Wild Encounter

by Nikki Logan

  “I wouldn’t do that to you. Betray your trust that way.”

  The insane urge to laugh swamped her. How high would the excuses stack up before she acknowledged them? How many different ways could he put his job before her? And why did she expect anything different from him?

  “Besides,” he went on. “They’re probably safer as sealed MI6 files than the confidential files of any other psychiatrist.”

  She hated how often he was right.

  “So what happens now?” she asked after a long breath. “After we release the dogs?”

  “Best case scenario, I escort you back to London where we’ll question you more and get what we need to officially rule you out.”

  Being escorted out of Africa by armed government personnel was the best case? What the hell did he imagine worst case was? “What do you mean, officially?”

  He looked at her long and hard. “I watched your face as I showed you the second chip. You’d never seen it before. McKenzie will back that.”

  She stared at him and probably should have been pleased. “Great.”

  The SUV ate up the miles and the next road sign told them they were approaching Kasanka National Park. Low, jagged mountains poked up among the trees and brush.

  “Kasanka,” Simon said. “Why do I recognize the name?”

  Her answer was automatic. “Dr. Livingstone’s heart is buried there.”

  Simon looked at her, brow raised. “The Dr. Livingstone? As in ‘I presume’? He’s buried there?”

  “Just his heart.” His confusion was evident and she went on. It was better than talking about Artie or, worse, themselves. How not an item they would now be. “The rest of him went elsewhere.”

  “They cut it out?”

  “At his request. And they buried it under a tree he specifically requested somewhere in what is now the park. I think it’s quite…” She searched for the right word.

  “Romantic?” He looked at her strangely.

  “Fitting.”

  Gray eyes scanned the raw, rugged beauty of Zambia that she knew so well. Simon nodded. “I think I can understand his desire to leave his heart in the place that had come to mean so much to him.”

  I certainly left mine here, Clare thought. And would again.

  In a rush, she realized she’d missed something in all her ponderings about her dogs, her life, her job. What about Simon’s job? Years of work on his part, three months of deprivation undercover with some of the lowest human beings ever to walk the earth. All of that would be wasted if the right culprit wasn’t caught and convicted.

  Could she withhold what she knew about Artie just to protect her own interests? When so much was at stake for Simon, too?

  She may hate what he was doing to her, how he was treating her, but she didn’t hate him.

  Not enough to spite him like that.

  As though reading her mind, he glanced at her with a frown. “What is it?”

  She twisted toward him. “Listen, there’s something I need to tell—”

  Movement in her periphery—in Simon’s side mirror—cut her sentence short. The van that had been patiently following behind them sped up and swiftly closed the distance between the two vehicles. Out of nowhere, a small sedan coming from the other direction veered across the highway and cut right in front of the Nissan.

  “Jesus!” Simon slammed on the brakes.

  Up ahead, Nadia and Tim’s taillights lit up like twin beacons, even though their instructions in the event of an incident were to accelerate the hell away from whatever was going down.

  Simon swerved to avoid the oncoming sedan, sliding the Nissan onto the shoulder, sending gravel spraying up around them.

  “Hang on!” he shouted, jamming the accelerator to the floor.

  The SUV’s backend fishtailed as he corrected its path around the sedan, then crashed through the bushes, whipping between two huge trees, and jouncing onto a rough dirt track that ran perpendicular to the highway.

  “What’s happening?” she shouted, craning her neck to see Nadia speeding away as ordered.

  Simon’s knuckles were white from his death grip on the steering wheel. The Nissan lurched over the uneven track, slamming Clare against the glass of the window. Her side mirror showed both van and sedan in hot pursuit.

  “God damn it! It’s them,” Simon squeezed out between clenched teeth.

  “It’s who—?”

  And then it hit her. Oh, shit.

  Them.

  Every cell in her body calcified into terrified alert. But all she could do was grab on tight and fixate on the mirror. The other vehicles weren’t gaining on them, but they weren’t dropping back either.

  She had a mental flash of the formidable and armed McKenzie standing guard over her dogs like a fierce Amazon warrior, and she knew nobody would get past her alive. The dogs were safe.

  Unlike her and Simon.

  His virulent curse snapped her head up and she saw a solid wall of granite ahead, surrounded by thick brush. A road to nowhere, ending abruptly at the base of a low, ragged cliff.

  “They picked their intercept point intentionally,” Simon gritted out.

  He had no choice but to pull the SUV to a shuddering stop.

  “Get down on the floor,” he ordered. “As small as you can.”

  The two other vehicles skidded to a halt behind them. The doors flung open. Simon reached for the gun in his belt and grabbed another one from a compartment she hadn’t noticed in the dashboard. She sank to the floor and curled into a ball. Not being able to see where the danger was coming from was every bit as bad now as it had been six months ago.

  That time they’d wanted the dogs for their collars. What did they want this time? The last chip, the evidence of their crime? Or Simon, for revenge? Or her…for what? To punish her for escaping their clutches?

  Something she’d thought earlier came rushing back to her with vivid clarity.

  She was the only person alive who could connect Artie to the data chips in the collars.

  The only person alive…

  Holy shit. This was about her.

  A hail of gunfire broke out, exploding the back window. Safety glass showered down around them. Clare hunched farther down amongst the tiny sharp cubes on the passenger side floor. Simon flung his door wide to use as a shield. She tucked down farther still, but in the next instant, strong arms yanked her violently from her hiding place by her belt. The pressure of the leather nearly cut her in half.

  She gasped, and recognized the distinctive odor immediately. Zimbabwe.

  “Simon!” she screamed.

  The unrelenting pressure of gunmetal against her face silenced her cry. Zimbabwe hoisted her under his massive arm and carried her back toward the van. Away from Simon.

  God help her.

  The sudden horror that they were taking her captive again rose up and burned her throat like acid. She twisted and lurched in the vise of Zimbabwe’s grip, tearing at his skin with her nails and swinging out wildly with her legs. With barely a pause, he slammed her head-first into the side of the van. Stars burst like fireworks exploding in her skull. She fell limp, the stunning impact flashing white hot and savage in her vision.

  The gunfire ceased, leaving an eerie quiet in its wake.

  “Let her go, Mbuutu,” Simon shouted.

  The vicious giant grunted and acquiesced, tossing her into the ready hold of another man. Foul breath and ginger hair assaulted her.

  Boots.

  She screamed. The black, cold barrel of a gun pressed hard against the side of her eye.

  “Throw your weapons out or she dies,” Zimbabwe yelled in deep, throaty English.

  After the shortest of pauses, two guns sailed out into the clearing and hit the dirt.

  Zimbabwe spun around and yanked her head back with a fist in her hair, looming down and pressing his whisper against her throbbing ear. “How many guns does he have?”

  Her breath came fast as she forced her lips together, knowing what her
defiance was likely to cost. His strike was as fast as a cobra’s and powerful as a crocodile’s jaws. The first she knew about the fist in her face was the jarring crack of her jaw.

  “How many guns?” he shouted over her cry.

  Her tears were a mix of rage and pain.

  “Two!” Simon yelled from beyond his door. “I’m unarmed now.”

  Boots swore. “Bullshit.” He hoisted Clare up in front of him and used her as a shield, stepping out from behind the small sedan. Zimbabwe followed, marching confidently—fully armed—toward Simon.

  “You try anything,” Boots called, hauling her closer to him with his free arm. “She dies.” His cackle was hideous. The barrel of his gun caressed her cheek. The tiniest flame of defiance warred with the icy clutch of terror deep inside her.

  “Go on,” he muttered as though sensing her rebellion. He moved his gun hand closer to her mouth. Practically inviting her to bite him. “Do something,” he chided. “Just give me an excuse.”

  She clenched her damaged jaw tight.

  Simon stepped out from behind the SUV, his hands at his sides. Zimbabwe walked up to him and—with one powerful swing—slammed his elbow into the side of Simon’s head. He went down like a sack of rocks. If she hadn’t had Boots’ filthy hand over her mouth, her enraged scream would have startled birds from their roosts for miles.

  Zimbabwe squatted over him and delivered a second blow. Blood streamed down over Simon’s mouth and chin.

  Clare twisted free of Boots’ gag. “Stop—” she begged, stretching toward Simon.

  “Oh, we’re only getting started,” Boots sneered against her ear. “When we’re through you won’t be able to tell his face from his bowels lying in the dirt. Not that he’ll be needing either for much longer.”

  Zimbabwe ploughed into Simon again, slamming him harder into the ground, bellowing “Two years!”

  A raw kind of whine, so like her beloved wild dogs, issued from her throat.

  “Where is it?” Zimbabwe shouted, a spray of spit mixing with the blood pouring from Simon’s nose. He pressed Simon’s half-conscious face harder into the rocky dirt. “Where is it?”

  “What? Where’s what?” Clare cried where Simon couldn’t, rage filling every part of her.

  Zimbabwe looked up at her—pinned her with black, death-filled eyes—and she knew whatever the African had done to Simon, he would be giving double to her.

  Worse.

  Slower.

  “The chip,” Boots barked.

  Her head reeled. “We don’t have it,” she gasped past his crushing hold around her. “It’s with his partner. In the transporter.” It was the truth. The chip was there along with the collar, packed in the evidence case.

  Zimbabwe looked at Simon for a heartbeat, smiled, then nodded to Boots.

  Simon began to struggle under his weight. “No—!”

  That was all the warning Clare got. Boots lifted her bodily and then powered her down onto the earth. The air exploded from her in an agonized cry as he flung himself down on top of her. Six months vanished in the blink of an eye.

  “I’m going to fuck you to death and make him watch,” he taunted.

  His erection pressed into her belly as hard as the gun pressing into her face. Either he’d had considerable practice raping women since last time or he’d been working out because he anticipated her every twist and had a ready countermove as she bucked her lower half away from his disgusting intent.

  Zimbabwe hauled Simon up by the collar and then hammered him back down onto the ground again, forcing his face toward her. Blood bubbled at his nose. His head shook back and forth as he tried to free himself from the death grip.

  “Where is the chip?” Zimbabwe demanded.

  “We don’t have it!” she screamed, with more force than she imagined still having in her lungs.

  Zimbabwe nodded at Boots again.

  With an agonizing crack, he slammed his forehead down onto her brow. She slumped, her head reeling, dark stars exploding once again in her vision. Her head lolled sideways, and when her dizzy eyes could refocus they found Simon’s, spitting with a furious vengeance.

  One tiny part of her wondered if it might be better to be unconscious for what was about to happen. Sensing her acquiescence, Boots took his chance, reaching down to yank at her pants. But that was enough to rouse her spirit.

  No! Not like this.

  Not in front of the man she loved.

  Her rage returned in full force. She remembered Simon’s lesson at the farmhouse about using an opponent’s maneuver against him. With no thought for her own pain, she slammed her throbbing head hard up into the septum of Boots’ nose, triumphant as she heard the unmistakable crunch of shattering bone.

  Blood exploded everywhere.

  He fell back, screaming. But only for only a second. Then he returned, forcing his gun into her mouth. His blood streamed onto the barrel and ran down the weapon. She gagged on the steel and blood as he pushed the muzzle all the way in.

  “Okay!” Simon screamed, though it was muted by the mass of Zimbabwe’s body crushing down on his. “Enough!”

  A sharp whistle cracked across the space between them. Boots stopped, suspended, above her, his eyes slicing to the right. He withdrew the gun just slightly. Enough that she could breathe. Zimbabwe slid off Simon.

  “Pocket,” was all Simon could manage.

  The African yanked out every pocket in Simon’s clothes until he found a hidden one inside his coat. He chuckled as he pulled out the small evidence bag with the smuggled chip in it and examined the tiny silver square inside.

  Tears rushed harder down her cheeks. No… They can’t win…

  “Two fucking years…” Zimbabwe straightened and connected one last sharp kick with Simon’s ribs. Pocketing the evidence bag, he walked away from Simon, right past Boots, who was still spread-eagled over her on the ground. The giant spat next to him.

  “Fuck you, Corby.”

  Boots’ eyes flared and flicked across the clearing. In that heartbeat, she realized what had just happened. Boots knew it, too. The big African had sicced Simon on Boots.

  He was a dead man.

  With a glower of blood and vengeance, Simon staggered to his feet, surged across the clearing and slammed his boot onto her attacker’s throat, crushing his windpipe. Boots let go of the gun in Clare’s mouth to clutch his shattered voice box. She twisted and pulled herself free of the vile weapon. It fell to the ground. As Simon dragged Boots off of her and then slammed him, choking, into the dirt, she saw Zimbabwe jump in the van, and speed down the dirt track, backward.

  Gone.

  Wheezing like a bellows, Boots grabbed Simon around the legs and clung, trying to bring him down.

  Pushing herself up to her knees, Clare picked up the gun in shaky hands, and pointed it at the back of Boots’ head.

  “Let. Him. Go,” she growled in a voice she didn’t recognize.

  He opened his mouth. And his face exploded.

  The gun tumbled from her rigid, bloody fingers. She tried to scream. But no sound came out.

  Simon staggered back from Boots’ slumping body as it hit the earth, dead. He turned shocked eyes to her then looked past her, to the trees beyond.

  “Fergusson?” he croaked. “What the hell—”

  “Yep. Sorry.” Tim’s chest heaved with exertion and he bent over slightly. “It’s been a while since I’ve run a four minute mile.” He straightened, racked another bullet into the chamber of his gun, and assumed a combat stance, still puffing.

  Since when did Tim carry a—?

  Before she could finish the thought, Simon’s arms were around her, hugging her close to his chest. Or maybe she was hugging him as they toppled over. They ended up tangled in each other’s embrace, bloodied and broken and grasping each other like all the air on the planet was about to be sucked into space.

  It was one hundred percent pure adrenaline and terror spinning out of them, leaving them breathless and shaking.

/>   He kissed her. So very gently, taking care with her cracked jaw and bruised face.

  Slowly—agonizingly slowly—the events of earlier in the day came back to her. She pulled away out of his hold, rolled onto her back, and pressed one hand to her heaving chest while the fingers of the other found her lips. Simon fell onto his back next to her.

  Tim spoke up. “You okay, Clare?” He looked and sounded different. The same but—

  “Why do you have a gun?” she asked, bewildered.

  He shrugged. “ASIO issue.”

  Simon’s eyes fell shut. Then they opened again, much more resolute, and he pulled his torso up and stared at Zimbabwe’s dust plume disappearing back down the track. “He has a chip.”

  Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Data?”

  Simon shook his head. Managed a shadow of a grin. “Tracking.”

  Tim ghosted back a smile, pulled out a satellite phone, and started dialing.

  Simon rolled his head to look at her. “How bad are you hurt?”

  Incredulity settled like acid in her aching belly. “That was one of WildLyfe’s chips?”

  “Yeah. The data chip is still sealed in the collar. Your jaw looks bad.”

  So did his face. Vaguely, an image of him screwing the cover back on the collar filtered through to her swollen brain. “So it was worthless? Why didn’t you give it to him sooner?”

  Why let it get so far? Why had he let them hurt her? Let them cave in his face so badly?

  Anguish filled his blackening, slitted eyes. “They knew me. If I’d given in too soon they’d have known. It had to look genuine. We needed to track him.”

  So all this had been about SIS getting their man? All that torment and fury in Simon’s expression as he’d laid there in the dirt—that had all been for the sake of the ruse? Hurt washed through her until the pain inside matched the considerable pain outside as the numbness wore off.

  She lowered her voice so only he could hear. “So the case doesn’t mean enough for me to die for, but you have no problem with me being beaten senseless or having a dead man’s fingers in my underwear?”

  He groaned softly. “I…”

  Honestly? It was not a question she wanted the answer to. She frowned up at Tim. “ASIO?”