by Vanessa Kier
“He could be anywhere,” JC muttered in disgust.
“Aye. What about Morenga’s life?” Lachlan asked. Among the files that had been retrieved by the government and shared with WAR after Dietrich’s arrest had been a full dossier on Morenga. Savvy businessman that he’d been, Dietrich had investigated Morenga thoroughly before agreeing to work with him. Unfortunately, the file had been lacking more than the most basic details on Morenga’s son. Since that struck Lachlan as sloppy, he suspected someone in Dietrich’s organization of working for Natchaba and omitting crucial information that could have tied Theophilus Sani Morenga to Sani Natchaba. “Can we pick up any clues on Natchaba’s objectives from what we know about his father?”
“Meaning, does Natchaba have daddy issues?” Hoss said.
Lachlan once again fought to contain a flinch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw JC watching him with a frown on his face. Bugger it. He did not need his men speculating on what was bothering him.
“If he’s trying to take over his father’s weapons smuggling, then I think the answer you’re looking for is yes,” Hoss continued. “We know Morenga has never stayed in one place for long and that he and his wife stopped living together when his son was six. Natchaba could have taken that as a personal affront. After all, he chose a distant family name on his mother’s side, Natchaba, to use as his latest alias, not one from Morenga’s family.”
“Odds of Natchaba setting up offices in the same cities as his father?” JC asked.
Lachlan shook his head. “It’s too early. Natchaba hasn’t fully established himself as a success. Look at all those aliases. He’s moving around, adjusting his strategy, trying different ways of achieving whatever goals he’s set for himself. He won’t go face-to-face with his father until he has the power to back it up.”
“I agree,” Lars said. “At this point he’ll be enjoying the fact that he’s acting covertly against his father. He’ll have men inserted into Morenga’s operation, and probably he’s even turned some of Morenga’s men to his side. His spies would have told Natchaba of the MP3 players and carried out the theft.”
“Has there been any word from Wil’s spy regarding big, upcoming weapons deals for Morenga?” Hoss asked. “That’s what I’d be after.”
“I don’t think Wil’s bloke is able to check in very often,” Lachlan said. “I’ll ask Kris, though.”
“My bet is that Natchaba will continue to user smaller targets to test his men,” JC said. “Venues with a personal connection or that offer relatively easy access to local or regional officials. Once he’s confident in his force, then he’ll hit hard at large targets with more strategic value.”
Hoss glanced over at Lachlan. “If some of the surviving villagers attended secondary school with Natchaba, maybe they’ll have suggestions regarding possible targets.”
“I’ve thought of that.” Lachlan said. “But, since it’s unlikely they’ll remember critical information while they’re grieving and in pain, I thought it best to wait a bit to allow them to recover.” Sensing a change in the atmosphere, he glanced up. The lads were staring at him in surprise. “What?” he demanded. “Don’t you think I can be sympathetic?” Christ. Did even his men think of him as cold-hearted?
“Well,” JC said. “You’ve always been all about the mission, no matter the costs.”
“What the rebels did…” Lachlan shrugged, embarrassed because JC was right. Civilians were not to be physically harmed during a mission, but they couldn’t be careful of people’s feelings if critical information was at stake. Yet he still felt raw inside when he thought about little Sisi’s death. How would the villagers react to knowing their loved ones had been the victims of Natchaba’s petty revenge?
“But that’s moot,” Lachlan added, nodding at the newspaper sitting next to the laptop. “That reporter didn’t respect their grief when he went digging for quotes for his article. So, after Obi has finished checking for information from his contacts, Obi and Dev will take a turn at questioning the survivors.” Obi had become the team’s point of contact for anyone currently within a government who wished to pass on information about the rebels that he or she felt was not being properly handled by their own people. “But if neither David nor Kwesi had reason to be suspicious of Natchaba, then I suspect no one else in the villages knew him any better.”
Lachlan stared at the map. “Natchaba might not be a military strategist, but if, as I suspect, he staged the vandalism at Helen’s clinic to make himself appear the benevolent overlord and then used the influx of building materials to hide his weapons smuggling, that indicates long-term planning.”
“And patience,” Hoss said.
“I didn’t realize you knew that word, peeshwank,” JC muttered. “Lord knows, you don’t have the patience of a flea.”
“We need to find someone who’s worked with Natchaba,” Lars interjected before Hoss could make a comeback. “Before Natchaba kills off everyone who might be able to reveal personal information about him, as he did with the staff at his mansion.”
“If Natchaba was truly being strategic, he wouldn’t have sent the rebels to decimate the villages near Helen’s clinic,” Lachlan said. “That might have won him points with the more aggressive groups of rebels, but not the citizens. The rebellion has already been losing support in those areas of the most violent attacks against local people.”
His men nodded.
“That’s why the attacks by the more disciplined rebel groups have focused on killing specific people who oppose them rather than entire villages,” Lachlan continued.
“And yet despite their anti-foreigner vitriol, even the worst of the rebels haven’t escalated the level of violence against foreigners to the same brutal level as what they inflict on their fellow Africans,” JC pointed out. “Which is why no foreign government has bothered to get involved.”
“Aye.” There was more to the lack of response by foreign governments than that, including the fact that the rebels spoke loudly to the local population about hating foreigners, but did their best to keep their activities out of the international media, but it was a contributing factor. “The attacks against the clinic and Layla’s Foundation were more public than most attacks against foreigners, indicating that Natchaba had no fear that such blatant violence would result in an international backlash.”
“You think he has someone helping him who can guarantee that the foreign powers stay out of the game?” JC asked. “Someone like Dietrich’s sponsor?”
“I think it’s a strong possibility, aye.” And it made Lachlan even more concerned about Helen’s safety.
“It’s possible,” Lars said, “that Natchaba believes these failures serve a greater purpose. If Morenga thinks Natchaba is ineffective—”
“Then Natchaba has a better chance of sneaking up on Morenga,” Hoss finished.
The men fell silent as they thought about the implications. “It’s possible Natchaba truly believes his father would be so susceptible,” JC finally said, “but Morenga’s file indicates he’s not only a savvy businessman, but a survivor. He’ll be well aware that taking over Dietrich’s supply routes will make him a target for every power-hungry criminal in the region. Morenga isn’t going to let down his guard so easily.”
“You’re right,” Lachlan said. “Plus, he must know of his son’s antagonism.” The words hung in the air, pulling him back in time. The only reason he’d been able to stop his own father had been because the old man’s back had been turned. He’d been so focused on killing his next victim that he hadn’t realized Lachlan was in the room until it had been too late.
“Commander? Are you all right?” JC asked.
He had to tell them. He—
The sound of a vehicle pulling up behind the safe house gave him a brief respite. But when he heard the bantering of Dev and the others, Lachlan swallowed past the lump of fear in his throat. He had to do this now, before he lost his nerve.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WHEN HELEN
ENTERED the safe house, she caught a glimpse of Lachlan and stopped. He was standing stock still in the main room, face white as a ghost.
“What’s wrong, Commander?” Lance demanded, striding toward him.
Lachlan held up a hand. “I’m fine. I just… Need to get out for a spell. To think.” He glanced at the clock. “We’ll meet back here in an hour. If you can,” he said to Lars, “get Tony and Marcus on the phone as well.” With those cryptic orders, Lachlan pushed past his astonished men and disappeared into the humid evening.
Sharing a nod, Hoss and JC gave Lachlan a small head start, then went after him.
“I don’t think—” Helen began.
“Don’t worry,” Lance said. “They’re not going to crowd him. But whatever emotions the Commander is dealing with, he’s lost his situational awareness. Hoss and JC will make sure no one bothers him until he’s ready to come back.” Still, he frowned at the door.
“All right, gents,” Dev said. “You heard the man. If you need to powder your noses or take a leak, now’s the time.”
Helen choked on her laughter, relieved that she still had the capacity to feel humor. She and Lance had spent all day in the operating room. She didn’t know about him, but she was exhausted. She’d become accustomed to the slower, less taxing work at the clinic and had forgotten how draining being “on” all day could be. And poor Levine had been on guard duty in the busy hall the entire time, having decided it wasn’t worth the effort for Lachlan to send over a replacement team.
Putting Lachlan’s odd behavior out of her mind, Helen said, “I don’t know about you, gentlemen, but I’m starving.” She opened the refrigerator. “Er…” The shelves contained a few beers, some left over fruit from the morning, and half a loaf of bread. “Never mind.” She gently shut the door.
The soft beep of a digital watch’s alarm filled the kitchen. “Dr. Kirk,” Obi said with another of those quiet smiles, “you are forgetting that this is the capital city. They have here such modern conveniences as restaurants that will take phone-in orders. Our dinner is awaiting our retrieval. Levine, if you will accompany me?”
Helen was so relieved that she wouldn’t have to cook or go out looking for a restaurant, that she nearly cried. “Do you need my help with anything?”
“No, thank you, doctor.”
“Okay. I’m going to take a quick shower, then.”
Ten minutes later, Helen returned to the kitchen as the men were setting out the food.
“Lachlan said to go ahead and eat without him,” Dev announced. “He’ll stop and grab a bite before he returns.”
“What set him off?” Levine asked.
Lars shrugged. “We were speculating about whether Natchaba is ready to move against Morenga yet and he got one of those blank, flashback looks on his face.”
“Lachlan has flashbacks?” Helen asked carefully. She didn’t know if his teammates knew about his scars, or even if what was bothering him had anything to do with what had caused them.
“We all have flashbacks,” Obi said solemnly. “It comes with being a soldier.”
“Lachlan has been particularly edgy the past few days,” Dev said. “You can’t really blame him. For a man with—” He cut himself off and glanced at Helen.
“For a man who has some sort of phobia regarding doctors and medical treatment, Lachlan has spent an awful lot of time in hospitals and clinics recently,” Helen finished for him.
“Er… Yeah.”
Lachlan’s fear of doctors plus the level of violence required to inflict such permanent scars on his skin added up to severe abuse. Her throat tightened with sympathy.
Helen stared at the savory stew in front of her. Her appetite had fled, but she forced herself to pinch off a piece of the doughy, cassava based fufu and dip the ball in the stew before popping it in her mouth. Experience had taught her to eat whether or not she felt hungry. After an intense day like today she needed to replenish her energy or she’d be no good to anyone tomorrow. Yet she barely tasted what she ate, her heart too heavy with thoughts of Lachlan. If she was correct, then a doctor had given him the scars on his back. Probably while he was a child.
Which explained so much, yet also destroyed any hope of a deeper relationship between them.
By the time Lachlan appeared at the back door of the safe house, the entire atmosphere had turned tense with grim anticipation. Every eye landed on him. Lachlan hesitated in the doorway. A flash of panic crossed his expression and for a second she thought he was going to flee. Instead, he sucked in a breath and stalked silently into the living room.
The men gave way before him, leaving Lachlan space at the center of the crowded room. He waited until Hoss and JC had come inside and joined the others, then Lachlan glanced over at Lars and nodded. Lars returned Lachlan’s nod and hit a few buttons on his laptop.
“All right lads.” Lachlan cleared his throat. “Tony, Marcus, thank you for joining us. This won’t take long.”
Helen gathered up her dishes and took them to the sink, trying to be quiet as she ran the water.
The men on the other end of the Skype connection murmured hellos that sounded as worried as the men in the room with Lachlan.
“I noticed you didn’t invite me, but I’m here, too,” said a voice that Helen didn’t recognize.
“That’s because you know this already, Kris,” Lachlan said wearily. “I didn’t see the point in dragging you away from your duties to listen to me…talk.”
From the indrawn breaths of some of the men near her, Helen figured they also suspected Lachlan had almost said “confess” instead.
“Ah,” the man called Kris said. That one word managed to convey so many emotions. Recognition. Respect. Support. “No worries. I’ll stick around.”
“Right, then.” Lachlan frowned, but didn’t protest.
Helen turned off the water, then carried the trash out to the bin in the far corner of the walled-in courtyard. Returning to the back door, she hesitated before opening it all the way. Through the gap, she saw Lachlan staring at the floor, seemingly unaware of the others present.
The tension in the room thickened until Helen could practically taste it, even outside. Afraid of breaking the mood by walking inside, she decided to stay where she was, although she felt a bit like a voyeur.
Lachlan blew out his breath and raised his gaze. “First,” he said, glancing at each of his men, “I want to thank you for welcoming me into your team and accepting me as your leader. Those of you who were Kris’s core teammates have never once made me feel as if you resented the fact that I’m now in charge.”
“Maybe we were glad to get out from under Mother Hen’s thumb,” Levine cracked, shooting a pointed look at the computer.
“You mean Kris fussed even worse when he was your direct team leader?” Dev shot back. “You poor blokes.”
One of the men on the other end of the line cleared his throat. Helen heard an American voice murmur with a touch of humor, “Aaannnddd…that’s what you get for barging in where you weren’t invited, Kris.”
Kris just laughed.
“Seriously, mate,” Hoss said, ditching what he’d told Helen was his native Oklahoman accent for a fairly decent imitation of Lachlan’s brogue, “We’re honored to be working with you.” He looked around the room. “That goes for all of you foreigners.”
There were a bunch of muttered agreements from the men on both sides of the Skype connection.
Someone, perhaps JC, started singing “Kumbaya.”
Lachlan shook his head and his shoulders lowered a bit. “I don’t know, Kris. Maybe I should hand these clowns back over to you.” But the sheen in his eyes indicated how touched he was by the men’s acceptance.
“God forbid,” Kris said. “Why do you think I took a desk job in the first place?”
Lachlan let the men’s singing go on for another minute or so before calling out loudly enough to catch their attention, “Unfortunately, that’s not the reason I called you all here.”
<
br /> His hands went to the hem of his t-shirt. Helen’s heart leapt into her throat as he slowly pulled the shirt over his head. She might have expected one of the men to make a joke about Lachlan’s striptease, but the mood in the room had turned somber again. Helen crossed her arms over her belly and gripped her elbows.
“I know most of you have seen my scars,” Lachlan said quietly. He turned around to display his back to the room.
Instead of looking at the scars, Helen watched Lachlan’s teammates. Every man wore an expression of protective anger.
Lachlan turned back around and pulled his shirt over his head before meeting the eyes of each of his teammates. “What you don’t know, because I don’t ever speak of it, was that the scars were caused by my father.” He flicked his gaze to Lance. “My father the well-respected doctor would beat the living hell out of me, then drag me into his clinic and patch me up.” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes he would use a scalpel on me, then pour something caustic on the wound before stitching me up.”
Helen bit back a cry, realizing as she felt the pressure of her teeth against her skin that she’d put her fist to her mouth.
“That’s why you have such surgical looking scars in places that should have healed cleanly,” Lance said. Anger thrummed in his voice.
“Aye. Long story short, the abuse started when I was about five or so. We never lived in the same town more than a year or two. Sometimes less than that. My father’s reputation was such that no one ever believed me when I tried to report the abuse. Not the nurses in the medical facilities he worked at, not the nurses or teachers at school. Everyone loved my father and thought I was an ungrateful, spoiled child.”
Helen felt tiny stabs of pain in her chest as her heart broke into pieces. She wanted so badly to go back in time, pull that child into her arms, and protect him.
“My mother covered up for him. She would even drag me down to the clinic sometimes if she was upset with my behavior and insist that my father punish me.”
