WAR: Opposition: (WAR Book 3) (4 page)

“I must have the diamonds back before Friday,” Morenga said.

“Yes, sir.” Technically, Rio and his security team hadn’t been responsible for the courier’s safety between Angola and Volta. Rio had been scheduled to meet the man in one of the larger towns along the coast of Volta tomorrow, then escort him to Morenga’s headquarters. At that point, the courier would hand over the diamonds. But from Morenga’s tone, Rio’s head would be on the block if he didn’t find the diamonds in time for Friday’s meeting.

“You understand the consequences if Bureh retrieves the diamonds.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Bureh’s violent agenda gained popularity with a certain segment of the rebellion, Morenga had stepped forward to set himself up as the leader for the more moderate rebels. One of his first decisions had been to refuse to sell weapons to Bureh’s rebels, creating a bitter divide between the two groups.

With the regional governments taking stronger action against the rebels in the wake of the Hospital Massacre, Morenga had decided that violence was not the proper response. He’d switched his financial support to backing political candidates and increasing the influence of businesses favorable to the moderate rebels. The diamonds had been promised as payment for a lucrative business contract to be awarded to the company run by one of Morenga’s allies. If Morenga failed to produce the diamonds, his reputation would suffer. If Bureh obtained the diamonds, not only would his reputation improve, but he would be able to afford to purchase weapons outside of West Africa, circumventing Morenga’s boycott.

Morenga continued, “You will also bring me the name of the man or men who leaked the information about this delivery, arranged for the theft, and killed the courier.”

“Yes, boss.”

Morenga’s reply was a dial tone.

Rio pocketed his phone. Bring Morenga the name of the man who’d arranged for the theft? Yeah, the odds of Rio turning himself in were somewhere between zero and when hell freezes over. And George wouldn’t have killed the courier. First, Rio’s instructions had been for George to swap the diamonds out for the fake ones, leaving the courier none-the-wiser. By the time the diamonds reached Morenga’s main office and he discovered the stones were actually quartz, it would be too late to bring in replacements. Morenga’s deal would fall apart.

Second, George was a highly-skilled, experienced thief. The switch would have gone off smoothly. Even if George had been caught red-handed, he wouldn’t have killed the courier. George was staunchly non-violent. He didn’t own, or even carry, a weapon. He certainly didn’t have either the skill or the strength to have slit the courier’s throat in such a professional manner.

According to Rio’s sources, Bureh’s men had attempted to convert the stolen diamonds into cash. When the fence proclaimed the jewels to be fake, the rebels had stormed out. Given the state of the courier’s body, Rio suspected that Bureh’s men had tortured the courier, then killed him when he couldn’t produce the real diamonds. But Rio wouldn’t share that with his boss until he had proof.

He glanced back toward the burnt shell of the bus. A customer at the restaurant where the courier had stopped for lunch had pointed the rebels toward a man who’d sat near the courier. Bureh’s men had tracked George to the bus, but if they knew what he looked like, why had they killed everyone on the bus?

Okay, scratch that. Bureh’s men loved violence. Give them the slightest excuse, and they’d slaughter the entire country. In fact, rumors claimed that Bureh’s ultimate goal was to pull off a region-wide campaign of violence that would essentially raze the area to the ground in order to build it anew on a model that would allow Bureh to rule. The last thing the region needed was Bureh’s rebels rampaging through it wielding high-tech weapons. They did enough damage with their AK-47s and machetes.

Still, if they’d been able to identify George, his body would have shown signs of torture. So the description from the restaurant must have been vague.

Rio shifted, uncomfortably aware of the bag of fake diamonds weighing down his pocket. Unfortunately, with Morenga now aware of the theft, Rio couldn’t pass off the fakes as the real thing unless he came up with a damn good explanation. Which made it doubly important that he find the real diamonds. Then he’d figure out a Plan B for ruining Morenga’s deal.

Rio watched Neilson exit the building and disappear into the tall grass. The trail indicated that someone had escaped the rebels and been chased by a group of men. Either the escapee was someone who’d witnessed the rebels taking possession of the diamonds, or one of the bus passengers who’d found the diamonds and run. Or, given the bloody handcuffs Rio had spotted inside the back room of the ruined building, more likely the rebels had located a known enemy on the bus and singled that person out for a little one-on-one attention.

No matter who the escapee was, the rebels wouldn’t let him live for long. Since Rio hadn’t found a dead body along the trail, he figured the rebels had recaptured their prisoner to torture at their leisure.

Poor fellow.

But Rio couldn’t do anything about that. He needed to uncover whoever had told Bureh about the courier and the diamonds in the first place. Only Rio; his boss, Laurent Decurey, the head of security; and Morenga had been privy to the courier’s travel plans. Decurey viewed Morenga as a combination father figure and messiah. Betrayal would never cross his mind.

More likely, someone involved in getting the diamonds out of Angola had tipped off Bureh. If Rio found out who that person was, he could turn him over to Morenga and come off looking like a superstar. But even that wouldn’t matter if he didn’t find the damn diamonds.

Rio sighed. He’d been in this business long enough to know that shit happened and he couldn’t protect every innocent person. Still, he felt responsible for this attack. If he hadn’t arranged for George to steal the diamonds, Bureh’s men would have had no reason to attack the bus.

This guilt would join the giant pile already weighing Rio down. Most of the time he was good at shoving his doubts and regrets deep into his subconscious where they only occasionally haunted him in nightmares. But ever since he’d seen that video from the Hospital Massacre he’d been having more and more trouble remaining impassive. For a guy in his precarious situation, that could be a problem of life-and-death proportions.

A complication of equally epic, although much less life-threatening, proportion was climbing down the rocks onto the beach. The rebels would love to capture a WAR military leader.

Not Morenga, though. Rio’s boss took a more subtle view of WAR. Morenga fought WAR when the organization worked against his personal interests, but had recently started feeding WAR information, anonymously of course, to help counteract the more vicious rebel groups, such as Bureh’s.

Rio moved through the grove of palm trees until he was close enough to watch Neilson scan the beach. He had no intention of letting the rebels pin down and eliminate WAR. Even if they hadn’t been working the same side, Rio had personal reasons for not wanting the organization destroyed.

A ray of the setting sun caught the side of Neilson’s face. The man looked frantic.

Rio frowned and glanced down at the beach, then back toward the ruined bus. Neilson had been part of the first team to reach the hospital after the massacre. In terms of horror, today’s attack was child’s play in comparison. So what did Dev Neilson know about this attack that made him look so shaken?

Had something more dangerous been in play than just a bag of uncut diamonds?

Or was it personal?

Rio really needed to find out which. His life might depend on it.

T
he storm didn’t drive
the rebels off the beach. Instead, one of them had listened to his walkie-talkie, then frantically motioned for his team to exit the beach.

Kirra wondered if that meant the police had arrived. Still, she wasn’t willing to trust that the rebels were completely gone. So she waited half an hour. Then, just as the storm hit, she ventured down the rocks to retrieve her pack. The light was almost gone, making navigating the wet path treacherous, but she couldn’t afford to leave any evidence behind that might allow the rebels to pick up her trail tomorrow.

After shouldering her pack, she retraced her steps. Her bare feet gave her enough extra traction on the wet rocks that she only slipped twice as she returned to her hiding place. She paused to catch her breath and studied the route to the next ledge where she thought she’d seen the cave. This final bit was a nearly vertical section of rock that under normal circumstances would have provided little challenge. She’d conquered worse climbs breaking into high-rises.

But in the near dark, with her body trembling with shock, high winds attempting to tear her away from the cliff, and rain slicking the rock, she feared she’d lose her footing and tumble to the rocks below.

“Your mind is your most powerful tool,” Aaron snapped during training. The leader of the gang of thieves glared at Kirra. “Use it to free yourself from this trap, or you’re out.”

Kirra straightened her shoulders. Right. She would. Not. Fail.

Holding tightly to that thought, she took a deep breath, reviewed the route she’d take, then anchored her hand in the first hold and began to climb. Just before the top, she reached for the next hold and her hand slipped. Her arm dropped to her side. The wind took advantage of her instability and shoved in between her and the rock. For a heart-stopping second she swung away from the rock, hanging by only her right hand. If she fell, she might be lucky and only fall to the ledge below. But with the wind this strong, she was as likely to be flung past the ledge onto the rocks below.

Her left hand and both feet scrabbled at the rock while she struggled to hold her body’s weight with just her right hand.

Her fingers sank into a crack. Her toes found purchase on a small extrusion.

She jammed her fingers farther in, pushed up on her toes, and hauled herself over the rim of the ledge. As if angry to have lost its victim, a strong gust of wind nearly dragged her back down. She dug her fingers into the rocky mud covering the ledge and threw her shoulder sideways so that the weight of her backpack tipped her into a roll away from the edge.

The wind drove a stinging spray of rain into her face, then receded.

She’d done it!

Sagging in relief, she waited for her breathing to stabilize. Then she slipped out of her pack, pushed to her hands and feet, and crawled to the left side of the ledge to investigate the cave.

Two meters in front of her, instead of a cave, she found the open end of a runoff pipe.

Kirra sank back on her heels, staring in disbelief as water trickled out of the pipe onto the far end of the ledge. No. She crawled forward, hoping there’d be a cave on the other side.

But all she found were the cliff wall and some bushes.

Her head drooped. What now? Should she climb up to the road?

No. She had to assume the rebels had set at least a couple guards along the road to watch for her leaving the beach.

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, as they’d been doing on and off since the storm began. She had to find someplace among these rocks to spend the night so she didn’t end up struck by lightning.

Following the ledge as it curved around to the right of where her pack lay, she noticed a wide gap between two large rocks at the far end of the ledge. When she approached, she discovered a dry area underneath the junction where the front rock leaned against the back rock. She and her pack would barely fit, but it would do.

She retrieved her pack, then debated how best to set up for the night. If she put the pack in first, then followed, in case of trouble she could leave faster. On the other hand, if by some miracle she fell asleep until first light and the rebels found her, having the pack between them and her would give her a moment to wake up and defend herself. That sounded like a better option.

She reached for her pack. But when she tried to enter the space, she found she couldn’t move.

Darkness. Danger. Death.

Lightning sizzled overhead, followed immediately by a deafening roar of thunder.

She jumped and slapped her hands over her ears. Once the noise faded, she glared at the sky. “Fine. I get it.” Biting her lip, she dredged up her courage and crawled inside, dragging her pack with her. When she reached the rear of the downward slanting space, she lay on her belly and waited for her heart rate to slow.

Rain beat against her feet.

Her shoulders drooped. Just her luck. Cursing, she twisted around until she could sit up. From this angle she had a narrow view of the ledge outside, of a slice of the nearly dark sky, and of the ocean several kilometers out. She couldn’t see anything of the beach. Which left her vulnerable to unseen attack. Plus, if she ended up in trouble, no one would hear her scream over the storm’s tumult.

The lightning revealed rain sheeting down, pressed almost horizontal at times by the wind. It would take an exceptional climber to reach this spot in such dangerous conditions. She should be relatively safe until morning.

Shivering despite the warm air temperature, she pulled the sodden scarf off her head, wrung it out, then folded it to use as a thin, damp pillow. Waiting for another flash of lightening to provide a bit of illumination, she opened her pack and removed her travel towel and her pen. She set the pen near her hand where she could easily grab it to use as a weapon, then wrapped the towel around her body like a blanket and settled her back against the rock.

But the meager warmth from the towel didn’t stop her shivering.

Oh, God. That had been close. Too close.

Screams. Rebels laughing. Blood on her wrists.

Her pulse sped up.

Her fingers twitched, reaching automatically for the comfort of her guitar. But her guitar was gone. She shoved her hand into her pocket and rubbed her guitar pick like a worry stone as the ache in her chest spread into her throat. But she couldn’t cry. She
wouldn’t
cry until she was completely safe, because crying made you vulnerable, and vulnerable people became victims.

Only once she was out of reach of the rebels would she allow herself to grieve over losing the instrument her mentor had handed to her in hospital. Learning how to play the guitar had given her a reason to live when she’d been trying to join her twin in death.

Seeing the flames devour her guitar—

Her body began to shake with shock. Her head swam. She struggled to hold back panic.

Flames. Screams. A bloody hole in George’s head.

She sucked in air, trying to calm herself down with the measured breathing she’d been taught. No one living on the streets or working in the underbelly of the city could avoid seeing the occasional dead body, but Kirra had never witnessed anyone being killed. Let alone someone like George, who’d been so kind to her.

The rebels had shot him casually. Without remorse.

She sucked in air, trying to calm herself down with the measured breathing she’d been taught. “I am safe,” she murmured. “I am in control.”

She squeezed the guitar pick hard enough to cause discomfort and focused on the frequent flashes of lightning. “I am safe. I am in control.”

She repeated the familiar mantra for several minutes until finally, the panic receded. Leaving behind such fierce frustration that her throat ached. Despite her best attempts to change, today proved that even her most well-reasoned plans would go horribly wrong. Sometimes she felt as if the broken pieces of her life still didn’t fit together. Would she ever reach a state of peace? One where all the pieces of herself worked in harmony?

She sighed. At least the rebels hadn’t found her stash of emergency cash, credit card, ID, and the copies of her travel documents hidden in the frame of her backpack. So she could pay for housing or transport once she’d put distance between herself and the rebels.

She closed her eyes against a brilliant flare of lightning. Why couldn’t her life be normal for once? Hadn’t Franz’s attack met her quota of life-and-death experiences? She’d worked so hard to build a responsible, safe life since leaving the hospital. She didn’t lie, cheat, or steal. She’d attended university and received a business degree. She had a growing career as a singer-songwriter in South Africa and her reputation had begun to spread to the rest of the continent.

Playing by the rules and living a quiet, sheltered life had helped her heal emotionally and physically after the attack.

See where that got you? Six years of being good and now your life is at risk again.

It wasn’t fair. She sighed and knocked her head lightly against the rock.

Come on,
whispered the same little voice that always preceded her most hair-raising adventures.
You enjoyed the thrill of it. Admit it. You haven’t felt that alive since the last time you broke into a high-rise apartment and made off with jewelry worth eight million rand.

Maybe. But she’d also experienced a bone-deep level of terror too close to what she’d experienced during Franz’s attack. She’d never wanted to feel that helpless again, but she’d come close to it today.

Yet you escaped. All by yourself.

Kirra managed a ghost of a smile. Her parents and Dev wouldn’t have been surprised that she’d ended up in trouble today, but they’d always considered that it had been luck that got her out of it, not skill. Dev still saw her as the flighty, irresponsible girl she’d once been. Her parents had died without acknowledging that she’d matured after the attack. They’d considered her career in music as further proof that she lacked common sense.

They’d never have expected her to escape the rebels on her own.

Yet her twin would have known that she possessed both the skill and the determination to escape the rebels. Kyle would have stood beside her tonight, celebrating her success.

A fist of grief tightened around her heart.
Kyle, I miss you so much.

Yet at the same time, part of her remained angry at Kyle for leaving her. Their parents had always favored her twin. She knew they’d have been happier if she’d died instead.

She bowed her head until the ache in her chest eased. Then she drew a deep breath of salty air into her lungs. Kyle was gone, but she still had Dev. He’d often been frustrated with her, but at least he’d treated her and Kyle equally.

Did her big brother even know about the attack?

She hugged the towel tighter against her body. She’d give anything to have Dev in all his overbearing, protective glory show up right now.

But, as usual, she was on her own.

She sighed. Somehow, she had to avoid the rebels, report what happened to the authorities. Then, no matter what it took, she would find another way to make it to the concert. The rebels had killed her activist parents because they’d been advocating for peace. Kirra owed it to them, and to the families of every other victim of the rebels, to give everything she had in order to put an end to the violence. She wasn’t naïve enough to think one concert would resolve the issues plaguing the region, but it was the only way she could help. So she would
not
miss it.

She rubbed the guitar pick and stared into the storm. But all that was for tomorrow. First, she had to survive the night.

D
ev finally gave
up the search after three hours when he reached the end of the now submerged beach without seeing any signs of Kirra. His spirit as numb as his rain-chilled skin, he returned to the bus. The police had finished processing the scene and taken off, leaving only crime scene tape to deter intruders. Dev placed his hands palms down on the rear of the bus, then leaned forward with all his weight to test if the vehicle was stable enough to hold him. The bus dipped slightly, but didn’t collapse, so he slid underneath the tape and climbed inside.

In the light from his torch he saw that fire had gutted the interior and burned holes in the roof where rain dripped through. He picked his way down the aisle, using his torch to search for any more signs of Kirra among the charred debris. But all he saw were burnt personal possessions that became less recognizable the closer he walked to the front of the bus.

The explosion had blown out the windscreen and the fire had destroyed most of the area between the dash and the first seats. His attention snagged on the luggage rack. A scorched, partially melted guitar case rested against the charcoal-stained wall. Through the holes in the hard plastic carrying case, he spotted a bit of color. Leaning closer, he recognized the singed remains of the stickers Kirra had affixed to her guitar. His heart seized up. Kirra loved her guitar as deeply as if it had been her child. She’d never have left it by choice.

He reached out and gently picked up the guitar case. The front of the case fell off, so he lifted out the burnt guitar and let the back of the case drop to the floor. Maybe Kirra would find some comfort in having even this ruined piece of her guitar.

Finding nothing else of interest on the bus, he returned to his Jeep. He rang headquarters, but his team leader, Lachlan, was on another call. Dev left a message giving a brief summary of what had happened and requesting that Lachlan call him back as soon as possible.

While he waited, he toweled off and munched on an energy bar.

After five minutes, his phone rang. “Lachlan?”

“Aye. I have news about your sister.”

Dev froze. “Is she okay? Where is she?” Please let someone have found her safe and sound.

“If you’ll allow me to continue, lad?”

“Ah. Sorry.”

“The good news,” Lachlan said, “is that according to Wil’s spy with Morenga, neither Morenga’s men or Bureh's rebels have your sister.”