by Vanessa Kier
With a roar, the rebel surged to his feet. He lowered his head and charged Lachlan.
Lachlan rolled his eyes and moved to the side. The rebel stumbled past him and tumbled into a bush. “Come on, rebel boy. Surely you can do better than that? After all, you were so bloody vicious when you attacked your fellow Africans. They weren’t even your true enemy.” Lachlan held his hands out to the side as the rebel regained his feet. “Here I am, lad. A symbol of everything you say you hate. Let me have it.”
Tired of playing with the man and reminding himself that Helen’s life depended on getting answers, Lachlan let the rebel make contact with him. But the man had no idea how to fight. He knew even less of how to avoid Lachlan’s blows. Releasing the control over his temper Lachlan, abandoned himself to the fight. Each punch and kick that he landed were retribution for the pain and suffering of Helen and the others who’d fallen victim to the rebels. He enjoyed the man’s cries and his futile attempts to evade.
“Commander!”
“Lachlan, stop, mate. You’re going to kill him.”
Hands grabbed his arms and pulled back. Lachlan fought against the strong hold. He had to punish the man. Had to make him suffer as those people had suffered. As Helen might be suffering.
A forearm pressed against his windpipe, reducing the flow of air until the red haze of fury gave way to silver dots floating on black. “Enough,” Lachlan gasped.
The arm dropped away from his throat but the hands didn’t release him.
Lachlan sucked in a huge breath. As his vision cleared, he discovered that he held his combat knife in his hand. The rebel lay on the jungle floor. His face was covered with blood, his nose appeared broken, and his intestines peeked out through a horizontal gash in his belly. “Where is she?” Lachlan gasped. “Where did Morenga’s son take Dr. Kirk? And remember, if you lie, I will give Natchaba your name. But if you tell the truth, he will not learn from me that you helped.”
“South…” the rebel choked out. “Some cave…to the south…I…do not…know…more…I swear.”
Lachlan shook off the grips of his men and turned away from the rebel. Only to discover that his entire team had formed a circle around them. Bloody fantastic. Not only had he once again lost control, but this time the entire team had borne witness.
“Get him out of here,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to regulate his breathing.
“Come,” Obi said to the rebel, moving past Lachlan. He spoke a few harsh words in one of the local languages. A few minutes later, Lachlan heard the rebel being carried away.
“Here, Commander,” Lance said. “Let me treat those wounds.”
“I’m fine,” Lachlan growled, twitching his hands away when Lance reached for them. How could his men act as if nothing was wrong? Hadn’t he just proven that he was exactly like his father? Addicted to the thrill of hurting others?
“No, you’re not fine,” Lance insisted. He grabbed one of Lachlan’s hands and held it up so that the torn, bloody knuckles faced Lachlan. “You need to be at peak health to rescue Dr. Kirk, so just stop being a wimp and let me fucking doctor your hands, all right?”
Lance so rarely swore that Lachlan sighed and surrendered.
The silence that fell over the group while Lance tended his wounds weighed heavily on Lachlan. “That was—”
“Something any one of us would have done if it were our lady’s life on the line,” Dev said.
“We didn’t expect you to offer him tea and crumpets when we brought him to you, Commander,” Levine added. Yet he didn’t meet Lachlan’s eyes.
“Although you did go a bit more berserker on us than we’d expected,” Hoss said, with none of his accustomed humor.
Lance tied off the last bandage on Lachlan’s hand and sat back. “All done.”
Lachlan glanced around at his men and shook his head. “You’re all mental, you know that, right?”
“No. We’re a team,” Dev said seriously. “We’ve got your back, no matter what.”
Lachlan glanced around the group and saw that despite varying degrees of wariness on their faces, they also agreed with Dev. Lachlan might have stepped over a line and lost a bit of their respect, but they wouldn’t turn on him.
Lachlan nodded in thanks, then cleared his throat. “Right. Show me the map of this region.”
Lars pulled up the map on his laptop, while Levine and Hoss spread out the paper map.
“Where’s the most likely location for this southern cave hideout of Natchaba’s?” Lachlan asked, leaning over Lars’s shoulder.
“There’s a ridge along here,” Levine pointed to a river that snaked down the eastern side of Volta, several kilometers from the border with Dahomey. “The tip of it is perhaps three, four hours from here by road, but the entire length is several hundred kilometers. If Natchaba does have his base in caves inside the ridge, it’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Aye, but it’s a strong possibility.”
“Assuming the rebel wasn’t lying,” Levine said.
“If my guts were hanging outside my belly, I’d for certain tell the truth,” JC muttered.
Lachlan held back his wince. “Right. We’ll assume the man’s information is accurate. Thoughts on if the ridge is our most likely target?”
“I like it,” Hoss said. “The southern end isn’t that far from the village of Natchaba’s mother.”
“Yeah, the proximity makes it my first choice,” JC agreed.
“Hold on.” Lars glanced down at his phone, then switched screens on the laptop. “Commander, we have a secure communication coming through.” He put on the headphones and spoke quietly to whoever had called in. “I’ll ask,” he said. Sliding the headphones away from his ears, he turned to face Lachlan.
“It’s Rene. He’s called in on the secure line because he just received an odd message and wants to speak with you.” Lars handed the headphones to Lachlan.
“Bonjour, Rene. What’s happened?”
“A man just called my emergency number,” Rene said without his usual pleasantries. Lachlan tensed. The matter must really be urgent.
Rene continued, “The caller said ‘Tell the Scotsman that I know where the lady doctor is. Watch the attached video as proof. If he wishes to speak to me, call this number within half an hour.’ He recited his phone number then he hung up.”
Anticipation surged through Lachlan. “Send Lars the video and give me the phone number.”
Rene did. “You are of course aware that this could be a hoax? Or a trap? News of the carnage at the hospital has already spread throughout the region.”
“Aye. But if there’s a chance he truly has information, I need to follow-up.”
“Then may God be with you, my friend,” Rene said before signing off.
“Commander, I’ve scanned the file for viruses or other malicious software, but I have a bad feeling that this video is not something you want to see.”
Lachlan had the same thought. The only proof that would legitimize Rene’s mysterious caller would be images from the attack itself. But Helen had endured witnessing the violence first hand. In order to save her, he could do nothing less. His team had all gathered around the laptop. “No.” He reached for the computer. “Lars, give me the laptop. I’m going to watch the video alone.”
Lars snatched up the laptop and passed it to Dev so Lachlan couldn’t grab it. “Like hell you are.”
“That’s—”
“Commander, don’t give an order you know in advance we’re going to ignore,” Dev warned.
“We’re a team,” Levine said. “Don’t try to shield us.”
“Yeah, Kris already has the mother hen position wrapped up. Don’t try to baby us,” JC added.
“Besides, Dr. Kirk is one of our own,” Obi said. “It is our duty to watch this video with you so that we may all search for clues to help rescue her.”
“God dammit, lads.” Lachlan knew he’d been beaten. “Right, then. Dev, give Lars ba
ck the laptop. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Lars pressed a button. The screen went dark as a soul-shattering riot of screams poured out of the speakers. The sounds raised every hackle on Lachlan’s body and he almost told Lars to shut the audio off. Then the screen came alive.
The video was taken by one of the rebels. It panned back and forth between the rebels in the center of the operating theater who were slaughtering one of the male doctors while he was still alive, and Helen and her fellow staff members who were on their knees, their hands tied at their backs. Rebels standing behind them held the heads of the staff members so they were forced to watch the butchery. As their colleague was killed, Helen and the others screamed and begged for mercy. Even offered themselves instead of the man being carved up. But the rebels only laughed.
Underneath the soundtrack of the screams was the excited panting of the man taking the video.
“Enough,” Lachlan ordered. “Turn it off. That’s enough proof for me.”
Lars killed the video and a heavy silence filled the clearing.
Lachlan swallowed and turned away, fighting back nausea. He took a few steps toward the jungle, barely paying attention to his surroundings. His body flushed hot and then cold as he remembered being that helpless. Knowing that crying and begging his father to stop would only cause the crazy light in his eyes to grow brighter and the blows to fall harder. He’d learned by age eight not to ask for mercy, because his father had none.
And now what had he become? A man who’d just used violence to get information from a man, even knowing he was putting the man in the same position Lachlan had been in as a child. Just as Helen had pointed out.
Was Lachlan any better than his father? Than the rebels? Because even having just witnessed the video of a horrific act of violence, part of him still thirsted to hurt the rebels. To make them scream for mercy.
He dropped to his knees and vomited into the bushes. When his throat was raw and his belly empty, he stayed on his knees, head bowed.
Maybe he really was genetically predisposed to commit, and enjoy, violence. Helen had been right to be repelled by that side of him. He would give his life for her. But he loved her, so he’d have to let her go. She deserved someone who fought for life and peace, like herself, rather than a man who brought only death and pain. Because in order to save her, he would commit worse acts of violence. Acts that would cause Helen to turn away from him.
He’d accused her of being too cowardly to fight for this fragile relationship, but now he understood. She didn’t love him. Couldn’t love the darkness inside him.
Yet her life was worth more to him than her respect. And if he couldn’t earn her respect, he’d never earn her love.
That knowledge turned his heart into a cold, leaden thing. Shutting that pain away, he rinsed out his mouth, rose to his feet, and returned to his men. A few looked similarly washed out, as if they’d also had trouble stomaching the video. Dev met Lachlan’s gaze with an unspoken question. Lachlan just nodded. He wasn’t okay, but he was functional.
“I do not care if the government has already arrested this man who shot the video,” Obi said in the cold voice he used for discussing his sniper targets. “He has compounded his guilt by allowing the public to witness the private pain of the hospital staff. I look forward to the day I put a bullet through his head.”
The men muttered in agreement.
Lachlan pretended that he hadn’t just heard a member of his team threaten to take justice into his own hands. Not only did he agree with the sentiment, but after what he’d just done to the rebel leader, he wasn’t one to be passing judgment. “Lars, I’m going to call Rene’s mystery caller back via the encrypted communications program. Dev, call Kris. Warn him about the impact of the video and suggest that no one at WAR watch it unless there’s an urgent reason. Ask him to work some of his magic and get any images from the attack pulled from the media if they haven’t been already.”
“Right.”
“The rest of you, I want the perimeter guarded and two men keeping an eye on the road.”
When his men were in position, Lachlan took a deep breath and placed the call.
CHAPTER THIRTY
HELEN REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS coughing and fighting to breathe. She opened her eyes and found herself lying along the back seat of a vehicle.
“Ah, you are awake.” Natchaba turned his head from the passenger seat. The look he gave her was devoid of any human warmth.
A chill snaked through her. He’d looked at her with the same lack of emotion after his men had forced her to kneel in front of him. When he’d ordered his men to cut her arms with the tips of their machetes. And while he’d circled her neck with his hands and squeezed until she blacked out.
Her heart started pounding with remembered terror. Acutely aware of her vulnerable position, Helen struggled to sit up but found that her hands and feet were tied and the seatbelt had been fastened around her legs and torso to hold her in place. She still wore her lab coat and the cool air from the car’s air-conditioning slipped through the slits left by the machetes, making her shiver.
“Do relax, Dr. Kirk. You are not going to escape justice this time.”
“Justice?” she croaked, barely able to force the word out through her abused throat. The force from Natchaba’s fingers had further damaged her vocal chords after she’d screamed herself hoarse back at the hospital. Not that screaming had helped. Nothing she or any of the other staff members had said or did had succeeded in diverting the rebels from their grisly course.
Natchaba didn’t answer. Just tilted his head to one side and studied her as a scientist would a specimen on a slide. “You do not seem surprised to discover my involvement, doctor. I suppose your bodyguard figured it out?”
“Yes.”
“A pity. It would have gone much easier for you if you had simply died during the festival day attack.”
Helen wished she had a tape recorder so the entire world could later hear his confession. “Were you the one behind the vandalism at the clinic?”
“Of course. I needed a way to step in and show the villagers that they owed their continued good health to my generosity.”
“Why?”
“Why do I hate them? Or why did I choose you?”
“Both.”
He just stared at her in that impersonal way for a while before answering. “I can see that understanding my motivation is very important to you. Why do human beings always want there to be a direct cause and effect? Why does randomness bother us so much?” He gave her a parody of a smile. “I don’t believe I will answer your questions.” He turned to face the front of the vehicle.
Helen blinked in surprise. Was he implying that he’d chosen the targets at random? Because they were convenient? That was almost more cold-hearted than orchestrating the attacks out of a need for revenge. Yet he’d completely fooled her into believing him to be a kind, thoughtful man who only wanted to help improve the lives of the villagers. What a fantastic actor he was.
Or had there been evidence that she’d overlooked? Had she been so focused on restoring the clinic that she’d seen in Natchaba the type of savior she needed him to be and ignored signs to the contrary?
No. Thinking back she remembered seeing warmth and amusement in his eyes. He might have been faking those emotions, but she knew she hadn’t imagined them. He’d simply played her for the fool.
When she realized that he wasn’t going to say anything more, she closed her eyes in exhaustion. But images from the hospital immediately assailed her and she opened her eyes again. Were any of her staff alive? Or was she the only one?
She considered asking Natchaba, but immediately discarded that idea. Let him keep his focus on her, without being reminded that her staff could be used as leverage to gain her cooperation. Because the only reason she could think of for Natchaba kidnapping her rather than leaving her with the rebels back at the hospital was that he had his own plans for her.
What she
had to do was survive. And hope that Natchaba would in the end kill her quickly, instead of by pieces.
The Greater Niger Republic
West Africa
JONATHAN MORENGA STOOD at the window of the four-room bungalow he claimed for his private quarters. Yet instead of the lush green valley below him, what he saw were the mutilated bodies of his fellow Africans. He thought he had witnessed the worst that human beings could do to one another during the riots of 2005, but the photos that had been broadcast on social media proved him wrong.
He had no qualms about killing foreigners or even other Africans if they stood in the way of West Africa becoming a region free of oppressive foreign influence and corrupt local officials. That was why he’d thrown his lot in with the rebels at the beginning, offering them weapons at reduced rates in order to help them achieve their military successes. But over the past year he’d been forced to watch as the rebellion splintered. Too many groups calling themselves rebels were in fact no more than thugs seeking an outlet for unrestrained violence.
With this latest attack that the media was calling the Hospital Massacre, the entire rebellion was now on the defensive against a population horrified and outraged that such heinous acts had been committed in the name of economic and political freedom. Governments who had previously been content to let the rebels kill off foreigners or opposition groups that posed a threat to those currently in power had now been mobilized into taking decisive action against the rebels.
Despite the horrors of what had been done, the damage might have been contained except that several of the rebels, drunk on the power of thoroughly destroying other human beings, had sent photos and video to the internet and social media sites. Public horror and outrage had resulted in the images being pulled from legitimate sites within minutes, but the damage had already been done. Under normal circumstances, Morenga would have dealt with the situation by canceling any upcoming weapons deals with those rebels.
Unfortunately, those rebels had recently announced that they no longer needed his services. Yet his spies reported that they had received a shipment of top-of-the-line weapons recently. The exact same make and model as a shipment of weapons that had been stolen from Morenga’s warehouse.
