WAR: Opposition: (WAR Book 3) (18 page)

Edging around the branch, she retrieved Seth’s torch from where it had fallen to the jungle floor, still on. As she played the light over him he winced and shut his eyes.

“Sorry. I need to check you for serious wounds.”

He had a small lump on the back of his head where the branch’s offshoot had hit him. Scratches covered his face, neck, and hands. The rain had washed away most of the blood, except for a still-bleeding diagonal scratch along the back of his neck. Kirra’s stomach threatened to revolt.
Uh-uh. Don’t you dare.

“Seth, can you feel it if I put my hand here?” She touched his ankle through the wet fabric of his pants.

He grunted and she blew out a breath in exasperation. “What does that mean? Yes or no?”

“Yeah.” The word was barely audible.

“Here?” She moved her hand to his other ankle.

“Uh-huh.”

She repeated her gentle testing until she’d confirmed that he had full awareness of all his limbs.

“Now I’m going to check for broken bones or deep cuts.” She ran her hands over his body. By concentrating on her breathing, and by explaining her movements to Seth, she completed her examination without throwing up or passing out. He twitched a few times when she touched a particularly sore spot, but he kept his eyes closed.

“Okay, I’m finished. You’re…fine…” Or maybe not. What if the impact had done internal damage? She had no way to check for that. What if he suddenly collapsed after a bit of walking and died? Then what would she do?

Stop worrying. Focus on the immediate situation.

All right. They needed a dry place to spend the night.

Her lips twisted. Given how hard the rain was falling, that seemed unlikely. So, she needed to find them a
drier
place. Preferably one with some sort of roof.

She took a deep breath. She could do this. She had to. For Seth.

F
ucking rain
.

The torrential rain had forced Dev to take shelter for the night when the roads turned into small rivers. Dev stared out the window of the guest room in the home of a local doctor who belonged to Rene’s network of informants. The rain had already turned the enclosed garden behind the bungalow into a swamp.

He hoped his sister and that pilot, Seth Jarrod, had holed up someplace safe and dry.

The question that Dev had been avoiding was whether Kirra and Jarrod were still alive. Witnesses had reported that a white man riding a motorcycle had shot at a black Land Cruiser with tinted windows. The assassin had made no attempt to hide his identity. Worse, he’d shot at the surrounding vehicles, killing several civilians.

It made no sense.

There had been too many people—inside vehicles, walking along the pavement, and seated in the park—to justify the assassin’s actions as an attempt to eliminate witnesses. The assassin hadn’t even been wearing a helmet. A few enterprising people had snapped photos and turned them over to the authorities. Since a white man was involved, the police had forwarded the photos to WAR and Lachlan had sent copies to Wil’s team.

Dev had visited the scene and had been allowed to talk to a couple of the witnesses. They confirmed that after firing twice at the Land Cruiser, the assassin had deliberately aimed at the nearby vehicles. Why? Disabling the vehicles had not blocked Jarrod in. The man had simply shifted into reverse, gunned it, and escaped.

Dev was glad that Jarrod hadn’t lost any of his combat reflexes. But he still didn’t want his sister with Jarrod any longer than necessary. He didn’t care that Kirra wouldn’t have survived this long against the rebels without Jarrod’s help. Jarrod had brought Kirra into the sights of the assassin, and that was unforgivable.

Unfortunately, the Land Cruiser’s trail went cold after it disappeared from the scene. This town didn’t have closed circuit cameras on its streets, and no one had reported spotting the vehicle.

With the rain, the poor state of the roads, and darkness falling, Dev wouldn’t have made it very far even if he had known which way Kirra and Jarrod went. But he hated waiting here, hoping for some miracle witness to report seeing the white woman and her companion.

During their investigation of the bus attack, the government had discovered Kirra’s name on the passenger list. At WAR’s urging, they’d agreed to keep Kirra’s disappearance a secret. No one wanted to give the rebels fodder by announcing that one of the headliners at the upcoming benefit concert was missing after a rebel attack. So there was no country-wide APB on Kirra. Only informal requests for contacts to be on the lookout for her.

Dev sighed. The lantern behind him turned the water streaming down the window into fiery flows of lava. He traced one with his finger.

If he’d been in their position, Dev would have found another vehicle to replace the shot-up Land Cruiser. Then he would have taken back roads to get out of town. Without conflicting information, Dev had to assume that Jarrod intended to drive Kirra up to the concert. But he didn’t like staking his sister’s life on an assumption.

Dammit, he couldn’t take any more of these life-and-death situations. It had been agonizing sitting by her hospital bed, waiting for her to emerge from her coma. Afraid that she’d die without hearing him tell her that he loved her. Once she’d recovered and made music her career, he’d breathed a sigh of relief.

Now here they were again. Him worrying because Kirra’s lack of responsibility had landed her in trouble. This time he had to convince her that she couldn’t just go off and do whatever she pleased. She had to learn to think through the consequences, then promise to put her safety first.

Because fuck, as if being targeted by the rebels wasn’t bad enough, she had Morenga’s guys and the damn assassin hunting for her. If she’d just kept her butt in South Africa, none of this would have happened.

Dev rubbed the back of his neck. It bugged him that he hadn’t seen any sign of Morenga’s men. He knew Morenga must have sent at least one guy after the diamonds. So why hadn’t Dev spotted him yet?

Because you’ve been too focused on Kirra.

Yeah. That.

His satellite phone rang, the sound barely audible over the rain pounding on the metal roof. He snatched it up. “Give me some good news.”

“Do you always answer your phone so rudely?” the soft-spoken voice of Obidawah Dapaah, his team’s sniper, chided.

“Um. Sorry. Thought it was Lachlan.”

“Even worse, as he is our leader and due the respect of his position.”

Right. Obi knew damn well Lachlan didn’t stand on formalities. His teammate was just ragging on Dev in his own subtle way. “All right, do you want to call back and I’ll answer with a respectful, ‘What do you need, sir?’”

Obi laughed. “No need.” He paused and Dev braced himself. “Do you want the bad news or the worst news first?” he asked.

“Shit. Bad then worse.”

“The bad news is that Wil gave us an ID on the assassin. His name is John Haig. He was part of an elite military assassination squad in Southeast Asia at the same time as Jarrod was there. Haig’s younger brother, Abe, was also part of the squad.”

Dev cursed.

“Yes. It gets worse. Abe went MIA shortly after the attack on the base. When John Haig’s tour was over, he became an independent operator.”

“Did Wil’s team discover who put him on Jarrod’s tail?”

“No. Wil says they’re working on tracking the man’s finances since he went private, but his tracks are well-hidden.”

“What’s the worse news?”

Obi cleared his throat. “As a sniper, I have my own concerns about the behavior you’ve reported.”

Dev’s stomach sank. “What?”

“According to the witnesses, Haig could have easily killed Jarrod and your sister. Instead, he aimed at civilians, thus stepping beyond the boundaries of his training. Our job is to eliminate our target. That is all. We do not switch, or add, targets unless there is a mission-critical reason to do so. We do not ask why a target needs to be eliminated. We do not have the right to question the morality of our shots. We must have ultimate trust in those giving the orders. Because if we do not believe that those giving the orders are doing so for the right reasons, then how can we look at ourselves in the mirror each day?”

Dev held his breath. Shortly after the Hospital Massacre, Obi had killed a former school mate. The man had been one of the rebels under Sani Natchaba who had kidnapped Helen. Obi had been talking to a therapist about his decision to pull the trigger. He also talked to Helen, who had similar issues regarding her own use of violence to free herself and her boss, Mrs. N’Dorah, after being kidnapped by Natchaba.

But when talking to the rest of the team, Obi never so much as alluded to his own personal conflict, even though Dev knew he must constantly fear whose face he’d see next on the other end of his scope.

“We only get to exercise our free will in regard to how we set up and take the shot. When the mission objective calls for stealth, we do not get to decide that the entire world should see us take the shot. Yet this assassin has moved publicly against Jarrod. Worse, if we are correct and his official target is Jarrod, then he has stepped over the line. Instead of following orders, he is making his own. He’s no longer thinking of himself as a tool without an ego. Instead, it seems to me that he wants attention. He wants everyone to know that he’s after Jarrod. Taking out civilians could be seen as a way to put mental pressure on Jarrod.”

“Make Jarrod feel guilty for the innocent lives taken.”

“Yes, precisely that. It suggests a personal motive.” Obi paused. “If Haig believes that Jarrod killed his brother, then it’s possible he’s out for revenge.”

“Bloody fantastic.” Dev massaged the muscles at the back of his neck. “Bottom line is that we have an unpredictable, highly trained killer on the loose. And as long as my sister is with Jarrod, she’s in the assassin’s sights.”

“Unfortunately, yes. Be careful, Dev. If he discovers that you’re trying to bring Jarrod in, he’ll likely attempt to take you out as well.”

If it were anyone else, Dev would have replied with a smart-ass comeback. But although Obi was an integral part of the team, he always maintained a bit of an emotional distance from the group. So Dev simply said, “Thanks for the warning. Have the concert organizers been given this latest information?”

“Yes.” Obi took a deep breath. “I wish I could be there to help, but you know how it goes. We are on our way out again.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it. I have no intention of letting this guy get another shot at my sister or Jarrod.”

“
I
’m going
to scout for a drier place for us to spend the night,” Kirra announced.

“Ungh…” Seth turned his head slightly so the rain didn’t trickle down his cheek and into his mouth, then tried again. “You’re okay?” He forced open his eyes, but Kirra was behind him so he couldn’t judge for himself how much damage she’d suffered. All he saw was a wet tangle of leaves and branches.

Damn. That blow had seriously knocked the wind out of him. His upper back and shoulders felt as if they’d been slammed into a wall. Part of the branch must have whacked him on the back of his head, because it felt as if a helicopter’s rotors were knocking against the inside of his skull, each hit amplifying his headache. At least, now that Kirra had removed the branch, his lungs were slowly remembering how to fill with air, making it easier to talk.

Kirra crawled into view. She smiled at him, then brushed some wet leaves off his face. “I’m fine.” She swiped her forearm across her eyes to clear the stream of rain. “Do you think you can sit up or move onto your back?”

He made a minute movement of his head, but even that motion left him gasping with pain.

“Not…yet. Headache.”

Her lips pursed as she studied him. “Will you be okay here on your own?” She pointed to his flashlight. “I’ll have to take that with me.”

“I’ll be fine. But…ah…talk to me while you’re exploring and don’t go too far. I need to know you’re nearby and okay. That the assassin or the rebels haven’t nabbed you.”

She nodded.

“Take my knife,” he said. “It’s sharp enough to cut through small branches.”

She hesitated, and the bleak look in her eyes made him feel like an insensitive idiot. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“No. It’s okay.” She pushed her shoulders back. “My self-defense trainer taught me knife work. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

All right. If that’s the way she wanted to play it.

Kirra slid his knife out of its sheath. She studied it a moment, turning the blade this way and that before adjusting her grip on the well-worn hilt. There was nothing to identify it as his army-issued knife, yet there was also no disguising the fact that this was primarily a combat blade, meant to slice through flesh. Her eyes rose to meet his with a question.

“Long story,” he said.

“I’d like to hear it some time,” she replied. Leaning forward, she kissed his forehead. Then she climbed gracefully to her feet, balancing the knife in such a way that he knew her trainer had been an experienced fighter. Given what she’d told him about her past, he was glad someone had taken the time to teach her to defend herself. Even if a part of him felt jealous at the close contact that training would have involved.

“Stay safe,” she ordered. Then she climbed through the tangle of branches and disappeared from sight.

His heart lurched and he fought the urge to push to his feet and go after her.

But a moment later Kirra began singing in a low, raspy voice, clearing her throat every few bars until her voice settled into a strong, confident rhythm. She sang what sounded to him like traditional African songs, mixed with simple songs in Afrikaans such as a child might learn. Every now and then her singing was replaced by a grunt or a low curse and the sound of his knife sawing against bark.

Dammit, this was all his fault. If he hadn’t been in deep with his blackmailer, then he’d be just another pilot trying to make an honest living. He’d have friends and colleagues he could have trusted with Kirra’s safety. But now she was stuck with him. A man with an assassin after him. A man who couldn’t even keep himself safe.

So how was he going to protect Kirra long enough to find her a safe haven?

No matter what kind of training she’d received, it didn’t mean much against an experienced fighter. Or against fighters such as the rebels, who were often too jacked up on drugs to notice pain, making them nearly impossible to stop.

He had to get up so he could protect her. Yet the soothing melody of her singing lulled him closer to sleep.

No.

He couldn’t afford to drift off. They were too vulnerable. He began slowly moving his body, breathing through the pain in his head until he managed to lift himself into a hands-and-knees position.

But he couldn’t see squat in the darkness. He reached out his hand to get a feel for his surroundings.

Light speared toward him. He cursed and turned his head away. The sharp movement intensified the pain inside his head.

“What are you doing?” Kirra snapped. Crouching in front of him, she put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Need to…move. Protect…you.” Okay, that sounded pretty pathetic. But even with his head pounding and rain streaming into his eyes he could still hit whatever he was aiming at. As long as it stood still and was a big enough target.

Such as an airplane hangar.

“Uh-huh. Right.” Kirra sounded both skeptical and amused.

“Help me up.”

“Okay.” She held out her hands and he grabbed them. “Ready?”

“Always.”

Kirra rolled her eyes.

With her support, he stood up. He swayed precariously at first and almost toppled them both to the ground, but he ground his teeth and hung on until the dizziness passed.

“I found a new place for us to shelter, just down here,” Kirra said, shining his flashlight toward a giant tree with buttressed roots that extended past his head. As they picked their way toward it through the aftermath from the fallen tree, he saw that she’d cut branches of wide palm leaves and spread them over the roots, forming a canopy.