark stubble on his cheeks, although golden glints made her think that in the sunlight he’d be a dark blond. He wore a t-shirt under an unbuttoned collared shirt, both of indeterminate color in the faint lighting. Even with only part of his body showing above the top of the table he’d given off an aura of menace that had sent her fleeing back into the street. She’d met men like him in Cape Town’s underworld. Men who would rather kill you than talk to you.

“Maybe we don’t believe you,” another voice said. “Step away from the table.”

Even from her hiding place, Kirra heard the white man snort. “Seriously? You think I’m hiding some white chick under the table?” The voice was undeniably American. “Be my guest.” The sound of a chair scraping against the concrete floor of the patio let Kirra know that he’d complied with the rebels’ request.

“You need to learn respect, white man,” a rebel said. “Maybe we need to teach you proper manners.”

Kirra bit her lip against the memories as she listened to the too familiar sound of fists hitting flesh. Someone grunted in pain, then one of the rebels said, “Hey, look at his ID. You’re that pilot who does work sometimes for Morenga?”

“Yeah,” another man commented. “You used to fly for Natchaba too, didn’t you?”

The American answered with a curt “Yes.”

The breath stuck in Kirra’s throat. Every news station had covered the Hospital Massacre and the man behind it, Sani Natchaba. Just hearing about the atrocities his men had committed had been enough to turn her stomach.

Tensing, she waited for the American to betray her to the rebels.

“I don’t care who he worked for,” said the rebel who’d mentioned respect. “We are strong West Africans. We don’t need help from foreigners.”

“Leave him alone,” another man ordered in an authoritative voice that had Kirra marking him as the leader. “We cannot afford to anger this man’s allies. Remember, our mission is the woman.”

The other rebel muttered angrily. Tables and chairs crashed to the patio. Glass tinkled as something broke, then Kirra smelled kerosene.

She rocked forward, prepared to bolt. If the bar went up in flames, she wasn’t going to stay here to be roasted alive.

“Hey! Are you trying to burn down my bar?” The bartender’s angry voice was followed by the sound of cloth slapping concrete. The rebels laughed, covering up the slight sound of Kirra’s cough as smoke seeped into her hiding place. She pulled the corner of her headscarf free and held it over her nose and mouth as a filter.

Boots stomped away, then Kirra heard the muted sound of furniture being overturned as the rebels moved inside.

“Where is she?” the leader demanded.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about. The white man is my only customer.”

“We saw the white woman take the road into town. This man swears he saw her enter your gate.”

“Perhaps she slipped around the side of the building. I have not seen her.” Damn, the bartender was an excellent liar. Even knowing differently, Kirra wanted to believe him.

A rebel entered the room on the other side of Kirra’s hidden door.