by Amy Jarecki
Thrusting her finger toward the gorge, she gave a sharp nod. “There are shooters up on the cliffs on each side of the road about a mile up.”
“You saw them?”
“Movement caught my attention first. As soon as I made out one guy, the others just appeared to me. I saw two on the north side and two across on the south.”
“So, the Soaring-Eagle moniker has a deeper meaning?”
“It’s not a moniker.”
“Right-o.” Mike nodded his head in the direction of the gorge. “If you saw them, they most likely spotted us.”
“Maybe. If they have scopes trained on the road.” She pointed to her eyes. “Twenty/seven vision. Best ever recorded in a human.”
“All right then, let’s assume they spotted us—or at least saw movement. They’ll be watching more closely now.”
She nodded.
Mike motioned for the other men to gather in. Hali had picked the pair because they understood a little English. After he explained his plan, they set out through the brush, making a northern arc which enabled them to creep up on the rear of the group on the north side. It was a tougher climb, but the peak was higher on that side which would give them a ground advantage. Mike’s seventh rule of war? Never take the easy path. The unexpected route might be grueling and take longer, but the commander who adheres to this rule will be rewarded.
It took an hour to cross the distance and climb up. In the lead, Mike crested the hill first and held up his fist, indicating for the team to stop. The sun had set, but he could still see the ambushers. He crouched down—it looked like the same four guys Henri described as seeing from the road. The perps on the far side were sitting with their legs dangling over the edge of the cliff, though AKs hung from their harnesses. A snap of a twig and those assholes would be up on their feet, chucking bullets.
“You see ’em?” Henri whispered from behind.
He slipped down far enough to hide his head behind the crag and pointed downward, catching the eye of Hali’s two men.
Henri pulled back the bolt of her M4. “Cover me. I’ll take care of them.”
She started off, but Mike grabbed her arm. “Just a minute. I dunna want you in harm’s way.”
She practically blew snot out of her nose. “Yeah, right. Come on, Rambo. I’m hungry and I want dinner ASAP.”
Mike motioned to the guys. “Cover us.”
They nodded their understanding. Together, they climbed on their bellies until they were peeking over the top of the crag.
Laying on her stomach, Henri moved her rifle to her shoulder and snapped off the safety. “You ready?”
“You need a scope?” he asked.
“It would be nice, but not necessary from this distance.” She glanced at him over the black butt of the gun. “I’ll pick off each from nearest to furthest. I need you and the men to provide a smoke screen. Keep firing to keep them guessing.”
“Roger that. Wait here.” He slid over to the men and relayed the plan, then resumed his spot at Henri’s six.
“Three, two, one,” she counted down with the concentration of a microsurgeon.
As soon as she fired the first bullet, Mike unloaded a spray of fire across the crag. He couldn’t hear much above his rifle, but he sensed everything. Henri immediately took out perp one, adjusted and hit two, then three, then four. It was over in less than six seconds.
Mike let up on the trigger. Henri continued working, her cheek glued to the M4’s butt as she scanned the scene for strays.
“Nice shooting,” he said.
“Thanks.” She stood and shouldered her weapon. “Now, where’s my dinner?”
He couldn’t help his chuckle even if he was still aggro—pissed as she liked to call being bloody mad. But she sure proved her worth in a combat situation—and with flair. How in God’s name a sniper could look so sexy, Mike had no clue. But there she stood. Proud. Self-assured. And as gorgeous as a whisky sunset.
***
It was midnight before Hali dropped Mike and Henri off at a guesthouse just outside of Arusha. A half-asleep woman showed them to a dingy room at the back of a weatherboard house. She dropped a key in Mike’s palm. “Toilet out the back.”
Henri closed the door and gave the room the once-over. There was a double bed and a side table and that was it. She’d endured rougher accommodations, so she kept her mouth shut. The problem? She was still hungry. They had a measly bag of potato chips, a bag of peanuts and a fifth of whisky that had been hidden in the Land Rover with the guns. “I’m going to starve to death.”
Mike held up the bottle. “This ought to take your mind off your stomach.”
She grabbed the bag of chips and opened them. “No drinking on an empty stomach. Neither of us can afford to have a hangover in the morning.”
He plopped down on the bed with his back against the wall like it was no big deal they were in a shoebox with a double bed hardly wide enough for two adults. “Who said anything about a hangover?”
Henri moved to the end of the bed, sizing up the floor—chipped linoleum, not terribly clean. If given the choice, she’d rather sleep under the stars than on that floor. She bit into a chip and arched an eyebrow at Mike. It was either the bed or the floor and, after the overseas flight from France where she hadn’t slept, she was exhausted. Reluctantly, she slid beside him and stuffed a few chips in her mouth. “So, Scottish tough guys don’t need sustenance?”
“I didna say that.” He reached in the bag and pulled out a handful. “We’ll have a good breakfast but, until then, these will have to suffice.”
Henri took the bottle from him and washed her bite down with a swig of whisky. It burned going down and sloshed in her empty stomach. Squinting, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Pass over the peanuts. At least they have some protein.”
Mike leaned in with the bag and the mattress dipped, making them roll against each other.
Henri shoved him back. “That’s a little too close there, soldier.” She was sticking to her no kissing rule if it killed her.
He snatched the bottle with a smirk. “Then I need a wee bit more of this sleeping potion.”
“Oh?”
He held it up in toast. “Else I might be inclined to ravage you, m’lady,” he said with a rolling Scottish burr, sounding lazy and rough as if the potion had already started to kick in.
Unfortunately, the rumble of Mike’s voice made an arrow of liquid heat spread through Henri’s limbs and didn’t end there. Intense desire coiled between her legs. The swig of whisky didn’t help. It made her head swim with a melty all over feeling.
She pushed against her eyes. Would you stop? It had taken a will of iron to pull away from their last kiss. She absolutely must not allow the brawny Scot to affect her.
Damn.
If only there was a curtain or a partition or something between them.
She glanced from wall to wall while every hormone in her body sizzled. This night was going to be even more torturous than she thought. Even if the guesthouse had an extra room, it would ruin their cover to sleep apart. The only solution? Find out what ISIS was doing in Tanzania as soon as possible. She’d just have to hang tough for a couple of days and then they’d be out of there and, hopefully, assigned to separate missions.
While she stuffed her face with peanuts, Henri tried to lean away from Mike. But the more she fought it, the more the mattress curled toward the center making her leg grind against his. Giving up, she reached for the whisky and took a couple of healthy swigs.
“What was that you said about a hangover?” he asked.
She handed it back. “Shut up.”
“No more bloody kissing, remember?” He chucked as he took a drink then swiped his hand across his mouth. “Och, lass. That which doesna kill us makes us stronger.”
Chapter Eighteen
Through the vague blur when consciousness returns after a night’s sleep, Mike sensed light streaming in from the window. In truth, he sensed a great deal mor
e than that. His cock was harder than a steel gun barrel, and the intoxicating scent of woman swirled around him. He felt too good to open his eyes. All he needed to do was slide his fingers across the mattress and pull Henri flush against his body. Och aye, with a few clothing adjustments, he could slip between those shapely thighs she’d wrapped around him a time or two in the sparring ring.
God. He wanted to spar right now. The kind of sparring that’s done between the sheets.
With a deep moan, he slid his hand over and met with nothing but cool cotton. Then he moved his palm up and down. Come to think of it, the length of Henri’s body had been pressed against him all night. The pillowy soft crack of her bum had cradled his cock, and there had been nothing Mike could do about it. The mattress dipped to the center and nothing he tried to shift away had worked. In the end, the whisky did its job and they’d both fallen asleep with Henri spooned against him as if they were really man and wife.
Disappointed, Mike opened his eyes and pushed himself up, his head full of cobwebs. While he stretched, Henri walked in carrying a tray of food. Mm, it smelled good, especially the coffee. “A woman after my own heart.”
Henri stopped. “Do you think I got this for you?”
The vixen had tempted him all night and now she wasn’t about to stop. “Bloody hell,” he groaned and leaned down to pull a couple of aspirin out of his pack.
“Just kidding.” She put the tray on the bed, then slid in with her back against the wall.
Mike popped the aspirin and reached for a cuppa. “What’s on the menu?”
“Scrambled eggs, beans and fried bananas.”
“And toast,” he said, snatching a piece.
She picked up her coffee while her gaze trailed downward.
Mike usually slept in the nude, but last night he’d kept his jocks on. The only problem was the bedclothes had shifted and his hard-on was practically wrapped around his hip. He stuffed the toast in his mouth and tugged a blanket over his crotch.
Henri’s gaze flickered away as her tongue tapped the corner of her mouth.
Trying not to groan, Mike leaned against the wall and took a long sip of coffee. The caffeine may have begun to clear his mind, but that only sent his libido into overdrive. Again. Her hair was wet and loose rather than in its usual braid. He took a long drink as he watched her eat. She might act like a tough bird at times, but she ate like a duchess. She even used a serviette to dab the corners of her mouth.
She glanced up. “What?”
He pinched a lock of her hair between his fingers and brought it to his nose. Jasmine. God save him, he loved the fragrance of jasmine. “Where did you find a shower?”
“It’s out the back by the head.”
“You showered outside?”
“There’s a curtain.” She shrugged. “I’ve endured worse.”
That’s right, she had, and he needed to keep reminding himself of the fact.
She nudged the plate of food toward him, her gaze shifting to his crotch. “The water’s cold but it might be just what you need.”
“Bloody temptress you are.”
She laughed. “The same could be said for you—oh Mr. Ripped Abs staring me in the face.”
***
No matter how much Henri would have liked to stay in their ramshackle room and test the endurance of those ripped abs, they had a job to do. They both knew it. She’d made the mistake of dating a guy in her squadron once and, after working with him day and night for a few months, the relationship fizzled. Then it became unbearably awkward—almost got her shipped stateside.
Never again.
Henri was a big girl now and tougher than she’d ever been. Jail had a way of turning a woman to ice. The sooner they exposed the ISIS operation in Tanzania, the sooner she could go home—or move on to the next assignment. Mike said he usually worked alone. She liked that idea. In fact, she might push the issue with Garth once she chalked up a few wins against her name.
After breakfast, Hali took them to Tengeru, east of the city. A dirt road cut through the center of town, festooned with vendor’s stalls like an old-time market. Henri and Mike dressed their parts and the game was on. She wore an orange sundress with her voluminous hair tucked up in an enormous straw hat. Mike complemented her ensemble with a loud Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses and a Panama hat. Their getups were ridiculous, but that’s what made them not look like themselves.
By mid-afternoon they’d browsed through most of the stalls, here and there using cash and gold coins to buy uncut gems and, hopefully, spreading the word that a pair of Canadians with deep pockets was in town. If their hunch was right, Amri and his friends were laundering the gems by selling them to unsuspecting overseas buyers.
It wasn’t until they stopped for a Coke that they found their first break. A man from one of the shops where they’d purchased some uncut tanzanite slid into a seat at their table. “Have you found all that you’re looking for?” he asked in English, giving them a leery smile.
“Not yet,” Mike said, sounding distinctly Canadian. He was good.
The man glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in. “I have been given approval to show you the first-quality gems—those we only present to serious buyers like yourselves.”
Mike arched his eyebrows in question. “Why didn’t you say something when we were in your shop?” he asked, affecting the accent.
Henri sipped her Coke, keeping her face impassive but taking in every word.
The man chuckled nervously. “Sorry, boss, but I’m not allowed to mention our highest quality gems until I am given approval from my superiors.”
“I see. And for this transaction, will I be bartering with you or with your superiors?”
The man sat back and thumped his chest with a grin. “You will deal with me, of course.”
“Hmm.” Mike looked to Henri. “I think not. I am no dupe, sir. When I make an offer, I want an answer. I do not want to wait while an agent moves back and forth as a middleman to the negotiation.”
Beads of sweat peppered the man’s brow. “I assure you, I am able to transact business on his behalf.”
“Tell you what. Introduce me to your boss. If we like what he has to show us, we’ll make it worth his while.”
Then man pulled out a kerchief and wiped his forehead. “That can be arranged. But first I’ll need more to give him.” He rubbed his fingers together. “What kind of investment do you have in mind?”
“Seven figures.” Mike picked up his Coke. “For starters.”
“I see. Where are you staying? I’ll send a boy for you when it is arranged.”
Mike hesitated.
“The Arusha Hotel. Under Emmerson,” Henri said with a pleasant smile directed at her work-husband.
“I would have thought no less,” said the man. “I am Mr. Kisongo. I shall be in touch.”
Mike waited until Kisongo left the café, then gave her a look. “The Arusha Hotel?”
She shrugged. “It was the nicest place we passed on the way out here.”
He snorted. “Hali will be crushed. That was his auntie’s bed and breakfast.”
“I’m sure he’ll understand—and so will my aching back.”
“What? The wee dip in the mattress didna form to those shapely hips, madam?” Mike shook his head with a laugh.
“I’d rather get a good night’s sleep than appease Hali who, by the way, nearly got us killed yesterday regardless if I was there or not.”
Chapter Nineteen
After entering the honeymoon suite, Henri dropped her duffle on the ottoman and turned full circle. There was still only one bed, but it was a king and it had a silk mosquito net. There was also a desk, a television and a refrigerator, even a bathroom. Better yet, the room had plenty of space to move around. “Now this is more like it.”
Mike set the room key on the dresser. “I thought you didna mind roughing it. If you prefer luxury, what were you doing at the mine?”
“It’s not roughing it that matters, it�
��s our MO. We’re posing as wealthy gem buyers. If we stayed in the cockroach motel back there, our ruse wouldn’t be very convincing.”
He tossed his gear on the bed. “You’re right.”
“Wait.” She held out her arms and inhaled deeply. “I want to revel in this for a moment.”
Cocking his head to the side, Mike knit his eyebrows.
She grinned. “I actually was right about something.”
“Bloody hell, you’ve been right plenty.” He spread a map out on the desk.
“Paper?”
“Nothing beats it.”
“Okay, what are you thinking?”
She bent forward and leaned on her elbows while Mike pointed out the location of Mr. Kisongo’s Jawhira shop.
“Hey, isn’t Jawhira Arabic for jewel?”
“It is, and that’s another reason why I think we’re on to something.” He used his pin to point to the location on the map. “It’s in the middle of the market. We were right here, but my guess is the shop on the marketplace is a front.”
“There’s more in the back, then?”
“I’d bet a quid that’s where the shady deals go down.”
Henri pulled out her laptop. “If that’s so, we need to look at it on Google maps.”
He gave her a thin-lipped nod. She knew he didn’t like to use electronics in the field, but ICE went to great lengths to ensure their devices couldn’t be tracked. The encryption code changed constantly.
She sat in a chair and he moved in behind her, leaning over to look at the screen. He was so close, if she shifted to the side a fraction of an inch, her shoulder would touch his arm. Her skin tingled with the unseen current pulsing between them like an irresistible magnetic pull. But his closeness was soothing. He imparted a sense of confidence she liked. It made her feel energized.
Henri made herself focus on the computer.
Together, they analyzed the topography, establishing five different ways of escape, what to do if they were separated, and Hali and his men’s roles. Another important rule of war that spilled into the spy game? Go over the plan until it was like reciting poetry.
