WAR: Intrusion (24 page)

“Aye. Some bloke nearly made it to the armory at the main American facility.”

“Right.” The would-be attacker had arrived with a group of American citizens who’d been evacuated from one of the regional capitals in the Republic of West Guinea. In the confusion and urgency of the evacuation, no one had checked the IDs of those getting on the helicopter. When the passengers had disembarked inside the U.S. military and diplomatic facility in the Greater Niger Republic, the terrorist had slipped away. Luckily, a sharp-eyed Marine had caught the man’s furtive movements and raised the alarm.

“The man had in his possession not only a detailed map of the base, but also a list of security codes needed to access the weapons locker,” Kris continued.

“Isn’t that similar to the way the earlier attack went down? The one that injured Max’s brother?”

“Yeah.” Kris’s heart ached every time he thought about how close Wil had come to dying in that attack over a year ago. How close he’d come to never even meeting Wil.

Without Wil’s friendship, Kris would have lost both his patience and his sanity these past months. As the man in charge of WAR’s military teams, Kris had been burning the midnight oil figuring out how best to deploy his troops to stop the increase in rebel attacks, while also overseeing recruiting and training.

“Wil’s team finally traced a key component of the explosive device the potential base bomber had in his possession,” Kris told Lachlan. “It had been purchased from an Eastern European criminal gang by the same corporation that signed Dr. Kirk’s loan papers.”

“Fucking…” Lachlan launched into a virulent tirade in Gaelic and gutter English.

“I think your earlier suggestion is correct,” Kris cut in when Lachlan paused to take a breath. “There must be a new player at work here, because there’s no evidence of that corporation being tied to Joseph Morenga. In fact, neither our research department nor Wil’s have been able to discover who set up the corporation.”

“Is that due to the lack of legal oversight on this end?” Lachlan asked. “Or do you suspect the hand of Dietrich’s sponsor at work?”

Kris put the phone on speaker and paced around his office. “I’d like to think it’s just because someone forgot to enter the paperwork into the system, but the corporation is tied both to Natchaba and the festival attack with its miniaturized explosives.” He sighed. “So it’s likely the sponsor again. Hopefully, the lab techs will find some unique identifier among the bomb fragments you managed to sneak out. But with our luck…”

“Aye.”

Whoever had been sponsoring Heinrich Dietrich from deep within the U.S. military, the man—or woman—remained as elusive as smoke. Yet both WAR and Wil’s team suspected the sponsor of having his or her fingers in several dozen illegal activities within West Africa.

There was a knock at Kris’s door. Before he could call out for the person to come in, the door swung open to reveal Wil. Kris’s heart leapt into his throat. Wil hadn’t been able to make his weekly trips here to WAR HQ since the attack on his base. The lines of stress at his eyes and mouth were more pronounced than usual and he’d lost weight. Still, Kris’s pulse hammered as he drank in the sight of Wil.

If that Marine hadn’t sounded the alarm in time, the terrorist would have walked right in to the armory, placed his small explosive device, and disappeared. Detonating the armory would have destroyed the entire base.

Including Wil.

Kris’s breath caught. The thought of never seeing Wil again, never seeing his fierce intelligence mulling over a problem, then morphing into satisfaction as he figured out a course of action, threatened to open a hole in Kris’s chest he didn’t know he could survive. Wil might not have shown any signs of reciprocating Kris’s attraction, but that didn’t lessen the strength of Kris’s feelings.

For a brief moment, Wil held Kris’s gaze. Kris wanted to believe that he saw the same satisfaction in Wil’s eyes at finally being in the same room, but he was probably imagining it.

“Have you had any luck discovering if Morenga is working with Dietrich’s sponsor?” Lachlan asked.

Wil walked over to the desk with only a barely perceptible hitch to his movement thanks to his high-tech prostheses.

“Hey Lach, Wil here. We’ve got a guy inside Morenga’s organization, but he’s not part of the inner circle yet, so his intel is limited. Which means we have no way of knowing if Dietrich’s sponsor has switched his support to Morenga.”

“I’ve put feelers out to all of my contacts,” Kris added. “In fact, there’s a sort of underground reunion in a few weeks that I’m planning to attend.”

Wil spun around and glared at Kris. “You’re
what
?” he mouthed.

“If anyone will have intel on our traitor,” Kris continued, struggling to keep his voice calm while his heart jackrabbited inside his chest at the outrage and fury on Wil’s face, “it will be these guys.”

“Brilliant,” Lachlan said.

“In the meantime, as soon as the sketch artist comes up with a viable image, scan it to our secure server.”

“Right.” Lachlan ended the call.

Wil stepped into Kris’s personal space. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Kris?”

Kris’s blood lit up with desire. Dammit, one of these days he’d have to warn Wil about the effects his anger and aggressiveness had on Kris’s libido. But not now. Right now he simply wanted to enjoy the thrill of standing against Wil’s dominating nature.

He crossed his arms over his chest and returned Wil’s glare with a cool glance. “I’m sorry, was there something in what I told my WAR teammate that you, the American military liaison, found objectionable?”

“Damn straight. You’re going to the Conclave? Are you fucking nuts? That’s not a reunion of lawful, former military and intelligence officers. It’s a gathering that includes the deadliest, most amoral mercenaries on the planet. You’ve got no business there.”

Wil’s lack of faith in him cut so deep, Kris bit back a snarl. But he wasn’t the leader of WAR’s military division because he let emotions rule him. “Show a little confidence,” Kris suggested. “I’m not stupid enough to go in as myself. I do have alternate identities. Unit 3 was hard core black ops. This won’t be my first time at the conclave.”

“Shit. I didn’t mean to insult you.” Wil ran his hand over his buzz cut. His expression softened from furious outrage to something approaching regret. “I know your team at Unit 3 was one of the best in the business. But you haven’t been out in the field in over a year and I—” He glanced away, but not before Kris caught the glimpse of fear and something else, something that Kris had never seen before in Wil’s eyes.

Kris couldn’t breathe. “What, Wil?”

Wil shook his head and tried to step around him, but Kris blocked his path. “What’s really going on, Wil?” he asked quietly. “What difference does it make to you if I go to the Conclave?” His heart pounded in his throat as he waited for Wil’s answer. It wasn’t like Wil to avoid difficult topics. He usually charged them head on.

Wil gave a vehement, almost panicked, shake of his head. “Fuck it, I don’t have time for this.” He shoved Kris out of his way and strode for the door. “If you want to get your fool self killed, go right ahead. Just don’t expect me to come save your sorry ass.”

Kris stared in stunned silence as Wil stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Releasing his pent-up breath, Kris tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. A slow smile built into a grin. It wasn’t the most romantic declaration of interest, but he’d take it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

New
Accra

The Republic of the Volta

West Africa

LACHLAN
STOOD BEHIND Helen as the police sketch artist, a quiet woman in her mid-twenties, worked to incorporate Helen’s changes into her drawing. Despite the serious situation, Lachlan couldn’t stop replaying the kiss. What the hell had he been thinking, to let Helen kiss him? He should have known from their previous kiss that he wouldn’t be able to resist kissing her back. Only this time, the urgency and strength of his arousal had been nuclear. If Dev hadn’t interrupted them, Lachlan might have taken her right there on the kitchen table.

Before he met Helen, Lachlan could count on one hand the number of times he’d lost his prized self-control since the night he’d killed his father. Whether it was anger or desire, Helen had an uncanny ability to push him to his limits.

He couldn’t afford such a dangerous distraction. If he was to keep Helen safe, he had to stay focused on security, not on how explosive they’d be together in bed.

The artist turned the updated sketch toward Helen. Lachlan yanked his attention back to the job at hand and studied the image.

“No,” Helen said. “His nose was a little narrower.”

The artist shaded in the area to each side of the nose. “Like so?” she asked.

“Yes. Wow. That’s him. That’s amazing.”

The artist gave Helen a shy smile.

“Honestly,” Helen continued, “I figured I wouldn’t be much help.”

“Our brains record far more details than we are conscious of,” the artist said as she added some finishing touches to the sketch. Then she held it out for them to study.

The picture showed a man under thirty, with a calm, slightly patronizing air. His face reminded Lachlan of someone and he cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out the resemblance. He thought there was a hint of cruelty in the thin press of Natchaba’s lips and a lack of true emotion in his eyes that was contrary to the generous benefactor Helen had named him. But perhaps he radiated kindness in person.

“Do you recognize him?” the artist asked.

“No,” Lachlan finally admitted, “but he looks vaguely familiar.” Lachlan opened the photo album sitting on the table. When they’d arrived at the station, one of the police officers had requested that Helen first search through the photos of known rebels. Only when she’d failed to recognize anyone had the officer reluctantly let them work with the artist, who, it turned out, was his daughter.

Lachlan flipped through the pages, carefully comparing each photo to the sketch. When he reached the end, he shook his head. “It’s not anyone in here. But I’m certain Natchaba resembles a person I’ve either met or seen a clear photo of.” He stared at the sketch for another long moment, then shrugged and handed it back to the artist. “I’ll let you know if a name shakes loose. How long before we have copies we can distribute?”

“That depends on whether our copier has been fixed or if I need to walk this down to the eastern branch,” the artist said. “If you will excuse me, I will check on the status.”

He nodded.

Helen stared after the woman, then rubbed her arms. “Standing in the ruins of the village, with dead bodies all around me, all I wanted was vengeance,” she murmured. She gestured to the sketch. “But what I really need is justice. Because no matter what role Mr. Natchaba played in recent events, he is a human being and deserves to be treated fairly.” As the media had seldom treated Helen’s family. “I need to know that we’re better than he is. I need Natchaba to be held accountable for his actions in a court of law and for the media to expose the extent of his crimes. Yes, my grief and sense of betrayal are howling for harsher punishment, but emotion cannot be allowed to rule. The violence has to stop.”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and Lachlan swallowed back his hurt. “It so happens that I agree with you, doctor. Violence is a tool I use, but ultimately, I work to support the rule of law. To bring to justice the predators who target the weak.”

Her gaze turned thoughtful.

Before she could respond, he cleared his throat and nodded at his watch. “We need to leave now if you’re to make your appointment this afternoon.”

“Talk about losing track of time.” Helen shouldered her bag. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Remember,” Lachlan warned as they were driven by an unmarked police vehicle to the hospital. “Natchaba will likely have men watching for you. We’ll enter through the back and head directly for the patient’s room. You won’t stop to check on the other survivors. You won’t offer your help to the doctors. You’ll speak with this man and then we will leave.”

“Yes. I understand,” she snapped. “You don’t need to treat me like a child.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think of you as a child, Helen.” Good God, their kiss that morning should have proved that beyond any shadow of a doubt. “But you’ve already shown that in your compassion for others you have little regard for your own safety. I figured the more times I remind you of the danger the more likely you are to abide by the security precautions.”

She sighed. “Fine. Point made.”

Once inside the hospital, a guard escorted them to the proper room. Lachlan followed Helen inside, only to nearly bump into her back when she froze a few feet from the door. When Lachlan stepped to the side and saw the patient, recognition slammed into him and a fist of emotion squeezed his heart. The man had Sisi’s wide, brown eyes.

For a moment all Lachlan could hear was Helen screaming and crying over Sisi’s body. He remembered the body of Sisi’s mother lying protectively over her child.

“Adome.” Helen’s choked sob brought Lachlan back to the present.

“I want to know exactly what happened to my wife and children,” Adome insisted. His voice was surprisingly strong for a man whose body was swathed in bandages and whose face was covered in scrapes and bruises.

“No,” Helen said quietly, her voice hoarse from unshed tears. “They are dead. We buried them ourselves. Please don’t ask me to give any more details.”

The man winced, then turned his determined gaze to Lachlan. “You, sir. Will you tell me how my family died?”

Helen’s shoulders tensed and her head jerked toward Lachlan in alarm. Would the lass never learn to trust him? “I will add only one thing, sir.” Lachlan patted Helen’s shoulder to let her know he understood her concern. “Your wife died trying to protect your little girl. As for the rest,” Lachlan shook his head. “No loved one needs to have those type of memories. Instead, remember them in a happy moment and be assured that they will be avenged.”