by Fiona Quinn
Table of Contents
The World of Iniquus
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
InstiGATOR Excerpt
Let’s Stay in Touch
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
DEADLOCK
Fiona Quinn
THE WORLD of
INIQUUS
Ubicumque, Quoties. Quidquid
Iniquus - /iˈni/kwus/- our strength is unequalled, our tactics unfair – we stretch the law to its breaking point. We do whatever is necessary to bring the enemy down.
Uncommon Enemies
WASP
RELIC
DEADLOCK
The Lynx Series
That Which is Yours
Weakest Lynx
Missing Lynx
Chain Lynx
Cuff Lynx
Strike Force
In Too DEEP
JACK Be Quick
Kate Hamilton Mysteries
Mine
Yours
Let’s stay in touch! Here’s a link to my newsletter: HERE
This book is
dedicated to all of you who have faced your monsters,
stayed strong, and found your way through.
Table of Contents
The World of Iniquus
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
InstiGATOR Excerpt
Let’s Stay in Touch
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Rooster
Djibouti, Djibouti
“Before we begin, I need proof of life.”
The radio crackled with static in return.
Rooster scraped his teeth over his top lip, waiting.
“Mr. Honey.” The buzzing and mechanical channel whines were replaced with the cheerful sound of lighthearted banter. “You know every time I say your name, I laugh at the irony.”
“How’s that?” Rooster stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankle, settling into the conversation.
“Oh, if you knew, you would kick yourself.” The man’s accent sometimes rang with Arabic notes, sometimes with French, but his English was quite good. He had obviously spent time in America. “As for your proof of life, you must realize by now that I am an educated man. I’m not a Somali pirate raised with minimal thinking tools. I’ve done my research. I know your tactics. The Bowens are worth three million dollars. I will hold firm to that number. That number is not negotiable. The only things we are to negotiate are how the payment is to be made and how you are to retrieve your people.”
Rooster was pleased. “Brilliant” had never strung so many words together at one time. Up until now, his responses had been monosyllabic, sometimes just grunts, since their communications had begun over a month ago. Rooster had made a career of hostage negotiations. It took him to some of the bleakest, most godforsaken parts of the Earth. Now, here he was in Djibouti on the Horn of Africa, sitting behind his radio set with a wet towel draped over his neck in a poorly air conditioned rental house on the outskirts of the capital city. Djibouti was a country of dry scrublands, volcanic formations, the amazing Gulf of Tadjoura beaches, and temperatures that ran over a hundred degrees, day and night. It’s a dry heat, Rooster reminded himself.
Though he drank water constantly, he hadn’t peed in days. His clothes were covered in white scum from where his body’s sweat had left its residue.
In hostage situations, when Rooster introduced himself as the negotiator, he used the radio call sign he’d been given way back in boot camp some twenty-odd years before, Honey. Well, he made sure to say Mr. Honey so things didn’t get weird. Not to say that most of the people he negotiated with were fluent enough in English to understand that the noun was often used as a term of endearment.
Most of the men who negotiated from the bad-guy side chose to be called names like “Glock” or “Chief,” sometimes “Boss.” Rooster knew these were words they thought, in their limited grasp of English, gave them power. This was the first time an English speaker had wanted to be called “Brilliant.” A narcissist. Someone who’s ego swelled to cover up his lack of conviction, and probably the fact that he had a micro-dick. Rooster had steered his psychological tack accordingly.
Right now, though, Rooster needed to push things along. Time was the enemy. There was a statistical trajectory for good outcomes, and that section of the graph had come and gone. Hostage negotiation was a slow game. But they were now in the orange zone, the time when people without training, who were psychologically and physically unprepared for the challenges of captivity, folded under the weight. If the captors recognized their victims’ decline, a deal was often possible. If they didn’t, then Rooster’s team would be trying to get the corpses back, so the victims’ families would have closure.
Bad things could happen—did happen—to hostages held under kidnappers’ thumbs. But so far, Rooster was batting a thousand bringing his clients home at least alive, if not always safe and sound. He reached out to knock on wood. He tended toward the superstitious when his ego bubbled up some wiseass thought like good batting averages.
His teammate Randy sent him a chuckle when he did it, then refocused on his task at the computer.
Rooster pressed the comms button. “It’s been a while since I heard from the Bowens. Before our conversat
ion continues, I need proof of life,” Rooster said, not a trace of emotion in his words. The captors wanted him to be passionate and work from the heart. Rooster knew the only way he could save these people was to keep an emotional distance. He had to think of these negotiations like a businessman buying office supplies. Necessary supplies, but objects all the same. Compartmentalization was a honed skillset. Boxes were a handy tool. His emotions belonged to a different part of his life and not his career. Emotions equaled mistakes.
Brilliant laughed. “I am not stupid enough to be in the same area as my hostages. If you have some new communications tracking device, it will not work. I am a moving target.”
Rooster rubbed at his chin, his focus sharp. “Okay, let’s set up a time, I need to hear their voices. I need to verify that they are still the right people, and they’re still safe and sound.”
“Bowen is holding up under the strains of his conditions. His wife, on the other hand, is not. We believe she needs immediate medical attention. I am very worried for her.”
“She has a heart condition. You know that,” Rooster said. “Does she have her medication? Is there a drop point where I can provide supplies?”
“With a tracker attached? No.”
“Can you tell me her symptoms?” The longer Rooster could keep this asshole talking, the better shot they’d have of picking up ambient noise. Clues to his whereabouts.
“I believe the heat and stress, along with her particular location, are all problematic.”
“She doesn’t work for Hesston Corporation. Why don’t you let her go? Call it a good faith gesture.”
“I would like nothing better. As soon as the payment is made, I will take her immediately to the hospital.”
“Is the hospital a far distance? Should I arrange for a helicopter?”
“Ah, you think you can trick me into giving you information about where the Bowens are held. Listen to me. Anjie Bowen needs immediate attention. I want to get her that attention. It is you who prevents me from doing this.” He let his words seep in. Waited for Rooster to panic.
Rooster knew all the tricks and traps. He sat silently, listening to the static.
“I realize how this works. It will not be Bowen’s corporation that pays the ransom monies, it will be the insurance company. You don’t work for this man, Mr. Honey. You are paid by the insurers. But if this man or his pretty little wife dies, your reputation will be tarnished. The insurance contracts will go away, as will your paycheck.” He paused. “Really, it’s self-preservation that should make you wish to come to a happy conclusion.”
Rooster leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, staring down at the mic. He took a breath, making sure Brilliant had finished his communication before depressing the button to talk. “This is a business transaction. Your opening bid was three-million dollars, and you aren’t coming down. I can tell you straight up, the insurers won’t pay that. Not even close. And while Derek Bowen works for Hesston, Anjie Bowen does not. I’m sure you understand from a businessman’s point of view why letting Mrs. Bowen go still gives you all the leverage you need.” He paused to slick his tongue over his teeth. “And it shows everyone on this side of the table that you’re acting in good faith. I need proof of life, and I need a more reasonable number.”
Another man’s voice could be heard in the distance. The sound of a car’s horn. Then the crackle of radio static.
Rooster waited. Brilliant gave no reply.
Rooster sniffed hard, setting the handset back in its indentation on the radio. He focused on the shadowy corner of the room. As he let his thoughts percolate, he reached for the jug sitting beside his chair. He upended it and chugged big gulps of the warm water. Swiping the back of his hand over his mouth to catch the drips, he turned to Randy.
“Almost ten minutes. That’s an improvement,” Randy said, sending the audio file back to Iniquus’s Headquarters in Washington DC. “Still full of himself. He’s convinced he holds a winning hand.”
While Randy sounded like the name of a man raised on football and apple pie, he was actually from El Salvador. Randy was his call sign. He’d come to America over a decade before to put his considerable athleticism to the test, hoping to gain citizenship from his US military service. He’d served two rotations in the sandbox as a Ranger, tough as nails, with the brain and stomach for the hairiest of missions.
Now, Randy and he got their paychecks from the for-hire security complex, Iniquus, that worked civilian contracts as well as running black ops for the government. While Randy was a Strike Force member, commanded by Striker Rheas, and Rooster was on Panther Force, commanded by Titus Kane, those designations were often fluid. Operatives went where they were told to go, based on capability and availability.
Randy had just finished up a close protection detail for an American businessman and put the guy on a flight from Kenya back to New York. The boarding call had sounded over the P.A. system, calling for Randy’s flight to Tahiti where he planned to take his R & R. But Randy answered his phone and thus pulled the short stick. Now Randy was sitting in this rat hole with Rooster.
“Brilliant gave up some stuff this time,” Rooster said. “Play that bit at the end again before the horn honk.”
Randy tapped the computer, cocking his head as he strained to weed out what hid under the ambient noise.
“Do you hear that guy in the background? Can you isolate that voice?”
Randy fussed with his software then hit enter, and they listened to the man’s voice, free of distractions.
“I don’t recognize that language. Any guesses?”
“Nada,” Randy answered. “Let’s see what I can find.”
Africa was a continent rich in languages and cultures. Tradition. Segregation. And turbulence. If Randy’s software could translate the sentence and give them a dialect, they might have something useful to work with.
Rooster pulled his headphones into place to listen to the recording. He believed what Brilliant had said about Anjie Bowen. She was in dire straits. With her medical history, extremes were perilous. Why she’d followed her husband on his boat trip along the coast of Africa at this time of year was a mystery to him. But it wasn’t Rooster’s job to second guess people’s decision making. It was his job to save their lives. And Anjie felt fragile to him.
Rooster knew that Brilliant had already figured out Anjie was disposable. It might even work in the kidnapper’s favor to let her die. Rooster had hoped that Brilliant wouldn’t realize that fact. But Brilliant’s tone and word choices told Rooster Brilliant had already drawn that conclusion. He would use her as a bargaining chip as long as he could, but didn’t care one way or another whether Anjie made it home to her three young kids or not.
Word choices were everything. In people who negotiated in English as a second language, those word choices came from how deep their vocabulary well ran. This guy was fluent. That was a win for the good guys. It meant he had a wide range of phrases to use, and therefore specific meanings could be weeded out. Rooster moved the recording back to the beginning of their conversation when Brilliant had laughed.
“Mr. Honey. You know every time I say your name, I laugh at the irony.”
The irony of my name. The irony of my name. He pressed play. “Oh, if you knew, you would kick yourself.”
My name is part of the puzzle. Not Mr. Just Honey. Honey is ironic. Rooster stretched his arms above his head, laced his fingers together, and cradled the back of his head in the hammock they made, flicking his thumbs against one another as he let his mind wander. He worked to put a pin in the irony of “Honey.”
“Got it.” Randy’s voice held a grin. It pulled Rooster’s attention to him. “The man’s speaking Afar.”
“Translation?”
“He said, ‘They bring the salt.’ And that belching sound you hear isn’t a man dying of indigestion. It’s a camel’s grunt.”
Rooster tapped at his computer. His eyes scanned over the screen then he leaned back in his chair a
nd laughed with his hands covering his face. He scrubbed his palms up and down over his cheeks, around the back of his neck. “Oh, the irony,” he said as he focused back on Randy. “The Afar tribe harvest salt spheres from Lac Assal. They bring them to the harbor on the backs of camels.”
Randy waited patiently for the piece that made Rooster react.
“The Arabic name for that lake is BuḥayrahʿAsal, which literally translates to Honey Lake. I do believe that Brilliant has failed to live up to his name.”
Chapter Two
Rooster
Djibouti, Djibouti
Nutsbe, the Panther Force communications and analytics contact, was on the phone reading out coordinates. He had accessed military satellite imagery to find the temporary camp of the nomadic Afar tribe. They were an impoverished people, suffering from climate change, still clinging to their traditional land, hoping that somehow life would improve.
The good news was there weren’t many tribespeople at the Lac Assal site. The bad news was, there was no road, no cover, and no high ground near the camp. There would be no stealth mode. Randy and Rooster would have to go in fully visible. And they’d also have to hope they could find one of the traders who could speak Arabic or French, the two formal languages of Djibouti, in order to communicate.
Randy and Rooster loaded twenty-gallon plastic jugs of water into their 4x4, along with cases of Plumpy’Nut, a peanut paste with vegetable oil, powdered milk, sugar, and vitamins. This plastic wrapped goo was used to treat acute malnutrition in countries facing famine. Rooster had found that tribesmen, hoping to save their children from starvation, were often happy to trade information or hostages for this portable food supply. In case they found the Bowens, Rooster also packed emergency medical equipment.
A helicopter from the USS Stenett, sitting off the coast of Yemen, was being worked out as their backup if the team got eyes on the captives. But Rooster couldn’t wait for the thumbs up from Nutsbe. He thought Brilliant had probably recorded and was going over today’s communications just as he and Randy had. Brilliant might catch his mistake, then he’d move the Bowens, and the rescue effort would be back to square one. Or less.
