The smell pervading the area was almost overwhelming. It was a combination of rotting food and raw sewage, punctuated with the cloying stink of burning tires and intensified by the blazing midday sun. Flies hummed and hovered, made fat and lazy by the abundance of putrid waste, not even bothering with the patchy-furred dog sleeping at the base of a trash-filled metal drum.
They hadn’t made it more than a few steps down the walkway before the group of onlookers thickened to block their path. Instinctively Warren tensed, conscious of the Glock holstered under his shirt as he scanned the crowd, but Nicola’s posture was relaxed as she greeted everyone in French. She launched into what sounded like a well-practiced spiel, and from the few words he was able to catch—Garraway, Hambani, l’assistance—he suspected this was her way of inviting comments from the community as to how Garraway’s social responsibility budget would be best deployed.
When she finished speaking there was an astonished silence. Mouths hung open and eyes widened, expressions ranging from hopefulness to blatant disbelief. A pregnant woman with a shaved head gawped so incredulously that Warren had to look away. If only they knew how insignificant this money was to Garraway—that the company would make more from the Hambani mine in a month than most of these people could earn in a lifetime.
He thought of his father’s gleaming oak desk at the top of a towering skyscraper in downtown Johannesburg. He recalled the constant flash of diamonds at his mother’s ears, the anniversary-gift stones she never took off. He remembered visiting the zoo with his primary school and reddening with the angry, inarticulate embarrassment of childhood when the classroom bully found a plaque thanking the Copley family for funding the hippo enclosure and taunted him for the rest of the day, asking which one of the hippos was his mom, blocking Warren from getting on the bus and braying that he should go back to the lagoon with the rest of his kin.
Two weeks later that same bully pulled his chair out from under him in the cafeteria. Fueled by a wave of blind rage that was now deeply familiar, Warren had punched him until his nose bled, then pushed one of the huge trash bins onto its side, forcibly shoved the much larger boy inside and threw himself against the bin to turn it upright, trapping the bully in a damp, slippery, spaghetti-sauce-coated prison.
His teachers were horrified. His classmates were thrilled. And when his grandfather arrived wearing a three-piece suit that probably cost more than the school building, the old man had winked and squeezed his shoulder and told him not to worry, no one got very far in life without a bit of blood on their hands.
Movement in his peripheral vision jerked him back to the here and now. A big-bosomed, determined-looking woman elbowed her way to the path, planted one hand on her hip and began speaking in rapid, pointed French. He inched closer to Nicola, watching her for any sign of intimidation, but she just listened and murmured understanding. When the woman finished she replied in an explanatory tone, her voice calm and level.
The woman stared at Nicola for several seconds, eyes narrow and shrewd. Then, as if making a decision, she straightened and gestured down the walkway.
Nicola glanced at him over her shoulder. “This lady is called Maza. She said she’s a midwife, but I think she’s more like the community nurse. She wants to show us the problem areas in the settlement.”
He nodded. “After you.”
Maza led them through the makeshift village, which grew denser and more squalid the farther they got from the entrance. Warren quickly gave up trying to quantify the population—there were hundreds of dwellings and he was sure each one housed multiple occupants. There was no electricity, no running water. They stepped over streams of sewage bisecting the packed-dirt pathways, and the pervasive smell of paraffin suggested it was the primary fuel source for everything from household lanterns to portable stoves.
“If there’s a fire, this whole place is gone. No one will be able to get out,” he murmured. Nicola inclined her head in agreement, watching Maza point out a jagged scar on a young boy’s leg.
“From the civil conflict,” Nicola translated. “These people flooded into Namaza when the gold was discovered, bankrupting themselves to leave their rural homes and come here to look for work at Hambani. Next thing they knew, they were trapped in the middle of a war.”
The lingering evidence of that violence was everywhere. Bullet holes riddled corrugated metal walls. Angled scars from panga blades marred the faces of men and women alike. To Warren’s left a child held part of a dismantled TEC-9, swinging it from his fingertips.
Warren didn’t even bother to shake his head. The damage here was done. And it would take a hell of a lot more than Nicola’s measly social responsibility budget to change that.
Not that her demeanor suggested she had anything less than a complete community overhaul in mind. He fought an affectionate smile as she gamely scrutinized a leaking roof, shook hands with a sour-faced old woman and cooed at an infant thrust at her by a teenage mother.
Whoa, that’s intense. He pivoted away, suddenly uncomfortable at the sight of Nicola calmly propping the baby on her hip as she continued her tour. If someone passed him their child, his first instinct would be to check it for booby traps, yet she was so compassionate, so relaxed, so easy with these people whose lives and histories couldn’t be more different from her own.
He couldn’t imagine being that free from guilt and suspicion, or that willing to take people at their word, or having that much belief in his ability to help them. He blinked hard as he turned from the happy scene, in which he was sure he had no part.
That was when he saw it.
The shack was carefully positioned between two others, and although an unusual amount of space separated it from its neighbors, its location made it practically invisible from the central path. It was larger than most, the roof bolted in place rather than weighed down with tires, but those weren’t necessarily red flags—those kinds of improvements could be easily afforded by someone who’d managed to get regular shift at Hambani.
The state-of-the-art tablet visible through the glassless window could not.
Though he was immediately on alert, Warren kept his expression carefully neutral, not wanting to alert any spectators that he’d noticed something amiss. He turned toward one of the other shacks, thoughts racing as he recalled what he’d seen.
Not only was that a disproportionately expensive piece of electronic equipment, the fact it was so brazenly displayed suggested its owner had no fear of it being stolen.
Did this house belong to a drug dealer? A loan shark? A gang leader? He snuck another surreptitious glance inside, squinting to make out a carton of imported cigarettes on a table, a bottle of South African wine beside it, a pair of designer-brand athletic shoes beside the mattress on the floor. All incongruously lavish for a community like this one, where people lived so far below the poverty line it wasn’t even a relevant concept.
There were no weapons visible, nothing to imply the shack’s owner was anything but a peaceable resident enjoying a windfall. Yet Warren’s gut insisted something was off. Whoever lived here was no good guy. He was sure of it.
He dared another step closer, studying the structure itself. It was definitely bigger than its neighbors, yet its external footprint didn’t seem to match what was visible through the window. Were the walls doubled, to create hollow storage space in between? That would be an easy way to conceal guns or drugs, and even easier to access from inside. After a quick glance over his shoulder assured him Nicola was still within a second’s reach, he leaned in to study the shack’s foundation, looking for irregularities.
He heard the observer before he saw him, the slight crunch of rough dirt beneath calmly planted feet. Warren was deliberate in his movements, not guiltily jerking toward the newcomer, not acknowledging his presence at all until several unhurried seconds passed. When he was ready, he turned.
He recognized the man instantly. Altho
ugh he stood about ten feet away, those green eyes were as unmistakable now as they had been through the fence around the mine and in the crowd surrounding the blown-out equipment shed. He was slight but muscular, two inches shorter than Warren, his posture poised, promising menace.
If he was armed, his weapon was concealed. Warren thought of the Glock holstered at the small of his back and kept his hands relaxed at his sides, trying to broadcast that he wasn’t in the market for a high-noon duel. He didn’t want conflict of any kind, if he could avoid it—the intermittent giggling of small children was a constant reminder of their proximity.
The man regarded him in steady silence. Unflinching, Warren let him.
For several minutes they sized each other up, aware they were at odds but neither yet willing to make the first move. Warren kept part of his senses attuned to the sound of Nicola’s voice, ensuring there wasn’t a plan to distract him while she was attacked, but the intrigued, almost sympathetic expression on his opponent’s face suggested this was a chance meeting.
Finally the man tilted his head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The base notes of his accent were pure Latadi, but they’d been smoothed and polished by an overseas education. Warren knew that foreign buffing well—it was audible in his own speech.
“Where?”
“This country.”
“Why not?”
“This is not your quarrel.”
Warren shoved his hands in his pockets, demonstrating his trust. “I’m paid to protect the Hambani mine. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The man opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He looked over Warren’s shoulder, in the direction of Nicola and the gathered residents.
“She wants to help, but it’s time for us to help ourselves.” His gaze returned to Warren’s. “Take her away. Keep her safe.”
Warren squinted at the man before him, weighing the man’s words. Normally he would chafe at any intimation of unearned authority, at anyone’s attempt to tell him what to do.
But there was something different about the way this man spoke, the gentle urging in his tone, the flash of respect that crossed his face. Almost like he was offering an escape route, the chance to disembark from a doomed ship before it left the harbor.
He thought again of the bullet-scarred shop facades on Namaza’s main street, of Roger’s description of a mine under siege in the middle of a civil war. The ground beneath his feet practically reverberated with recent violence.
Maybe this man was right. Maybe they shouldn’t be here.
A baby’s indignant squeal cut the atmosphere between them, and Warren glanced behind him to see Nicola passing the child back to its mother. When he turned around the man had retreated several steps, into the space between two shacks. They exchanged nods, and he was gone.
It couldn’t have been more than five minutes since he left Nicola’s side, but when he rejoined her it seemed the attentive crowd had turned clamorous, as people shouted over each other, jostled to reach the front, gesticulated insistently as they rambled in indecipherable rural dialects. She seemed unruffled, murmuring and smiling with the same ease she had when they arrived, but he didn’t like the tenor the group was taking. Gone was the wary curiosity and hopeful disbelief, replaced by aggression and demand. The community was becoming a mob.
Evidently dissatisfied with what Nicola was managing to communicate with her limited grasp of French, an older woman with several missing teeth latched onto Nicola’s forearm to tug her off the path.
“Okay, hang on,” Nicola objected smoothly, but her reversion to English betrayed her alarm as she tried to disengage from the woman’s grip. “I’ll be back another day and we can look at all the problem areas you’ve mentioned, but right now—”
“Allons-y,” the woman demanded, tightening her hold.
Warren was in motion before Nicola could even turn to look at him, wrapping his arm around her waist and inserting himself between her and the crowd. “Enough. We’re leaving.”
She didn’t object as he ushered her away, pressing into his side when a handful of people began jogging to catch them, still making adamant requests in broken French. Gripping her more tightly, he marveled at how small she was, how slight and delicate. Her petite frame didn’t seem capable of producing the authority with which she’d addressed the community. Her presence was so strong, he’d practically forgotten her diminutive stature.
Their pursuers fell back as they neared the entrance to the settlement, their expressions transforming from urgent to dejected to resigned as they slowed, then stopped altogether.
He held open the door of the Land Cruiser so Nicola could climb in. He took his own seat behind the wheel, put the old four-by-four into gear, and soon they were hustling back down the rutted road toward town.
He glanced into the rearview mirror. The same children who had stared at them on arrival were still crouched by the entrance, their game of marbles unaffected by all this uproar over a couple of visitors from Garraway Gold.
They were halfway down the looping road back to Hambani when Nicola spoke.
“Thanks for your help back there. I felt like Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard. Except you’re much better-looking than Kevin Costner.”
He shot her a sidelong glance. “Thanks?”
“Any time.”
“I saw that man again,” he announced, ending his internal debate on whether or not to tell her. “With the green eyes.”
“From the site of the explosion?”
“That’s him. He said we shouldn’t be in Latadi. That this had nothing to do with us.”
She frowned. “That what has nothing do with us?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied grimly, mentally replaying the encounter. “And I can’t say I’m all that keen to find out.”
Chapter Eight
“Dammit.” Nicola swore under her breath as she opened the door to the canteen, which was pitch-black and deserted this late in the evening. She’d been too preoccupied by her trip to the informal settlement to manage more than a few bites of dinner, and by midnight her growling stomach wasn’t helping her restless insomnia. Her flashlight died ten minutes into her walk to the office, at which point she realized wandering around the mine at night probably wasn’t the brightest idea. Calculating that she was closer to the canteen—and a fresh flashlight battery—than she was to her cabin, hyper-alertness hurried her steps the rest of the way.
Now she hesitated in the doorway, unable to make out even the hulking white refrigerator in the total darkness. The light switch was on the opposite side of the room.
“Too stupid to live,” she muttered, plunging into the canteen with her hands extended in front of her, praying that a shin-bruising chair was the worst threat she faced.
She’d managed three steps inside when she sensed movement ahead of her. She froze, every nerve on high alert as she stood absolutely still, listening intently.
A shoe squeaked on the linoleum, closer than she expected, but before she could scream a hand clamped over her mouth, strong arms twisted her hands behind her back and she was shoved face-first against the wall, breathing in the irremovable stink of fried onions buried deep beneath the scent of cleaning products.
“Oh, shit.” All at once the pressure eased, and she was free. She spun to face the figure behind her, and as her eyes adjusted she could just make out Warren’s upheld palms.
“Sorry, I heard someone come in and instinct took over. Are you okay?”
She nodded, then realized that was a useless gesture. “Can you turn on a light?”
His steps were so quiet, if it wasn’t for the faint rush of air she wouldn’t have known he moved. With a click the overhead lights flickered, then shone. She blinked at Warren, then registered the whiskey bottle and half-full glass on the table.
“What are you doing in he
re?”
“Having a drink.”
“In the dark?”
He shrugged, dropping into a chair and motioning for her to join him. She grabbed a second glass from the cabinet and took the seat opposite his.
“Let me guess, you have night vision because you’re secretly a shape-shifter who turns into a leopard.”
He filled her glass and slid it across the table. “I wish. I didn’t want to turn on the light in case Roger stumbled by and wanted a heart-to-heart. Then my flashlight died and I couldn’t be bothered to get up.”
“Really? My flashlight cut out too, on my walk over here.”
His attention sharpened. “The flashlight that was in the cabin when we arrived?”
She nodded.
“We’ll buy new ones tomorrow, in town,” he muttered darkly.
She raised the glass and tilted it to study the amber liquid inside, then raised it to her nose to smell it. As she lowered it to her mouth she looked over the rim to see Warren watching her, his half-smile bemused.
“It’s the real deal, I promise—you can check the label. I brought it from Cape Town. Figured I might need it.”
“It could be homebrew from a shebeen and I wouldn’t know the difference. I’m not nearly as sophisticated as I pretend to be.” She took a sip, letting the fiery liquor burn down her throat and into her stomach.
“I don’t believe you.” He stretched his legs beneath the table, his jeans brushing against hers. “You certainly knew what you were doing at the settlement today.”
Uncharacteristically, she reddened at his praise. “It was good PR, that’s all.”
“It was sincerity, honesty and grace under pressure.”
“All I did was listen. Nothing changed for those people today. They still went to bed on dirt floors without electricity or running water.”
Short Fuse: Elite Operators, Book 2 Page 8
