Maverick

by Lisa Marie Rice

  The second half of the campaign was in the wings, waiting. And here, money really smoothed the way. Bloggers earned very little and were very susceptible to… let’s call them inducements. Those who wouldn’t accept payment outright were more than happy to accept advertising money or perks that wouldn’t go on the books. Club memberships, plane tickets, sky boxes. A lot of bloggers were for sale, and cheaply, too.

  The drums would start beating very soon. Today, in fact. A couple of political commentators would make the point that there was a stalwart, patriotic, and scandal-free American waiting in the wings, ready to take over from randy, depraved Neff.

  That, too, would go viral fast. In a week, it would be an unstoppable tide, the skids greased with money. The bloggers and then journalists would find a lot of consent in the upper echelons of power. The ‘unnamed sources’—basically a handful of men—would echo the drumbeat, because they knew that he was one of them.

  Neff had been an asshole. A mildly useful idiot. He, on the other hand, was one of them, and he’d be quietly welcomed into their ranks.

  He hummed happily as he cruised the internet, watching the blogs popping up, Senator Neff’s face appearing in a little thumbnail photo at the top. The thumbnail was a studio portrait, Senator Neff beaming like the idiot he was.

  By tomorrow, the blogosphere would replace that official portrait that made the asshole look like a statesman with the corset-wearing grinning satyr.

  Assassination by blog.

  The world changed, and he changed with it. He was riding the crest of the wave, moving as one with the tide of history. Nothing could stop him now.

  CHAPTER 18

  LAKA

  Back at the hotel, Claire attacked the computer the way you attack an enemy fortress.

  Dan sat quietly by her side. He was good with computers, but Claire was in another league entirely. She seemed to have a sixth sense for intel, how to dig for it, how to put it together.

  That was fine. Dan was the muscle here, and he was good with it. No one was going to touch Claire while she did her thing. Or even afterwards.

  She was scrolling through websites and files at an astonishing pace. If it had been any other woman, he’d have said she wasn’t reading, only skimming. But he was sure she was reading and absorbing. DIA analysts had to absorb tons of intel.

  Claire sat back. “Okay, this is what our boy’s been doing this past year. He quit the CIA, which surprised me, because the one thing I know about Bowen—besides the fact that he’s a jerk—is that he’s also ambitious as hell. But I’ve got about ten interviews with him to the effect that he felt the bombing was a ‘wakeup call’ for the West to do better, and so he quit to dedicate himself to improving conditions in Africa.”

  “Which is total bullshit,” Dan said.

  “Of course.” Claire raised her eyebrows. “However, the fact of the matter is that he quit a very promising career, which might have led him all the way to the top echelons of the CIA, to become the manager of the New Hope Foundation. That’s historic fact.”

  “Are they secretly funnelling in drugs? Arms?”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? That would make some sort of sense here.” Claire drummed her fingers on the table next to the mouse. “But, alas, apparently not. The Foundation looks utterly legit. Last year it delivered something like a hundred million dollars of medicine into Makongo and throughout sub-Sahara Africa. That’s a lot of money. Bowen would doubtless want to put his hands on some of it, but how?”

  “Maybe the Foundation should be audited? Figure out if some of that money is making its way into Bowen’s pants pocket?”

  “It was audited.” Claire brought up a spreadsheet that hurt Dan’s head just to look at it. “By one of the top six auditing companies in the world. All above board. No one seems to be siphoning off funds. And so Bowen sprouts a halo.”

  “That doesn’t sound like him.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” She curved her fingers over the keyboard again. “So, Bowen—what else have you been up to, eh?” News aggregate sites flew by. “Well… there’s sort of a pattern here. He’s set up shop in Virginia, and it looks like he’s joined a bunch of power clubs and is edging his way toward politics. Maybe ‘sidling’ would be a better term. But he’s definitely got ambitions there and—whoa.”

  Dan had been carefully checking the street outside, but turned his head at her tone. “What?”

  “Wow. It looks like a real shitstorm is about ready to hit the honourable Senator from Virginia.”

  “That idiot Neff?”

  She peered at the screen. “Yes, that’s his name. Jeffrey Neff. Senior Senator from Old Dominion, been Senator since Reconstruction. At first it was a corruption scandal. But now it looks like a big sex scandal is about to hit. The blogosphere is going wild.”

  Dan was apolitical. Fuck ‘em all, was his opinion. He shrugged. “So?”

  “Well… I don’t know. It’s just sort of interesting, what he’s done. Bowen set up headquarters in Richmond, he’s made a name for himself in philanthropy, he’s sort of dipping his toe into politics and then—pow! It looks like maybe a Senate seat is coming up for grabs and he just might be interested. There’s this organization called Concerned Citizens for Democracy and they’re putting forward Bowen’s name. I’m not too sure how that fits in with Makongo, though.” She quivered with frustration in her seat, and if Dan weren’t worried about security, he’d have jumped her bones, right there.

  Jesus, what man could resist her? She was in profile, and with her pale skin and long, slender neck she looked like something that belonged on a cameo. But then she turned her head and flashed those silvery-blue eyes at him, that stunning beauty almost drowned in the fierce intelligence and—right now—fierce frustration on her face, and she nearly brought him to his knees.

  She was everything he could ever want in a woman, and much, much more than he ever thought he could have. She had a beauty that was off the charts, was amazingly intelligent, took no nonsense but wasn’t hard or calculating. A woman in a million, classy and gorgeous and smart as a whip.

  His woman.

  Not bad for a jarhead who’d started out life with absolutely nothing, and a whole world just standing back, tapping its feet, waiting for him to fall on his face. God knows his father had. His father, high, drunk, or sober, had told him over and over again what a fuckup he was, and that he would never amount to anything.

  Son of a bitch had been wrong. Dan had done very well in the Marines, was doing really well as the head of his own company, and now, by God, he had the most desirable woman in the world, right here, not a few feet from him. And as luck would have it, she desired him right back.

  It just didn’t get any better.

  He’d had to work his butt off in the Marines and in his company, but Claire? She’d been a gift from the gods. Everyone said you had to ‘work’ at relationships and for all he knew, that was true. What the fuck did he know? He hadn’t grown up seeing any relationships that weren’t crazy dysfunctional, and he hadn’t had any of his own.

  But being with Claire… man, it was as easy as drinking water. Whatever she wanted, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to get it for her, or do his damndest trying. All that romantic shit he’d never been good at? With her, it just came natural. He wanted to take her arm when they were out walking. Particularly when she’d been a little unsteady on her feet. Not just to help her, but to touch her, because touching her was like plugging into something magnificent, something he didn’t even know existed up until now.

  This past year he’d fed his obsession with the little sensory input he’d had at the Embassy. The feel of her long French braid running through his hands like silk, the smell of her, fresh and clean even in the sweat-soaked Post One, where he’d smelled like a goat, the taste of her mouth, minty and enticing, a little honey trap.

  They’d been intel to plug into his Claire jones, but it hadn’t been much to go on. Man, now he had the whole dea
l.

  Now he knew how delicate she felt in his arms lying down, chest to breasts, sex to sex. The taste of that soft spot of skin behind her ear. The way she jumped when he nipped her along her jaw.

  And oh, God, how her nipples tasted. Like salty cherries, and how she clenched tightly around him as she came…

  He rested his forehead against the window frame and breathed out slowly.

  Keep your head in the game, he told himself sternly. A woodie in the middle of the day, in an African city where enemies could be around the next corner, while Claire was focused like a laser beam on her computer screen and the things it was telling her—well, it was a bad idea.

  But fuck, there it was. And a huge distraction.

  This had never happened to him before, ever. Dan had decided at seventeen that he was heading for either an early grave or ten-to-twenty hard time, and so he’d thrown himself at the Corps. The Corps had taken over. If he thought he’d been tough before, he didn’t have a clue as to what toughness was.

  The Corps had taken him apart and put him back together again, cell by cell, muscle by muscle, sinew by sinew. Even his thoughts had changed.

  Dan had learned how to single-mindedly focus on a mission with almost frightening ferocity, until it became second nature. Focusing had never been a problem since his seventeenth year, when he’d decided to save his own life.

  Focus was a problem now, and it scared the shit out of him.

  They didn’t know who was after them—after Claire. It could be one man, it could be two, it could be a dozen. He or they had enormous resources, and worst case scenario, they weren’t going to quit, ever.

  All those shitheads had to do was be lucky once, and Claire’s life would be snuffed out like a candle. Gone in a flash. Man, he’d seen plenty of young lives snuffed out. One fucking bullet. That’s all it took. He knew what her head would look like with a bullet through it. How long it would take her to die, gut-shot. Maybe they had orders to kidnap her, torture her for whatever it was they thought was in that beautiful head of hers.

  Dan had seen men who’d been tortured for what was in their heads. Oh, yeah. They went crazy long before their bodies died.

  He clutched the wooden frame of the window so hard it was a miracle he didn’t dig holes into it.

  The only thing that stood between those nightmare scenarios of a dead or dying or tortured Claire was him. He’d saved her twice because he was good with weapons, could combat drive, and had been trained to think like a soldier, tactically.

  She was smart as a whip, no question. Way smarter than he was. But he’d felt every inch of her body and she was no warrior, had no way to defend herself. She was small and soft and tender and oh, Christ, just the idea of someone hurting her…

  He swallowed hard against the ball of bile that was rising in his throat.

  This wasn’t doing her any good. It did do him some good, though, since his hard-on went down. Nothing like picturing the woman you wanted to have sex with dead or dying to get it down and keep it down.

  “Ah!”

  Dan turned his head at the soft exclamation, glad to get away from the images of a dead or hurt Claire in his head.

  “What?”

  “One of the big recipients of New Hope Foundation’s donations is the Hôpital Génerale de la Charitè.”

  Dan came away from the window to look over her shoulder. She was checking the website of a hospital. He couldn’t make out much because it was in French. “So?”

  Claire clicked and pulled up another page, of names this time. She pointed at a name halfway down, with an office phone number. Dr. Aba Diur.

  Dan frowned. “Marie’s sister?”

  Claire was punching out a long number on her satphone. “Oh yeah. She’s an oncologist, and as luck would have it, she’s also second-in-command at the hospital. If anyone knows anything about what’s going on, it’s her. She’s mad at me for getting Marie killed, but she’ll talk to me.” Her mouth firmed. “She has to. Allo? Aba? Claire, Claire Day ici.”

  The rest of the conversation was in French. Dan couldn’t follow the words, but he could follow the gist. This Aba didn’t want to talk to Claire, that was clear, but whatever Claire was saying was convincing her.

  Attagirl.

  Claire closed the connection, punched her fist in the air with a sharp hissed yes!, and grabbed her bag. “Let’s go, Dan.”

  Okay. He’d follow her into Hell itself, let alone to some hospital. He checked his weapon for perhaps the hundredth time, made sure he had spare mags with him, and with a last, longing look at the rifle he had to leave behind, he followed Claire out the door.

  CHAPTER 19

  RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

  The dialog box in the corner of his screen popped up. Wizard. What the hell did he want?

  Hey man. U there?

  Yes

  Found her. Took a while. Thought she’d just gone up in smoke, possibly offed. But no. CD made it out of the country. Flew from Montreal to Paris, Air France flight AF467 on Nov 29. Then Paris to Lungi, PanAfrican Airways flight number PA529 November 30. Lost track of her there, people there don’t keep computer records for longer than 24 hours, WTF do they do? Scratch names on bark? Anyway, she paid cash and flew alone, both flights. No jarhead.

  That’s worth another 100K. Waiting…

  The cursor pulsed, patiently.

  “Goddammit!” The glass of whiskey he’d been happily sipping exploded against the wall, the amber liquid running like teardrops to the floor. The smell of whiskey blossomed in the room, together with the smell of his own sweat pouring out, instantaneous, uncontrollable.

  His entire body went into overdrive. He’d been tasting success, a taste as fine as any caviar or champagne. Refined and heady. And now he had the taste of ashes in his mouth.

  The bitch should have died back in Laka! He’d had no fucking idea she was out there in the compound, none, otherwise he’d have had her shot through the head just like that other bitch, Diur.

  He was just too good, that was it. When he’d heard, months later, that Claire Day had been found badly wounded in the Embassy compound, he’d contemplated sending one of his men down. Easiest thing in the world to slip into a hospital room dressed in scrubs and inject 20 ccs of air or press the carotid arteries gently enough to stop blood flow without leaving a mark.

  Christ, he’d been tempted.

  But his man said she was in a coma, and she was half crazy when she came out of it. Couldn’t even walk, for fuck’s sake. So he’d weighed the slight risk of sending a man down against the almost zero risk Claire Day represented and had taken a strategic decision.

  The wrong one.

  Fuck!

  There was no doubt whatsoever why Claire had flown to Lungi. She was making her way to Laka. He checked his watch. She was there now, had been for almost a day. What was she doing? Who was she seeing? Had she gone to the Embassy?

  He was tempted to give Mbutu a call and have some of his men take care of this. But Mbutu’s men were not efficient. They were clumsy, their violence a club, not a scalpel. There could be a real stink if a US citizen showed up dead in Makongo, bludgeoned to death by the trademark beating of Mbutu’s goons.

  At least she didn’t have the fucking jarhead with her. He’d probably dumped her. Smart man. Claire Day was trouble on a stick, not worth it, no matter how beautiful she was.

  The jarhead had fucked her and left her. Good for him.

  He sat in his chair, gently swivelling back and forth, thinking it through. Finally he leaned forward to his computer, sent Wizard another $200,000 and typed him a message, encrypted it and sent it.

  Ck yr account. Ck list of guests Etoile Africaine, hotel in Laka, for name Claire Day.

  This required immediate action.

  He picked up his phone and punched the button that would connect him with his secretary.

  “Sir?”

  “Have the Lear brought around. I want to fly to Laka. Now.”

  LAKA
>
  “Claire.”

  Oh God. This was going to be bad.

  Dr. Aba Gawey née Diur had come out from the bowels of the hospital into the lobby and walked briskly across the great marble expanse to stand in front of her. She crossed her arms, standing erect, torso slightly back.

  Her body language couldn’t be clearer. She wasn’t happy to see Claire and couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

  And yet Claire eyed her hungrily. She was still the beautiful Aba she remembered and had had so many happy meals with at the Diur household. She and Marie had been invited several times to eat with Aba and her husband. The husband who was now dead.

  Claire had liked Aba a lot. She’d loved Marie, but she felt Aba was her friend, too.

  It was so hard to stand here, wanting to throw her arms around the friend she hadn’t seen in a year, only to have Aba show such steely resistance, almost repugnance.

  This was going to be so hard.

  “Aba.” Claire sketched a smile and touched Dan’s arm. “This is former Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Weston, the Detachment Security Commander at the Embassy at the time of the bombing. He’s accompanied me here. It’s really good to see you. You’re looking good.”

  It was true, though it was as impossible for Aba as it had been for Marie to look bad. The last year had taken its toll on Aba, though. There were lines bracketing her beautiful mouth, and her deep brown eyes, always so expressive, now so cold, were bloodshot.

  But she was still as erect as an arrow, still impressive in her hospital whites, still filled with the light of intelligence.

  Aba didn’t follow Claire’s gentle opening. “Maman told me you’d be coming.” Her eyes flicked to Dan, standing straight and impassive by Claire’s side. “Together with your friend.”