Diamond Legacy (34 page)

“The name,” Matt demanded.

Weston eyed him with hostility. “He’s a mercenary. A cold-hearted bastard that makes ruthless seem like child’s play. If you’re going after him, then you’re a dead man.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

The Under Secretary sat and stared at nothing as the clock ticked by. The man was a consummate politician. Matt expected he weighed his options, calculating how to best turn this around.

“I never expected things to get this far,” Weston said with a shake of his head. “But I made a deal with the devil, and I’m condemned to obey. It’s growing more intolerable every day.”

“If you’re angling for sympathy, it won’t work.”

“Look,” Weston began pleadingly. “I made a mistake years ago, and he bailed me out. Since then, he has tightened a noose around my neck. And not just me. He’s deadly, a viper with tentacles in every sector of Africa. He’s drunk on power. But I’m going to stop him. There’s already a plan in motion. All I need is for IDS to stand down.”

“Not an option,” Nik said.

“Whether you believe me or not, everything I’ve done is for the greater good of my country. Don’t interfere now.”

Matt tapped his wristwatch. “Time is wasting.”

Weston sighed heavily. “All right. But you will regret this.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his chin, as though calculating his next move. “If I give you the name, I want something in return.”

Matt didn’t want to give him a damn thing, but he was here to cut a deal. He needed information. “How about a chance to walk out of Botswana without serving jail time?” Matt offered. His soon-to-be-informant appeared interested, so Matt continued. “You’ll have exactly three days to pack up and get out of the country before word gets out. In return, you will cancel the weapons deal, give me the man’s name, and the location of his base camp. And you will never, ever leak one word of Katanga’s involvement.”

The last part he threw in for Miranda’s sake. And Roz and Letta. And the many others who benefited from the work performed there.

“You don’t ask for much, do you?” Weston spoke through clenched jaws.

“You’re damn lucky I’m not sending you up river immediately,” Matt said without an ounce of pity.

The politician stared at him with eyes colder than Kilimanjaro snow. “I’ll cancel the deal and give you the name, but I regret I won’t be around for your funeral.”

“I’ll suffer the disappointment.”

Weston remained stone-faced, but he spilled the information. “His name is Pierre Bessault, and his camp sits just inside the Kalahari, beyond Molepolole.”

Matt shoved paper and a pen in front of Weston. “I want a map.”

He did as told and produced a rough sketch. “Unless you go in with an army, you will never get anywhere near Bessault,” he said as he handed over the drawing. “The place is heavily guarded by men every bit as ruthless as he is.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Matt gave a quick study of the map and stuffed it in his pocket. “Enjoy your speech, Weston. It will be your last.”

From her constant perch at the grimy window, Miranda surveyed the commotion at the far end of camp. Five years ago, her father had faced smuggled guns and came away paralyzed. The view from their prison said her price would be much greater.

Fear and regret threatened her ability to remain rational. She needed to focus on possible solutions instead. If they had any hope of living to tell this tale, they had to get out.

Twilight had settled into dark, but generator lights peppering the compound revealed heightened activity occurring at the far end.

“Something’s going on,” she said to Hank. “Even our guard is distracted.”

In a flash, she crossed the room to the front door. Her heart pounded as she cracked it open a mere sliver and peered outside.

Their guard stood fifty feet away, straining to glimpse the action. He was a stick of a man, barely big enough to cast a shadow, but he made up for it with the size of his gun. He took a few more steps away from them toward the action.

“Hank,” she whispered, “come look.”

She opened the door another inch. Trucks were arriving, the big military canvas-backed cargo trucks that held substantial ammunition stores. Were they picking up or delivering? There was no telling, but the entire camp headed over to meet them.

“What’s going on?” Hank whispered behind her.

“Some sort of shipment,” she replied. “And it has everyone’s attention.”

Their guard glanced back, clearly torn between duty and curiosity. Miranda held her breath. Curiosity won the day, and he turned back to the commotion.

She closed the door. “This might be our only chance, Hank.”

A sudden look of alarm crossed his face. That worried her more than his swollen and bruised nose. He already wavered unsteadily on his feet. A strong wind gust would likely blow him over. It boded ill for the start of an escape attempt.

Still, they had to try.

“We’ll steal the first vehicle we find,” she said. “Keep to as much cover as possible and pray for luck.”

“What are you talking about?” He sounded near panicked. “Do you seriously mean to make a run for it? Did you see all those guns out there?”

How could he not realize the severity of their situation?

“They’re going to kill us, Hank. We’ve seen their operation. We can identify people. That equals a death sentence for you and me. Personally, if I’m going to die, I’d rather do it trying to escape.”

It didn’t seem possible for his pallor to drop another shade. But her take on their odds of survival did the trick. For some reason, that fact annoyed her.

“We’re wasting time,” she said abruptly. “You can come with me, or stay, but I’m taking what slim chance there is to stay alive.”

She opened the door a crack. Their guard appeared occupied by the latest set of headlights to pull in. The truck rolled to a stop in front of the biggest building near the end of the compound and was greeted by a resounding hail of cheers and whistles. Miranda saw the arrival as opportunity. Odds were, it would be their only one.

“Now!” she whispered to Hank.

She didn’t wait to see if he followed, just slipped out the door and quickly rounded to the dark side of their prison.

Thankfully, Hank joined her and they inched down the wall, taking care to avoid jagged metal edges and splintered wood that made up the sides of the building.

From the back, Miranda made a lightning fast survey of the area. Flat ground and minimal cover. A couple skeletal acacia trees, several more shacks, a burnt-out shell of a car, and one major pile of junk in the open space between them and the next set of buildings.

That was it then. The debris became her target.

She eyed the stretch between them and the questionable cover. Two shacks down, a small group of men headed toward the arriving caravan, but their backs were to them. She didn’t see anyone else in close range.

Darkness was their only salvation. Her breathing went shallow, her heart raced, and every sense she owned stood on full alert. It’s time to make a run for it. “Okay,” she whispered as she turned back to Hank. “Here’s the plan.”

Oh, God
. Hank’s face had paled to a ghostly white. Add pinched lips, flared nostrils, and a blood-spattered shirt, and he looked one step from wretchedly sick. But there wasn’t time for sympathy. She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. “Snap out of it, Hank. Right now!” she whispered forcefully.

He focused on her face, and she continued. “If you want to live, you need to pull it together.”

He swallowed hard.

“We’re making a run for that pile of junk.” She pointed, yet kept close watch for signs of comprehension. It was a tiny relief when he nodded, but she took it.

Another peek around the corner and everything looked clear. It was now or never. “Now, Hank! Run!”

She sprinted as fast as her legs would move. Though only seconds, it felt an eternity until she reached their target. Luck held however, and no warning whistle blew.

She glanced back for Hank and sank into cold despair. He hadn’t moved! His stare was as frozen as the rest of him. She gave a fierce wave of her hand, an unmistakable order to move it.

And surprisingly, he did. Without even checking to see if the coast was clear, he fled the building and crossed the space in a desperate run. Her breathing stopped until he joined her again.

“Jesus, Miranda,” he panted, “you’re going to get us killed.”

She ignored his obvious misconception. There were bigger things to worry about. Like their next move. She circled halfway around the rubble and stopped to spy on the caravan. Three big trucks now sat parked, their headlights revealing a hive of activity, but the excitement of their arrival would soon be over. Their window of opportunity was shrinking fast.

“This is crazy,” Hank whined behind her. “We should’ve stayed put.”

There wasn’t time to debate the issue as she calculated their next option. “Give me your hand.”

He did and she took off running, dragging him behind her.

Shouts rang out as they reached the next shack. Adrenaline raced through her veins as they disappeared around the side, straight down to the back. It took an unnerving second for her to realize the shouts weren’t due to their escape, but another celebration near the trucks. She exhaled a snap prayer of thanks. Then added a heartfelt plea for help. Heaven knew, they needed a miracle right now.

She found one instantly. The front half of a rusted, old truck sat alongside the next shack. She’d never hot-wired a vehicle before, but unless the keys were on a silver platter, she’d be getting a crash course.

“See that truck, Hank?”

He grunted in reply.

“I’m driving,” she said as she peered around the building.

He didn’t argue.

“Now!”

They ran for the truck. The driver side door handle wouldn’t work, so Miranda reached inside the open window and released the catch. The door opened and she threw herself inside. No keys in the ignition. She lowered the visor. Nothing.

“Come on!” She ran her hand under the edge of the seat and pulled out a handful of metal. A clamp and bolt she threw aside, a little Swiss Army knife she slipped in her pocket. Then she reached down to lift the floor mat.

A jingle of keys sounded outside the truck’s window. “Looking for these?”

Miranda’s heart sank. With a heavy sigh, she turned to find Bessault standing by the cab, a vicious smirk on his cruel face.

“How about acting human for a change and hand those over?” Baiting him wasn’t smart, she knew that, but couldn’t seem to stop herself.

“Step out of the truck, Miss Parrish.”

Why couldn’t one thing go her way? Anger clouded her common sense, and she opened the door to climb out. Then slammed it shut for the hell of it.

“You’re misbehaving, Miss Parrish.”

She gave a flippant shrug. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

Hank came stumbling around the front of the truck, shoved by a gun-toting guard.

“Hey! Take it easy on him. He’s already hurt.”

“Your compassion is misplaced, Miss Parrish. Save it for yourself. You’re going to need it.”

“Really?” She wanted nothing more than to bring his gargantuan ego down a peg. “It’s going to be a pleasure to see you rot in jail. Because you will. IDS has your number. They’ve been watching you for weeks now.”

He only laughed. “IDS can’t touch me.”

“No one is above the law.”

Bessault only laughed harder. “It’s going to be a damn shame to have to kill you.” He stepped up so close she could see his pupils dilate, even in the faded light. “But make no mistake. You will die.”

“I hope you fry in hell.”

His nostrils flared, and he lifted a hand to stroke a finger down her face. He was a predator, teasing his prey as he traced the line of her chin, down her neck, and past her collar bone. When his touch slid down to circle her breast, she slapped his hand away.

He responded with a furious backhand across her face.

She stumbled backward as tears sprang to her eyes, but she refused to cower in front of him. Instead, she lifted a hand to cradle her burning cheek and glared her hatred.

“You are a delightful complication,” he said with a gleam of carnal interest. “But personal desire, no matter how tempting, should never get in the way of commerce.”

That glimpse of lust terrified Miranda.

A shout rang out, and one of Bessault’s men came running over. “Buyer’s here.”

Bessault smiled in satisfaction. “Excellent. Payday has arrived. Escort Miss Parrish and her friend to the trucks. And bring me the guard who allowed them to escape.”

He marched off without looking back.

They traveled dark, no headlights, no interior lights, nothing to give away their position. And despite an overwhelming urge to eat up the road, Matt kept this last stretch slow to prevent a telltale dust cloud from announcing their arrival. They were just three men on a rescue operation that needed an army. Stealth was their only advantage.

“Before we embark on this suicide mission,” Nik said in a no-nonsense tone usually reserved for interrogations, “how about you tell me exactly what’s at work here.”

Matt suspected that Nik knew the tragedy of his past. His boss had dropped subtle hints over the years, but Matt had never obliged. He didn’t want to now, either. He needed separation, not conversation. Miranda was out there, her life in danger, and he itched to fly. He constantly had to back off the gas pedal.

“Now would be good, Bennett,” Nik continued. “We’re almost there.”

“What’s going on?” Matt’s tone was sharp with anger and worry. “Weston is owned by a warmonger, Graham is working both ends of the arms trade, and time has run out.”

“There is more.” Nik didn’t let up. “You are different. There is a fierceness in your eyes. Who, or what, are you fighting?”

“You know what Pierre Bessault is,” Matt snapped. “He’s a menace, the head of a major weapons pipeline.”

“I’ve read his dossier at IDS,” Nik scoffed.

“Then what more do you want?” Matt’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “You need another reason to get him off the streets?”