Deadlock (Uncommon Enemies: An Iniquus Romantic Suspense Mystery Thriller Book 3)

by Fiona Quinn

  The reception area was large. Very large. But even so, there must have been about two hundred people sardined into the space. Meg wondered if her place by the desk was a good thing or a bad thing. If it was a good thing, she needed to find a way to make that good fortune extend to Rooster, Randy, and Ahbou. If it was bad, she needed to make sure to keep her distance. Just like Rooster had wanted to do for her. As the women filed out, the men dotted the floor. Probably a little over a hundred, she’d guess with the practiced eye she’d gained estimating herd sizes.

  “I will now call a list of names. When I say your name, you will come and sit with Meg.” Momo gestured her way. He began to read. One after the other, her colleagues stood. Alphabetical order, she noticed. As they stood, Momo consulted the sheet then looked them in the face. He’d nod, and they’d come over and sit beside her. Each giving her a searching look, trying to gather information. Was this a good thing? Was this bad? She had no clue, other than Momo had locked onto the Key Initiative.

  “Abraham Silverman,” Momo called. Rooster stood and got Abraham to his feet. Abraham wove his way forward on unsteadily. He looked like he was about to pass out.

  Momo considered him. “You are Silverman?”

  “Yes,” Abraham breathed out.

  Momo called out something that Meg didn’t understand. He must be speaking Somali. Meg longed to look at Rooster. To catch his expression, so she’d know what to think. But she forced her attention to Momo. She would not connect herself to Rooster in any way unless she thought it would help him.

  The man who responded was talking animatedly with his hands. He must have been explaining why Abraham had been beaten.

  Momo turned his eyes on Abraham and raised a brow. “You had multiple guns on your person?” he asked in English.

  “I’m afraid of wildlife.” He shrugged and lost his balance.

  Momo put a hand on his shoulder to steady him and scrutinized his face. He glanced down to the paper in his hand. He shook his head as he caught Abraham’s squinted gaze. “You introduced yourself to everyone as Abraham Silverman. But that is not correct.” Momo turned to Meg. “Is this Dr. Abraham Silverman?”

  Meg was wide-eyed, her brow in her hairline. What should she do? Claim him? Disavow him? What would keep him safe? Her safe? She decided to go with the truth. “Dr. Silverman introduced himself to me when we met earlier this morning. We have only had electronic correspondence.”

  “This is not your picture,” Momo told Abraham. “Who are you?”

  “Abraham Silverman. But not Dr. Abraham Silverman.” Abraham showed his hand then slowly reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open and handed it to Momo. “He told me I could use his name and go on this safari, and he’d straighten everything out once he got on site. A free holiday, if you will.”

  “This license says Abraham Silverman. You two happen to have the same names?”

  “Imagine that.” Abraham attempted a smile but only one side of his face was working. “We have a lot of fun with it.”

  “You are having fun, then?”

  “I was. I’m not having fun now.”

  Momo lifted his chin toward one of his men and handed off the wallet, giving an order in Somali. He turned back to Abraham. “It says you’re an Israeli.”

  “I am an Israeli. Abraham and Silverman are common names there, like John Smith in America.” Abraham’s words slurred as he strung them together in a wet jumble. “Sometimes Abraham and I use this to our advantage, buying a single membership and both using it. It takes a little coordination. But it’s not hard. We’ve done this for decades. I just happened to be using his safari pass while he’s at his father’s funeral. If you’re looking for scientists, I’m no use to you.”

  “I believe you will be of use to me.” Momo pointed. “Sit over there.”

  Abraham took a halting step then went down hard, landing on his broken arm. He screamed in agony. Meg went over and helped him up, supported his weight, and brought him next to the base of the desk so he could lean against it for support.

  When she next looked up, Momo was looming over Rooster and Randy. “Identification?”

  Both men leaned to their sides to access their wallets in their back pockets and handed them over. “Rooster Honig. Eduardo Lopez. Both American citizens, yes?”

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  “What do you do for your livings?”

  “We’re industry consultants here to help get the Key Initiative going.”

  “I see, so you are part of this group?” He pointed back at her, and Meg dipped her head. “Meg,” he yelled.

  She popped her head up.

  “I called two names, and they did not raise their hands. Lemmings and Clemson. Show me who they are.”

  Meg pushed to standing. She needed to feel a little more in control. “They aren’t here. They had visa issues. I don’t expect them to join us until Monday.”

  Momo gestured toward Rooster and Randy. “And these men are connected to you?”

  To her? She sent up a quick prayer for choosing the right response. Rooster obviously wanted them to be associated with the scientists, but was that to help save her at their own detriment? Or was that because Rooster thought that that was their best chance of getting out of this alive? She decided to trust Rooster knew what he was doing. “They are industry consultants here to help the Key Initiative get going.” She parroted. Meg could feel the sweat in her armpits soaking through the many layers of clothes Rooster had instructed her to put on. She felt overly warm and confined in the layers, and the heat and constriction were making her claustrophobic and angry.

  Momo turned back to Rooster. “How do you speak Kiswahili?”

  “I’ve worked in Eastern Africa for years.” Meg noticed that when Rooster spoke he affected a slightly deeper tone and a rather defined Southern drawl. She wondered why.

  “And you speak other languages?”

  “A bit of Arabic. And English, of course.”

  “And you?” Momo pointed at Randy “You speak Kiswahili? What languages do you speak?”

  “A very little bit of Kiswahili. I’m learning that and Arabic. I’m fluent in English and Spanish.”

  Momo stared at them hard. He nodded his head toward the scientists. Randy and Rooster rose, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, then broke apart so they were tightly staggered. They moved to the far side, away from her. But when they sat, she saw Ahbou’s slender leg disappear behind their backs. And her heart stuttered. She was going to keep that little boy safe. That goal became enormous inside of her, taking up space and depth, like a tree setting its roots in the ground. She had purpose, and it helped her. Made her feel powerful. Now to turn that purpose to a good outcome.

  The man that Momo had spoken to returned with a laundry cart and a roll of trash bags that would fit the small bathroom bins. Momo tipped his head toward Meg’s group. “One at a time, you will put all of your personal effects in your bags. Wallets, jewelry.” Another man came up with a Polaroid camera. Meg wondered where they got one. Hadn’t they stopped making film for those about a decade ago? She was sure they’d stopped right about the time OutKast came out with “Hey Ya!”.

  Her mind had been whirring a thousand miles a second. Filtering information. She wondered why it had suddenly settled on that song—and now the lyrics were playing in her brain.

  That stopped the second the guy with the camera pointed to her then indicated she should stand. He took her picture and gathered her gold stud earrings and a ring her mom had given her for her eighteenth birthday. Did this mean they were being held for ransom, and this was proof of identity?

  Momo had moved with one of the gunmen to the other hostages. One by one, he looked at their IDs, asked them their job, and collected their items. Each in a separate bag. Each bag tossed into the laundry hamper. No other person was added to the Key Initiative’s group. The man rolled the basket down the hall. Meg imagined he was heading to a door that wasn’t
padlocked shut.

  Momo finished his task and then said, “Please, if you will follow me.”

  They rose and moved in the direction the cart had gone. Meg tried to help Abraham, but Rooster stepped in and took hold of him. They walked down the hall and turned right. Down another hall to a door marked “Exit”. Meg tried to angle herself along the way, so she drifted toward Randy to help hide Ahbou. There were plenty of places that they could have stowed Ahbou along the way—under a tablecloth, into an open door. Randy seemed determined, though, to keep him hidden, and keep him with them. Meg’s mind went to the men with the lumpy shirts. To the boxes and wires. To Momo flicking the object in his hand. Then to Abraham passing some information to Rooster in what she assumed was Arabic. And though it was probably as clear as glass to everyone else, she just then realized that they were going to explode the hotel with all those people inside. And the only survivors would be the Key Initiative scientists. That’s why Randy and Rooster wanted to be attached to her group, and that’s why they were bringing Ahbou along.

  Meg’s blood iced. Her teeth chattered against each other. The moist fabric of her clothes wicked what had been unbearable heat from her skin and left her shivering. Ahbou’s uncle, the last of Ahbou’s family, was about to die. And Ahbou would be left with no one. But me. He’ll have me. Now she just needed to stay alive and see that through.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rooster

  The Front Drive, Ngorongoro Crater Imperial Hotel

  There weren’t a lot of options. Not any good ones anyway. They had been divided up into groups of seven. Each placed beside a truck. Each truck had a driver and someone sitting shotgun. Literally. Rooster made sure to be positioned with Meg and Randy. He had half-carried half-dragged the ghost over with them. They needed to keep tabs on this guy. He held secrets that Momo might find overly interesting, like that Rooster and Randy were the ones that had been negotiating the hostage release back in Djibouti, and they were the ones to blow up his crew and take the Bowens. Yeah, that just might be an extra ticket to the torture chamber and a long-ass death. If Randy and Rooster had different moral compasses, it might just be a reason to drop the ghost down and hold his airways closed like the Maasai goat. The ghost should count his blessings they held tight to their code.

  There were three other scientists huddling together who were assigned to this truck. They had been around in the crater, but Rooster hadn’t had a conversation with them. Had no idea who they were. He hoped their specialties were ones that could help them when they escaped. None of the scientists, apart from Meg, looked like they could lift their body weight or run any kind of distance. Rooster would leave options open, but it looked like their escape crew would be Meg, Randy and him, and they’d send back help.

  Escape looked like their only option. He had no idea if the ghost had a check-in time that might have passed, something that might give the Mossad a clue that things were amiss. Doubtful. Black-ops kept their distance. Worked alone. And would be disavowed if taken. Rooster looked down at the ghost leaning against the boulder. This guy was shit out of luck from his end of things. They were too. Panther Force wouldn’t even be wheels down for another six hours or so. The terrorists had taken his watch, so now he was guessing. Even if somehow his unit had an immediate heads up, they’d still need to arrange to get to the crater, or wherever it was they were headed in these trucks.

  Their guard was about as big as Rooster’s right leg. But he was the one with the rifle. The hostile pulled each of the scientists by the arm separating them out, so they couldn’t speak to each other. Made sense. The problem was Ahbou.

  As soon as Meg was dragged to the side, Ahbou was spotted. The man demanded to know why this boy wasn’t in the lobby. “The boy goes over there.” He pointed to the front door.

  “This is my son,” Meg said, tucking him under her arm.

  “No. This is an African boy.” The hostile reached for Ahbou’s arm.

  Meg snatched Ahbou back and tucked him behind her back. The ferocity in Meg’s face would make anyone who’s ever seen a wild animal protect their young believe that this child could only have come from her body. “I was married to an African man.”

  The hostile flicked his finger toward the group. “He is here?”

  “He is dead.”

  Momo called out, pointing his finger. One of the scientists that was supposed to load onto their truck was trying to use Meg’s altercation as a distraction for escape. He had climbed up on the rock and was just starting to make his way down the other side. Rifle fire was trained in his direction.

  Rooster grabbed Meg and Ahbou, pushing them to the side of the rock, the only place around them that had any cover. He pressed them to the ground and draped himself over them.

  A scream rang out and fell away as the runner tumbled into the crater.

  “Fuck!” That was Randy.

  Rooster swung his body around the rock, expecting to see the ghost had been hit, but Randy was gripping his thigh. Rooster was instantly at his side jerking off Randy’s belt and pulling the end through the buckle when Meg showed up at his side.

  “Fuck!” Randy yelled through gritted teeth.

  “Hang in there, Randy. We’ve got this,” Rooster said.

  As Rooster pulled the belt tight, Meg slid her fingers into the wound. She looked up at the sky and blinked with concentration as she felt around. She pulled her hand up, clasping a severed piece of Randy’s femoral artery between her index and middle fingers. Clamping it down with her left hand, she twisted her right hand and quickly tied it off with a figure eight knot.

  “I’m fucking going down with a ricochet, isn’t that an ironic slap in the face?” Randy gasped out.

  “You’re not going down. You’re going to fight your way through this. Mind over body, brother. Your femoral was blown, but you only bled hard for a second or so. Meg’s handling it. You’re going to fight. That’s an order, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir,” he slurred as he passed out.

  Even with Rooster cinching down tight on the belt, blood continued to seep from Randy’s leg. Meg wore his blood in her hair, on her face, and up her bare arms. Somewhere in this she had pushed her sleeves out of the way. She reached back in, digging around. Meg pulled another piece of artery out of the hole and yanked it into a knot. Better, but still bleeding.

  “Meg, this belt isn’t doing it for a tourniquet. I need to you to give me three of your liner socks, lash them together.”

  Meg fell back on her ass and was tugging off her boot and wool sock.

  “Ahbou, son, give me your shirt.” Ahbou pulled off his shirt immediately and handed it to Rooster, who packed the wound. “Okay, now, run to that tree and get me a stick at least as big around as three of your fingers.”

  After Rooster rigged the makeshift dressings and tied down the tourniquet, he slowly released the belt. It looked like it was holding. Randy wasn’t bleeding anymore.

  Meg was tying her boot back in place. Her hands dripped blood. She was beseeching St. Jude for miraculous intercession under her breath.

  Rooster pulled Randy into rescue position, on his side with his good leg bent to hold him in place. He gently raised Randy’s chin to tilt his head back. Two fingers at his carotid told Rooster that there was still a resolute heartbeat, even if it was faint. The back of his hand under Randy’s nostrils told him that he was breathing. Even if they’d gotten the bleeding to stop, the pool of blood under his leg meant that he needed fast action to keep him from brain damage. If a helicopter was en route, he’d have a better chance.

  Rooster ducked his head, shaking it back and forth with grief. He placed a hand on Meg’s shoulder. She bent her head against his shoulder rolled into his arms. “He’s stabilized as much as possible. It’s best if they think he died. I have a plan.”

  A wail swelled from Meg’s throat, raising the hair on his scalp. He wondered if she hadn’t heard and understood him, or if she was one hell of an actress. He stood, and half-
lifted, half-dragged Meg back to where the gunman was. He kept his head down near Meg’s to give her comfort, but also so he could look around for options. They were slim and few. He drew a bottle of water out of her pocket and used it to wash off her hands and face. She might need that water later for survival, but her mental health was as important as her physical health. Maybe more so.

  Rooster moved to the far side of the group, over to the tree where Ahbou had collected the tension stick. Ahbou was his shadow. Momo had a soldier focused on them. Another gunman looked over the rock to make sure the scientist had died. When the guard was distracted, Rooster pulled Ahbou onto his back. He leaned his head back to talk to him quietly in English. “Ahbou, how do you like trees? This tree here—it will hold your weight and it has enough leaf cover that you can get right up next to the trunk and hide there until this is over, yeah? I bet you can climb like a monkey. You could hide in the tree for as long as it takes. Yeah?”

  Rooster could feel Ahbou nodding.

  “When they take the trucks out of here, you are not to go back to the hotel. Where can you go instead of to the hotel? Where are the closest people with phones?”

  “To walk? The Maasai boma. To drive? The FAME clinic.”

  “But no one will be here to drive.”

  “I can drive,” Ahbou said. “I have driven there before when my uncle hit his head. I push the chair back and drive standing up.”

  “Ahbou, Randy’s alive and needs help as soon as you can get it for him. You can do that for Meg and me, can’t you? Help Randy? Get him a doctor?”

  “Yes. I can do it.” There was conviction in his tone. Rooster knew that Ahbou had been the head of his household as a very young child. Responsibility was something Ahbou shouldered with familiarity. Rooster believed him when he said he could do it. Believed that more than could, he actually would do it. And he also believed that having a mission gave someone a forward-thinking brain. A survival mindset.