Body Shot

by Amy Jarecki

  Henri felt like her head had been bludgeoned and her arm cleaved. Nothing like trying to sleep in the back of a Land Rover with a gunshot wound to put a girl in a foul mood. Thank God the day had come and gone.

  She and Mike were holed up in a private reading space in the Dodoma Library, which would close in an hour. It was stealthier than booking a room, and they both doubted ISIS would have spies watching for them there. In fact, Henri could bet any bad guys were either ahead of them or behind.

  They’d put two chairs together on the far side of the desk so the laptop faced the wall. They also had a clean line of sight through the glass office windows. At ICE, Garth had summoned Asa to the sit room as soon as they’d dialed in.

  “The feed just indicated it’s complete,” Henri said, clicking the “finish” button on the screen.

  “Got it,” Asa said, her fingers already tapping the keys in Iceland.

  Mike sat back and folded his arms. “I want to know who this Thomas Flynn is and what’s going on in Ruhuhu—Hali tells me it’s an area the size of the Serengeti.”

  The monitor shifted to Garth. “The Grand Canyon is more like it.” More clicking came over the speakers. “Here it is. Top secret shit. There’s a summit at the Nelson Uranium Mine.”

  “Nelson?” asked Henri. “US owned?”

  “Affirmative.” Garth squinted like he was reading something. “Only top brass will be there. US, UK, Canada, Germany, Australia and France.”

  “Weapons? Bombs?” Mike probed.

  “The brief says nuclear power summit.” Garth looked up. “Probably is.”

  Henri reached for Mike’s pen and started clicking it—this whole thing stank of a terrorist orgy. “But we can’t discount weapons.”

  “You can’t discount anything.” The boss shook his finger. “Especially since you pulled this intel off a suspect’s computer.”

  The screen split so Asa’s face appeared next to Garth’s. “Thomas Flynn works for Nelson, but he’s based in the US.”

  “And?” asked Mike.

  “This says he’s the top nuclear physicist in the world. Earns seven figures. Lives in Cape Cod.”

  “Can he make a bomb?” asked Henri, clicking the pen faster.

  “Affirmative,” said Garth, the angry crease forming between his brows.

  Mike elbowed Henri’s clicking arm. “Who does Nelson supply?”

  Asa tapped the keys, her eyes scanning. “Everyone. They’re the world’s second largest supplier of uranium.”

  “Military?” asked Garth.

  “Of course.”

  “Shite.” Mike snatched the pen from Henri’s grasp and slapped it on the desk, holding his palm over it. “We need a plane. The summit has already started and there’s no way we can drive there fast enough.”

  “That’s right,” Asa agreed. “It would take you a week to go bush.”

  Garth grabbed the red phone—the one with the direct link to NATO. “I need a jet. Ten minutes. Dodoma, private airfield.” He hung up. “Mark me, they’ll be watching for you. Go in stealth. Report back when you can.”

  “Thank you, sir,” they said in unison.

  “And guys?”

  Mike leaned forward. “Yeah?”

  “If ISIS gets their hands on a nuke, you’ll both be calling Antarctica home.”

  ***

  The Gulfstream pilot introduced himself as Luke Fox from Australia. He was tall, blond and lean, worked for NATO and said he liked flying at night. The guy looked like Val Kilmer from Grandfather’s favorite movie, Top Gun—an 80s flick filled with testosterone-touting fighter flyboys.

  Right. All Henri needed was to be surrounded by hot-looking alpha males.

  No distractions.

  She took the first seat and sank into luxury as it molded to her curves like a recliner. She almost sighed aloud. “How long will it take to get to the Ruhuhu Basin?”

  “About an hour and a half,” said Fox. “The airfield is crude—just a dirt landing strip. Might take some crafty maneuvers, especially in the dark.”

  “How long do we have you for?” asked Mike.

  “As long as you need.”

  “Do you have military experience?”

  “Flew jets in the RAAF before this gig—did three tours in Iraq.”

  Mike nodded. “Good to know. Any guns aboard?”

  He patted his sidearm. “I carry a pistol.”

  “And?” asked Henri, eyeing Fox critically. He might be easy on the eyes, but she was wary. Being framed for a crime she didn’t commit did that do a girl.

  “There’s a Springfield Saint behind the pilot seat.”

  “Scope?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mark 6.”

  “Forty-four millimeter?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Henri made a mental note about the rifle. A Saint was certainly superior to the M4 she’d been hauling around.

  “So what’s your story?” asked Fox. “You must be pretty important to take me off the Rwandan relief project.”

  Mike shrugged. “We’re chasing bad guys.”

  “Well then, I’d better get you there. Buckle up.” The pilot stepped through the cabin door into the cockpit. “We’ll be aloft in five. Once we hit altitude, help yourself to the tucker and drinks in the galley.”

  “Thanks.”

  Henri rested her head against the backrest and closed her eyes. “I could sleep for a week.”

  “We can sleep after the op.” Mike walked aft. “There’s a bed back here.”

  “We only have an hour.”

  “Damn my rotten luck.”

  Henri chuckled, a shot of heat blasting between her thighs. Though neither of them had mentioned the passion they’d shared, every time she glanced at Mike, he aroused the lioness lurking deep inside.

  A lioness that needed to be caged.

  He slid into the seat opposite and grinned. Straight, white teeth, eyes like the desert sky and sexy as sin. “I want to change your field dressing once we’re aloft.”

  Nothing like a bit of medical talk to take her hots down a notch. She shifted her gaze toward the rear. “An hour, huh?”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “I like how you think.”

  But once Luke announced they’d reached cruising altitude, Mike pulled another field dressing out of his bag. “Let’s have a look at your arm.”

  “It feels better already.”

  “Yeah, but once the painkillers wear off, it’ll hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.” He unrolled the bandage

  Henri didn’t doubt it. Looking at the wound made her hiss. It was uglier than it felt—jagged and puckered purple skin, and the bandage had sopped up a shit-ton of blood. And it was still oozing.

  “You could use some stitches.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Sure, it’ll heal, but I dunna like seeing such a delicate arm mangled like this.” His concern was adorable, but unnecessary.

  “I’m not as delicate as I look.” Still, Henri couldn’t remember the last time someone doted on her—or cared for that matter. “Got any super glue?”

  He fished in his pack and pulled out a tube. “Yep, but let me wash the cut with some more iodine solution first.”

  She watched as he carefully doctored the wound with a look of concern on his face. “I should have been the one to take the bullet, not you.”

  “You tried. We weren’t expecting an attack from behind.”

  He pulled off the glue cap with his teeth then spread a thin line around the mangled flesh. “You’re gonna have a scar.”

  “Ooo, another scar? I’ll impress all the boys back home.” She pointed downward.

  Chuckling, he pinched the wound together and blew on it. “The only boy I want you impressing is me.”

  A swarm of butterflies attacked her stomach. Shit.

  Mike looked up and met her gaze, his eyes dark. Intense.

  “Ah...” Henri scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. It was time to have “the talk”. She took a deep breath
. “What are we doing here?”

  He grinned, looking way too sexy. “I’m applying a field dressing, m’lady.”

  She cleared her throat and watched him wrap her arm. Then she reached for his hand and squeezed. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I ken.” He chewed the corner of his mouth. “Sex was...” He cupped her cheek and leaned in, his breath caressing her lips. “Och, it was off the charts.”

  “Mm hmm.” God, the only time Henri hadn’t thought about their night of steamy passion was when they’d been under fire. Dammit, I knew things would be awkward. She took another deep breath and forced herself to look him in the eye. “But?”

  Before she could arch away, he pecked her mouth with a soft kiss. “Our dilemma is we both have the same boss.”

  She cringed. “Garth can’t ever find out.”

  “Agreed, no one at ICE can know.” He tapped his forehead to hers, his eyes looking ginormous.

  “We kinda crossed the line.” Lightheaded, Henri ran her finger over his bottom lip. “But we shouldn’t let it get too serious.”

  “You’re right.” He grasped her braid and slowly ran it along his hand. But when he held it to his nose and inhaled, the look in his eye told her exactly what he had on his mind.

  She placed her hands on his shoulders. They had a job to do, and the plane would be landing soon. “So how about some food?”

  Mike sat back and groaned. “Dammit, woman, now you’re acting like a tease.”

  “We need to eat more than we need...” Groaning, she pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll get it.”

  No matter how much she wanted to drag him to the bed and enjoy a quickie, she had enough field experience to know that as soon as the wheels touched the ground, they’d both need to be at the top of their game.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Melvut Amri had chosen his men carefully. They were elite ISIS fighters. Each man would give his life to further the cause. Amri himself would be the first to take a bullet if anything went wrong. He’d rather die a hero than face shame. If he failed, Omar Fadli wouldn’t hesitate to parade him through the streets of Mosul. In a public demonstration, Fadli would use a machete to sever Amri’s head and proclaim him a coward. That’s how ISIS punished failures. But if he succeeded, he would be given accolades, power and wealth. He would report directly to the caliph, al-Umari. Yes, Amri would earn his place and become an equal to Fadli and then he’d prove to the world he was the tougher soldier and the more loyal servant of God.

  Under cover of darkness, he led his men from the African bush. Fanning out, each man carried an AK-47 with a silencer. The Nelson employed a handful of security guards with little to no training who were no more than bushmen given meager pay to patrol the compound. Amri’s inside man had watched for weeks, and the guards’ routine never changed. Stationed at the four corners, the bushmen were doomed. Amri and his men cut them down like chaff, then rendezvoused beyond the gatehouse.

  Their inside man had given Amri the room assignments, yet no one on his team knew who the target would be. No one except Amri himself.

  At the gatehouse, he shot the first guard in the face, then took out the second. In less than five minutes, Nelson’s entire security team had been dispatched.

  Amri pointed to his lieutenant. “Cut the power.”

  “Straight away, boss.”

  Then Amri took one of the dead guards’ keycard and headed for the bunkhouse at a crouch, his men falling in behind. As expected, the outdoor lights shut off, casting the compound into darkness. He pulled down his night vision goggles. No one would stop him this time.

  They all knew the drill. They’d practiced a thousand times.

  After using the keycard to access the side door, he led them to room 123, fired a suppressed shot at the lock and pushed inside.

  The sleeping man stirred awake and pushed up. “What—?”

  “Thomas Flynn?” Amri asked.

  “Yeah, but—”

  His lieutenant slapped duct tape across the man’s mouth.

  Though the scientist wasn’t given a chance to utter another word, the surprise in his eyes gave him away. And time was everything. One misstep and they could lead the superpowers of the world to their hiding place—to the place where they would plot to raise al-Umari to ultimate power. A place where no one would think to find them.

  Amri stood back while two of his men held guns to Flynn’s head while his lieutenant finished the job, making sure the duct tape held fast on Flynn’s mouth and wrists. In thirty seconds they were outside the bunkhouse. And in three minutes they were climbing the steps of the waiting Gulfstream.

  Amri’s breast filled with pride. His op had run flawlessly. Come morning, Amri would be heralded as a hero throughout the Islamic State.

  ***

  The plane jolted sideways and free-fell, making Mike’s Coke crash to the floor. Once the plane stabilized, Mike released his vise-grip on the armrests and shot Henri a look as he released his seatbelt. Jerking open the cockpit door, he shouted, “What the hell was that?”

  Fox glanced back from the console, his eye wide. “A frigging plane. Came out of nowhere and buzzed. Crikey, they practically sent us into a tailspin.”

  Mike squinted through the windscreen into total darkness. “What the hell? This isna exactly high traffic airspace.”

  “Too right,” said Luke. “I didn’t expect to see anything. There’s nothing here.”

  “Aside from a gathering of energy moguls,” said Henri, careful to leave the word “nuclear” out of the conversation.

  Mike leaned against the door jamb and crossed his arms. “Who all probably arrived by private jet.”

  She nodded. “Maybe.”

  “What the?” asked Luke, leaning forward.

  Mike again peered out the window. “What is it?”

  “The airfield is supposed to be down below but there aren’t any lights.”

  Henri climbed into the co-pilot seat, scanning out the window. “There’s the compound.”

  “Huh?” Mike squinted and finally made out a black box-like structure. He pointed. “There?”

  “Yes, can’t you see anything?”

  “Pardon me, Eagle Eyes.”

  “We’ve flown past the airstrip.” She ran back and got her laptop and brought up the satellite image of the compound, shoving it in front of Luke. “See?”

  “Got it. I’ll double back. One fly over ought to give me the lay of the land.”

  The problem?

  Why were the lights out? All of them.

  “We’d better buckle in.” Mike threw his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to their seats. “The place probably runs on a generator, but I dunna think it’s a coincidence that the power’s down.”

  “Hooah, it’s time to dance.” Henri grabbed the Saint and ammo vest on the way aft.

  “Seatbelts,” Luke said over his shoulder. “I mean it.”

  And he did. Aside from a nasty crosswind, the plane hit hard, jerking and shuddering as if the airfield were infested with potholes. But the Australian proved his skill, pulling the plane to a stop and cutting the engine. “Welcome to the edge of the earth, ladies and gentlemen. Land of coal and oil, there’s nothing but bush for miles no matter which direction you go.”

  Mike checked his Glock’s magazine, then looked at the pilot. “Stay with the plane. You got that sidearm loaded?”

  “Yes, sir.” Luke saluted.

  “Good. Be ready...for anything.”

  “Roger that, mate. At least they didn’t open fire on the plane—that’s a good sign.”

  “We’ll see.” Lowering his NV goggles, Mike exited first. The last thing he wanted was for Henri to take another bullet—not on his bloody watch. Never again. He leapt over the handrail and used the stairs as cover as he panned his gun across the airfield. “Clear.”

  Henri slipped down the steps as silently as a cat. She carried an M4 strapped over one shoulder, a Glock in her back holster and
the Saint supported by a lanyard in front of her body with her fingers wrapped around the handle. She looked like a female version of Rambo. Hot, gorgeous and ready to kill. “Lead on, Bubba.”

  “Bubba?” he asked in a whisper as they dashed for the safety of the scrub at the edge of the airstrip.

  Henri crouched beside him, scanning everywhere through her NV goggles. “It’s just a pet name I like to use.”

  “For friends?”

  “Specifically reserved for good guys.”

  “All right then. You got it, Eagle Eyes.”

  “Soaring-Eagle,” she said over her shoulder.

  Mike chuckled to himself. They might be walking into a shit storm, but he was learning quickly it was a very good thing to have Henri on his side. And they worked well together—could practically read each other’s minds.

  She moved like a panther through the dirt path that led to the compound. Still shrouded in darkness, the place loomed like a green ghost town. It was too quiet—no crickets, nothing. It didn’t take long for them to discover why. Two guards at the gatehouse had been shot at point-blank range.

  “Looks like a professional hit,” Henri said. She stepped over one of the dead men and examined the compound diagram. “Generator’s located to the left.”

  “Let’s sweep the perimeter first before we light the place up.”

  Their tour around the grounds turned up four more dead guards, and it was a big place—complete with bunkhouse, command center and mess, not all that different from a military operation, except fancier—more resort-like. From the satellite images, the quarry was about a quarter-mile south.

  As soon as they reached the generator, Henri went to work while Mike stood guard. Five minutes and the thing roared to life. Lights went on in all corners. Talk about a resort. The walks were lined with palm trees and grass as green as Scotland’s hills.

  Henri brushed off her hands and picked up the Saint. “Ready to go in?”

  “What canna you fix?”

  “I’m hopeless with forty-year-old Ford trucks.”

  By the time they hit the bunkhouse, Mike was convinced the plane that had nearly sent them into a tailspin was their target. Still, they took the building as if there were enemy suspects inside. Once they ensured the common areas were clear, they started pounding on doors.