Maverick

by Lisa Marie Rice

  Bowen didn’t care. Money was now the least of his concerns. The Africa business was sending money to him in torrents, and that was before two new diamond mines were slated to come online.

  He went to his liquor cabinet that was a converted Florentine Renaissance madia, pulled out a crystal glass and poured himself a sixty-year-old Macallan that had made the Forbes list of most expensive whiskies. And handed Wizard a can of Red Bull without a glass.

  They were both happy.

  Ah, give people what they want. Such a simple rule, with such spectacular results.

  “I’d say we send a video on day three. By that time the mainstream media will be in full howl. We send it to Sarkos again and he can decide what parts he wants to black out. The original will be leaked a couple of hours after Sarkan puts it up on his site. We’ll choose the one that shows the Senator at his… best.”

  Oh yeah, there were a couple showing the Senator engaged in sex acts that were illegal in ten states. Not to mention the coke. “He won’t last a week.”

  And during that week, there would be wild speculation about who would run for the seat. He already had plans for the two top runners. One would be discovered with an extra $100,000 in his bank account that would be eventually traced back to an Aryan Brotherhood faction and the other would have a tragic car accident.

  The first one was Wizard’s lookout, the second Heston’s. He frowned as he looked at the last splash of Macallan’s in the glass, a subtle shade of light bronze, catching the light of the Murano chandelier overhead.

  Heston.

  Heston, who wasn’t doing his job. Who had let Claire Day slip through his fingers. Twice.

  Heston, who had one more chance and that was it. Hit man baseball. Three strikes and you’re out.

  A plan a long time in the making was coming to fruition. Each step had been carefully plotted, even more carefully carried out. He was advancing, step by careful step, in his master plan.

  Claire Day was, all in all, a minor irritant, even coupled with that jarhead, who was probably fucking her. But he didn’t like even minor irritants spoiling the smooth progression of his plans.

  Heston was supposed to take care of this small problem. If he couldn’t, then Heston had to go, and by God he’d take care of Claire Day himself.

  It would be a pleasure.

  LAKA, MAKONGO, DECEMBER 1

  They landed in the familiar muggy heat, so thick it was like a living presence. Walking out of the air-conditioned plane into the sultry Makongan afternoon had been like landing on another planet.

  They’d flown on a tiny six-seater from Lungi. Claire swore she could smell alcohol on the pilot’s breath when he came into the airport lounge to call the flight himself.

  But there wasn’t much choice, there weren’t many flights from Lungi. Jesse, Frank, and Dave were coming in from Cairo in a couple of hours, having flown out of New York.

  Claire had had to fly under her own name from Montreal. It was simply a question of time before her nemesis found her and traced her. He couldn’t, however, know four warriors had flown in, too.

  Laka airport was busy, she thought, looking around as they descended the rusty roll-on steps down to the tarmac. Military planes filled with cargo were everywhere. Huge warehouses had been built since the last time she’d flown into what was now called General Mbutu International Airport, and fork-lift trucks were ferrying crates and boxes to and fro like so many ants on an anthill.

  “Busy place,” Dan said, slipping on the sunglasses he’d bought at Lungi airport. She did the same. She’d forgotten how blinding the African sun could be.

  They watched a stack of ten palettes trundle by, all donations of the New Day Foundation, stencilled in black and red on the sides in foot-high letters. She looked around. “My God, it’s a huge operation.”

  As far as the eye could see, there were cargo planes being unloaded, and in the distance, planes lining up for takeoff. One by one, they lifted up gracefully into the painfully blue sky and the next in line readied for takeoff. The takeoffs were staggered and precise, like clockwork.

  The airport she knew had been lackadaisical, with bored security guards smoking and playing cards. This looked positively Prussian in its organization. “It’s changed,” she murmured.

  “Yeah.” Dan was pulling the single piece of hand luggage they’d flown with and took her elbow with his other hand. “Let’s see whether the rest of the country’s changed.”

  Passage through customs was quick, without any hassles. Dan had stood tensely by her side as she slipped her passport across to the border control officer. If their ultimate enemy was Bowen, this country was like his personal fiefdom. If he’d discovered her travel plans, if Claire was on some list, Bowen could mobilize the entire Makongan Army.

  Dan had flown with sharply pointed ceramic knuckles and a ceramic knife in a sheath inside his jeans and she knew that he would use both in a heartbeat, though knuckles and a knife, no matter how deadly sharp, were no match against the AK-47s all the guards brandished.

  She also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would defend her to the death.

  She looked at him sombrely as they walked through the crowded airport and out toward the taxi stand.

  She’d never really had any protection in her life. When her mother died, her father basically just gave up the ghost. He’d loved her, but he’d been a shell of a man, and she’d known that she’d have to fight her own battles. Through high school, university, and climbing the ranks in her career, she’d been alone. Boyfriends and lovers had come and gone. It wouldn’t have even occurred to them to offer protection, and frankly, it hadn’t occurred to her to ask.

  The truth of the matter was that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself under normal circumstances. Perfectly capable of studying well, getting good grades, getting scholarships, sitting for entrance exams, and starting up in her new profession.

  She’d been on her own and the men in her life had been fleeting presences, like comets across the sky, often more trouble than they were worth.

  But now she really needed Dan, and he was right here, solidly by her side. Every single move he made drove that point home. He was with her and wouldn’t leave her.

  He’d saved her life twice and was continuing to look after her. Whatever mess she was in, it was hers, not his. And yet he had simply walked away from his old life, unquestioningly and uncomplainingly, to become her paladin.

  As he walked with her through the airport, he checked every angle thoroughly, completely alert, eyes constantly moving. When he’d finished with the field of vision ahead of him, he’d stop to tie a shoelace or look at postcards and check the entire perimeter behind him. It was done very smoothly and unobtrusively. As was the way he angled to ensure that he covered her as much as possible from possible snipers. He all but danced around her to make sure that if there was a bullet, he’d catch it and not her.

  Behind the dark glasses her eyes pricked with tears.

  Outside, Dan flagged a taxi, then turned to her. He bent his face to hers, mouth against her ear, eyes moving behind his sunglasses.

  “What is it, honey?” he murmured.

  All of a sudden, Claire couldn’t stay silent any more. As far as she knew, they hadn’t been followed. But if they had, killers were after them right now. They could die at any moment in a hail of bullets, and Dan would never know.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything you’re doing for me.”

  He’d been studying the tops of the buildings outside the airport, but at her words, he turned sharply to her.

  His jaw muscles clenched and his hand tightened around her arm. “My pleasure.”

  There. For right now, it had all been said.

  They were quiet on the short ride into the city center, Dan holding her tightly against him, bracing her against the huge potholes in the road. Their driver clearly enjoyed the bouncing. Claire could swear he aimed directly for the potholes, the bigger the bet
ter.

  They’d booked into the Etoile Africaine, the only decent hotel in town. As the driver took them the long way round, angling for a more expensive fare, Claire observed the streets.

  She’d loved Laka, loved its vibrancy, vivid colors, even its lunacy. The streets had been full of vendors, selling everything possible under the sun, mostly illegal. Music had drifted down from many of the second-floor apartments, some recorded, some live. Put three Makongans together and you had a musical group. And four political parties. People argued constantly. The din had been almost unbearable at times, and a lot of fun, as people quarrelled, hawkers screamed lists of their wares, musicians played. It had all been chaotic and cheerful.

  Now, the streets were deserted. Even the shops seemed deserted. Every third or fourth shop was closed, its metal mesh barricade pulled down, though it was the middle of the day.

  The few people on the streets were standing still, watching the taxi make its way through the empty streets with dull, incurious eyes.

  And they were all men. Before, most of the street vendors had been women. Women dressed in garishly colored batik had been everywhere. Now it was as if they’d disappeared, which said a lot to Claire.

  Women have a built-in radar for danger. If the women had abandoned the streets, something was wrong.

  Even the smells were different. Laka had had a heady smell of diesel fumes, wood charcoal from the braziers of food stalls, overripe fruit, grilled meat, the bitter chocolatey smell of the coffee stalls on every street corner. Now, the deserted streets smelled of food gone bad and of the rank river flowing lazily through the city.

  “God,” Claire murmured. “It looks like East Berlin before the wall came down.” She’d only been seven when the wall fell, but she remembered seeing the magazine pictures. And a professor of hers at Georgetown had escaped from East Germany in the 70s and had assigned research projects on East Berlin. “What happened?”

  “President for Life Mbutu happened,” Dan said grimly. He let out a relieved breath. “I guess our driver has finally decided to take us to the hotel.”

  The taxi pulled up in front of the ornate, stucco baroque façade of the Etoile Africaine. Dan leaned forward with a sheaf of dollars then walked around the cab to Claire. As soon as she was out of the cab, the driver took off with a squeal of tires.

  They stood looking at what used to be the best—actually, the only—hotel in town.

  The Etoile had been where cynical NGO officers, alcoholic foreign correspondents, jaded businessmen, hopeful prostitutes, and unhappy UN personnel stayed. The food and alcohol had been excellent and hardly a week went by where you didn’t stop by for a drink with a friend.

  Now it looked like it belonged on the back side of the moon.

  Where last year there had been a porter with a uniform worthy of an Italian admiral, known for his smile and knowledge of the city, now the big revolving door was unattended. The huge front windows and the panels of the revolving door were filthy.

  Strangest of all, it appeared deserted. The Etoile had been full of customers, the venue of the elite of the city and the international institutions night and day.

  Dan was tense as he checked everything out. Finally, he looked at her and she nodded. Where else would they go? They had reservations and there really wasn’t any other place in town that she knew of. If the Etoile had degraded so much, she didn’t even want to think of the small pensions and bed-and-breakfasts that had dotted the city.

  Inside, the air was closed and stuffy, another huge change. If you got too hot shopping in town, you could always nip into the Etoile and cool down in the air-conditioned bar, where drinks were served 24/7.

  Though the hotel looked abandoned, it wasn’t closed. There was someone behind the desk and a few patrons could be seen.

  Claire hung back while Dan checked them into a double room under his fake name. With a little luck, the clerk wouldn’t ask for her documents and there wouldn’t be any trace in the hotel records of her presence.

  They were in luck.

  Dan’s fake passport was enough and Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Doran rode up to the fifth floor, where Dan checked the fire escapes at both ends of the corridor. In the room, he checked out the windows, the bottom of the telephone and all the lamps, all the plugs. He got up on a chair and checked every inch of the wainscoting and every inch of the bathroom. It took him half an hour of silent work, but he was finally satisfied that there were no bugs and no cameras.

  “Damn,” he said, sitting down on the bed. Claire was horrified to note a faint cloud of dust rising when he sat down. “I’ve got a kit back home that would have done that in three minutes flat.”

  “Well,” she offered, “you can’t expect to run for your life with all your equipment, can you?”

  She turned, startled, at the sound of a soft knock on the door. Her eyes rounded. “Oh my God. We didn’t order room service, that might be—"

  “Sh.” Dan bent to kiss her briefly. “It’s a friend, bringing some of that equipment I had to leave behind.”

  He opened the door and a Marine walked in carrying two big briefcases. He was wearing fatigues and combat boots and the boonie cover. Sgt. Lee was stitched onto the shirt pocket. His high-and-tight was so short she couldn’t tell what color his hair was.

  “Gunny,” Sgt. Lee said quietly. “Good to see you.”

  “Yeah, good to see you too, Sarge. What have you got for me?”

  Sergeant Lee placed the briefcases on the bed, raising another small cloud of dust, and opened it. Four sniper rifles, components broken down and nestled in foam cut-outs, four Glocks with shoulder holsters, and several dozen magazines. “Exactly what you asked for, Gunny, except the number of magazines. I wanted to get you more ammo, but it wasn’t possible.”

  Dan looked up at his friend with a sharp look. “You sure you’re not going to get in trouble with this? Because I’m telling you, if I need to shoot, I will. And to kill.”

  “Well, what the fuck do you want a rifle and a gun for if you’re not intending to use them?” the sergeant asked in a reasonable voice. “And don’t worry, I won’t get any flak. It’s not our stuff. I got it off a fucking arms dealer here. Place is fucking lousy with them. Could have got you a fucking RPG or a 50-cal, easy.” He rolled his eyes. “Hell, coulda prolly got you a fucking nuclear bomb.” He laughed, then his grin froze as he remembered they weren’t alone in the room. His eyes as they stole to Claire were so wide he looked like a startled pony. “Oops. Begging your pardon, ma’am.”

  Claire waved that away. They were up against people trying to kill them. A little healthy profanity wouldn’t hurt them any.

  Dan was busy fitting the shoulder holster, checking the mirror to see if his jacket hid it. Then he put the rifles together, checked them, then broke them down again, hands steady and practiced and fast. He did it in the time it would have taken her to put on her make up.

  It was true what they said about a Marine and his rifle.

  “So… what’s the deal here? It’s changed a lot since I was last posted here.” Dan closed the cases and put them in the closet.

  “Yeah. President for Life keeps a pretty tight rein on things. We hear a lot of stories about political opponents getting tortured or offed, but we can’t do anything about it. Guy’s untouchable—he’s now officially Our Guy. He’s also become the go-to guy for distributing food and medicine throughout the region. It goes through this big shot foundation. We’re called in sometimes to escort a shipment, but mostly Makongan soldiers and a few ‘security experts’ take care of it. The security experts are mercs, some American, some South African.” Sergeant Lee shrugged. “That’s about it. Makongo’s become a real calm posting now. Nobody does anything that might piss off the President. If you do, you’re disappeared.”

  “Does Bowen McKenzie come often?” Claire asked.

  Sergeant Lee shrugged. “Not that often, no, ma’am. As far as I know, he’s only come twice this year. He sleeps in the Presidential Pal
ace and we’re called in for protection detail. Easiest detail ever, ‘cause no one wants him dead. He’s St. Bowen around here.” This last was said in a heavily sarcastic tone.

  “Yeah.” She shook her head. “It’s hard to think of him as St. Bowen. He’s made a real leap from being CIA Creep of the Year to sainthood.”

  Sergeant Lee’s mouth firmed as if repressing a smile. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned to Dan. “You need backup? Because Flynn and me, we can take some personal leave, watch your six, know what I mean?”

  Dan shook his head. “For now, I’ve got men coming in. We’re on recon. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Lee fixed him with a hard stare. “You do that. Flynn says he still owes you one. A big one. And I do, too.” He turned his hand into a gun and cocked it at Dan. “So you call if you need us, you hear me?”

  Dan nodded.

  When Lee walked out, Dan went out and watched him walk down the corridor, standing there for two or three minutes. In that time the elevator remained silent and no one came. The hotel seemed almost empty of guests.

  Finally satisfied, Dan closed the door and looked at her. Unwittingly, as if the young sergeant had released some Marine hormones in the air, he stood at modified parade rest, broad shoulders back, hands over crotch.

  “So… we’re here, we’re armed and we’re pissed. What do we do now?”

  Well, for starters, Claire wanted to kiss him. A big fat smackeroo right on the mouth. Not for sex—for one thing that dusty bed was unappealing—but because he turned to her for leadership. They were a team. He was providing physical security and she was supposed to provide guidance and direction.

  Claire Day, who had spent three months on a respirator, and the next nine months learning to walk again, who’d had nightmares every night, and had had trouble distinguishing up from down, was now the team strategist. No question.

  Dan stood quietly, waiting to hear what she had to say. He was, as he’d said, armed and pissed, and now he was ready to strike, in the direction Claire indicated.