doctor. You have no idea what we’re talking about right now.”
Smith let out a quiet breath. In fact, he knew exactly what they were talking about. He’d watched friends die when he’d managed to walk away. He’d spent endless nights playing and replaying what had happened—what he could have done differently. But the operations that he’d been involved in were so classified that, technically, even he wasn’t cleared to know about them.
“I should have killed the woman,” Rivera said, now fixated on an empty wall, talking to himself. “She must have gotten word to Bahame that we were there. The safety of my men was my responsibility, and I copped out.”
“Killing an injured woman that you have no reason to believe is connected with your target is a serious decision, son. In your position, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“It doesn’t matter what you would have done!” Rivera shouted. “I was in command! The bitch was probably going to die anyway. And so she could live a few more hours, I watched my men get butchered. And then I ran—not to come back and report. Not to try to flank the people tearing them apart. I ran because I saw those people. I looked into their eyes and I panicked!”
“Enough!” Smith said, slamming his hands down on the table.
Rivera was breathing hard, and one of the wounds on his forehead had started to seep, creating a thin red line along the bridge of his nose.
Smith’s phone rang, and he looked down at it. Klein.
“I don’t have time for all this navel gazing,” he said, standing. “I’m going to take this call, and while I’m gone you’re going to think about what details you left out of your report that could help me figure out what happened to you and your men. Are we clear, Lieutenant?”
13
Western Cape, South Africa
November 14—0157 Hours GMT+2
T HE LAND CRUISER’S SPEEDOMETER was showing 150 kilometers per hour when the sharp left turn appeared in the headlights. Dembe Kaikara slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel, listening to the scream of the tires struggling to maintain traction.
The bitch had cut him!
He had a hand clamped over the deep slice across his side and could feel the blood oozing around his fingers. It wasn’t a serious wound, but the pain radiated from it, stoking his anger.
The road straightened and he took his hand off the wheel, balling a fist and slamming it repeatedly into the dashboard. His orders were to take her to the meeting place unharmed. And, as always, it was very clear that failure to carry out those orders would be severely punished.
But she owed him for what she had done. Surely Bahame would agree that he had a right to take his payment. She would still be alive for whatever he wanted her for.
A car appeared in front of him, and he slowed as it passed, looking behind him at the helpless woman bound in the backseat. She had regained consciousness and stared defiantly back at him.
It wouldn’t last, though. Soon her anger would turn to terror. She would use that beautiful mouth to beg him to stop, to offer him whatever he wanted. After a time, they all did.
He faced forward again, easing back some more on the accelerator. The road had gone black again, and he scanned the edge for a place he could pull over far enough to be invisible to the occasional passing car. Somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Sarie gave up pulling against the duct tape binding her hands. Her head had cleared enough to know she was accomplishing nothing but peeling the skin from her wrists.
What did this man want? Violent break-ins certainly weren’t uncommon in Africa, but theft clearly wasn’t his goal. He hadn’t taken anything but the Land Cruiser—and that just seemed to be a convenient mode of hostage transport.
Of course, sexual assault was also rampant in South Africa, but why be so elaborate? Her house was totally isolated, and he’d sure as hell had the upper hand.
No. There was more to it than that.
Smith let out a quiet breath. In fact, he knew exactly what they were talking about. He’d watched friends die when he’d managed to walk away. He’d spent endless nights playing and replaying what had happened—what he could have done differently. But the operations that he’d been involved in were so classified that, technically, even he wasn’t cleared to know about them.
“I should have killed the woman,” Rivera said, now fixated on an empty wall, talking to himself. “She must have gotten word to Bahame that we were there. The safety of my men was my responsibility, and I copped out.”
“Killing an injured woman that you have no reason to believe is connected with your target is a serious decision, son. In your position, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“It doesn’t matter what you would have done!” Rivera shouted. “I was in command! The bitch was probably going to die anyway. And so she could live a few more hours, I watched my men get butchered. And then I ran—not to come back and report. Not to try to flank the people tearing them apart. I ran because I saw those people. I looked into their eyes and I panicked!”
“Enough!” Smith said, slamming his hands down on the table.
Rivera was breathing hard, and one of the wounds on his forehead had started to seep, creating a thin red line along the bridge of his nose.
Smith’s phone rang, and he looked down at it. Klein.
“I don’t have time for all this navel gazing,” he said, standing. “I’m going to take this call, and while I’m gone you’re going to think about what details you left out of your report that could help me figure out what happened to you and your men. Are we clear, Lieutenant?”
13
Western Cape, South Africa
November 14—0157 Hours GMT+2
T HE LAND CRUISER’S SPEEDOMETER was showing 150 kilometers per hour when the sharp left turn appeared in the headlights. Dembe Kaikara slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel, listening to the scream of the tires struggling to maintain traction.
The bitch had cut him!
He had a hand clamped over the deep slice across his side and could feel the blood oozing around his fingers. It wasn’t a serious wound, but the pain radiated from it, stoking his anger.
The road straightened and he took his hand off the wheel, balling a fist and slamming it repeatedly into the dashboard. His orders were to take her to the meeting place unharmed. And, as always, it was very clear that failure to carry out those orders would be severely punished.
But she owed him for what she had done. Surely Bahame would agree that he had a right to take his payment. She would still be alive for whatever he wanted her for.
A car appeared in front of him, and he slowed as it passed, looking behind him at the helpless woman bound in the backseat. She had regained consciousness and stared defiantly back at him.
It wouldn’t last, though. Soon her anger would turn to terror. She would use that beautiful mouth to beg him to stop, to offer him whatever he wanted. After a time, they all did.
He faced forward again, easing back some more on the accelerator. The road had gone black again, and he scanned the edge for a place he could pull over far enough to be invisible to the occasional passing car. Somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Sarie gave up pulling against the duct tape binding her hands. Her head had cleared enough to know she was accomplishing nothing but peeling the skin from her wrists.
What did this man want? Violent break-ins certainly weren’t uncommon in Africa, but theft clearly wasn’t his goal. He hadn’t taken anything but the Land Cruiser—and that just seemed to be a convenient mode of hostage transport.
Of course, sexual assault was also rampant in South Africa, but why be so elaborate? Her house was totally isolated, and he’d sure as hell had the upper hand.
No. There was more to it than that.
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