by Kyle Mills
Lords Of Corruption
Kyle Mills
Book Cover:
When An Obscure Charity Recruits Josh Hagarty To Manage Their activities in a war-torn region of Africa, he's eager to sign on and atone for his past. Someone is finally giving him a chance. All he has to do is not blow it. Josh tries to lose himself in the job, but soon the precariousness of his situation becomes clear. His guide turns out to be a thug with ties to the country's genocidal dictator. Then the life of his sister in the United States is threatened, and Josh faces the fact that his employer is not what it claims to be.
PROLOGUE:
After four hours of rutted dirt, military roadblocks, and fetid mud bogs, the landscape around Dan Ordman had completely transformed. The jagged, grass-covered hills that made up his world had been replaced by dense jungle rolling into a reddening horizon. Although he'd lived in Africa for almost a year, this was the first time he'd seen the rain forest, smelled the damp rot, listened to the birds and monkeys just out of sight. There was something about it that made him nervous. Probably just the fact that, until now, he'd never been more than twenty miles from the comfortable expatriate community that he'd wrapped himself in. Or maybe it was something more primordial.
"It's going to get dark on us."
Gideon maneuvered the Land Cruiser around a tree that had sprung up in the middle of the road and glanced at Dan. Or more precisely, he aimed his mirrored sunglasses briefly in Dan's direction. Gideon didn't interact with people in the accepted sense of the word. It was always strangely one-sided -- what he wanted you to know, what he was willing to do for you, what he had time for. What he cared about.
The first time they'd met, Dan had decided the African looked more like a sculpture by an amateur artist than the product of God or evolution -- a little too tall, muscles a little too well-defined, and a slack face with blank eyes. Not the friendly, capable right-hand man Dan had envisioned from his parents' sprawling oceanfront estate. But he'd come here to learn, and his first lesson had been that reality rarely lived up to fantasy. Life was about figuring out how to bridge that gap.
"It's not far," Gideon repeated for probably the tenth time. "And it's cooler at night." There was a stirring behind them, and Dan twisted around to look at the four kids crammed into the vehicle's backseat. The youngest was probably twelve, and his haphazardly nourished frame was dwarfed by the Russian machine gun clutched between his knees. They were all dressed about the same: dirty jeans topped by ragged T-shirts silk-screened with the otherworldly images favored by the local teens. Cartoon characters frolicked, distant sports teams competed, British bands crooned. One had the slogan "I wish these were brains" configured in a way that suggested the shirt had been designed for a well-endowed woman.
Dan settled back in his seat, feeling a dull rush of adrenaline when the sun hit the horizon. Evil spirits came out at night. At least that was what he'd been told, and he had no reason to dispute the idea. Africa changed after sunset. Its normal chaos and dysfunction turned dangerous, malevolent. Wasn't Africa where humans had first developed their fear of the dark?
Gideon jerked the wheel to the right and slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop in a maneuver typical in this part of the world. Behind the wheel of a car, Africans acted as though everything was a desperate emergency. Out from behind the wheel, they acted as though nothing was.
"What? Don't tell me this is it?" Dan said.
Gideon nodded and stepped from the car, followed by the well-armed children in the back. Their silence had been replaced by excited chattering in the native language that was as incomprehensible to Dan now as it had been the day he'd arrived. Instead of fanning out to look for rebels, as was apparently their function, they milled around the vehicle fiddling with their weapons.
Dan jammed his fist against the stubborn door and jumped out, anxious to do what he had to do and get back behind the concrete walls and iron gates of the compound. Everyone would be hanging around the pool by now, watching the sunset and settling into happy hour.
"You've got to be kidding, Gideon. There's nothing here. Do you have any idea what it would take to clear all this out for farmland?" Dan raised a sweat-drenched arm, pointing to the front of the vehicle where bugs were swaying like smoke in the headlight beams. "And what about those?"
He'd read somewhere that malaria may have killed half the people who had ever lived. Another thing he had no reason to dispute.
"This isn't America," Gideon said. "This is our land. Our home. It is the way it is."
Africans were resigned to the fact that everything on their continent was trying to kill them, but Dan saw no reason to tempt fate. "Look, I didn't mean any offense, okay? But we're already working fourteen hours a day, and we're barely keeping our heads above water as it is."
Gideon started walking, and Dan hurried to keep up. The African seemed to be searching for a break in the jungle, though it was a miracle he could see anything through the shades he never took off.
"What about rebels?" Dan continued. "This area is right on the edge of what the government controls, isn't it? We could. Get 5)
"President Mtiti controls all of his country," Gideon said, a hint of anger audible in his voice. Behind them, Force Peewee went momentarily silent at the name of their fearless leader.
"Of course the president is a great man," Dan said, impressing even himself with the false reverence in his tone. Despite what most of the rest of the world thought, Umboto Mtiti was a world-class scumbag.
The bugs, attracted by light and body heat, began to swarm, and Dan started back toward the Land Cruiser, swatting uselessly at them. "Fine, I've seen it. I'll call tomorrow and see what the hell we're supposed to do with it. But I think we both know this is bullshit."
Gideon didn't respond. He'd never been particularly warm or chatty, but tonight he was verging on creepy. Dan had tried hard to like him, constantly scolding himself for racism whenever Gideon's attitude or personality pissed him off, but tonight he didn't care. Racism or not, he was ready to get the hell back to what passed for civilization.
He pulled open the passenger door and then paused when no one made a move to follow. "Ready?"
Gideon walked around the back and opened the hatch. The kids watched with poorly concealed excitement. Their T-shirts and eyes glowed in what was left of the sun, as did the machete now hanging loosely from Gideon's hand.
Despite his background -- a childhood in a neighborhood gated against nothing, prep school, an Ivy League degree -- Dan understood immediately what was happening.
There was a gleeful chorus when he ran, quickly drowned out by the wet slapping of leaves against his skin and his own breathing as he entered the jungle.
He'd never been an athlete, but a year working outside in Africa, combined with a volume of adrenaline he'd never known he had, kept him moving forward, ignoring unseen branches as they cut his skin, stumbling over unseen obstacles, and constantly adjusting his trajectory away from the bursts of gunfire that rang out every few seconds.
He had no concept of how long it took, but he finally couldn't get enough air, and the obstructions he had managed to clear before became insurmountable. Soon even fear took too much energy, and his mind fixated on the mundane things that he would never do. He'd never get married, never have children. Never own a home or get the "real job" his father had insisted. on.
The side of the tree next to him exploded as a bullet struck, sending wooden shrapnel into his cheek and eye. He slapped a hand to his face, unable to tell the difference between blood and sweat, and felt the fear flare again. He stumbled forward, fatigue and lack of depth perception causing him to hit the ground every few steps. The laughter of children got louder as he vomited, but it didn't seem to be g
etting closer. Maybe they'd become disoriented by the dense foliage and semidarkness, too.
He could make it. He just had to keep going. The farther he went, the more he would become a needle in thousands of square miles of haystack.
He slowed his pace, moving more carefully than he had before. The pain in his eye continued to intensify, but he ignored it, controlling his breathing and avoiding falling again. He couldn't afford the noise, and a twisted ankle would almost certainly be fatal.
The jungle's edge was completely invisible until he burst across it and found himself standing in the road again. The Land Cruiser's lights were off, but its outline and the outline of Gideon holding his machete were visible in the waning light. The voices of the kids behind him grew louder, and a moment later they appeared, still laughing and chattering, pumping their fists in the air at their success. They'd flushed him into the open like some stupid animal.
There was no way to escape. He could barely put one foot in front of the other, and Gideon had just been standing there, waiting for him. The kids fanned out, creating a corridor that Gideon began walking slowly through.
Dan had never imagined his own death, or even thought about it, really. At twenty-six, it seemed so remote. So theoretical. But now he was overcome by a deep sadness. Tears welled up in his uninjured eye while the other continued to leak blood through the tightly closed lid. What was he doing so far from his own life, from the family he'd never see again? What had he hoped to accomplish? Anything? Or had it all been a game to him?
Gideon was in front of him now, his face erased by the darkness. It didn't matter, though. There wouldn't be anything there to talk to, to plead with. Still, he felt he should say something.
"I thought I could help."
Gideon just raised the machete.
Chapter 1.
The bar was virtually empty, and Josh Hagarty chose a booth far from the windows glowing with the light of what most people would have considered a perfect afternoon. It was the end of finals week, and it would be a few more hours before students celebrating an aced test or wanting to forget a flunked one came flooding in. With a conscientious effort, plenty of time to get commode-hugging drunk.
He watched as the waitress ducked under the bar and started his way, weaving through the empty tables framed by walls hung with sports jerseys and vintage signs. She was too pretty. And the bar was too clean. He should have gone to the other side of the tracks to do his drinking. PBR served by a woman with leather skin and a missing ear that was where he belonged.
"Nice suit," the girl said, setting a pint of Newcastle on the table and then fingering the creamy silk of his tie. "Things must be going pretty well for you."
He let out a breath that passed for a laugh. "Three months of living on nothing but hot dogs and ramen noodles to pay for it." He poked an Italian leather shoe out from under the table. "And another month and a half for these."
"Well, it doesn't seem like it hurt you any. You look great."
He knew it was true, though he didn't take any pride in it. His genetic luck had been so good it was almost suspicious. He was smart, tall, good-looking, and had been sick probably three days in his life. Maybe that was why everything else in his life was going so soul-crushingly wrong.
He put both hands around the cold glass in front of him and stared at it.
"You okay, Josh?"
"Don't I look okay?"
"Actually, you look like you're about to kill someone. I was thinking about having all the sharp objects removed from the bar."
"That bad?"
"Not far off. What's up?"
He lifted the glass and drained half of it. "The job interviews aren't going as well as I'd hoped, you know?"
He wasn't surprised at the grin that crossed her face. All she saw was that he had an engineering degree, a brand-new MBA, and a 3.94 grade-point average. The truth wasn't so simple, though. Nothing ever was.
"What," she said, the smile widening, "they offered you two hundred and fifty grand and a BMW when you had your heart set on a Porsche? Are you kidding me? I'm barely holding on to a C average in sociology." She waved a hand around her. "This is probably the best job I'll ever get."
"Thanks for the sympathy, Cindy."
"No, seriously, Josh. I'm starting to tear up. I better go get a tissue."
She swayed back to the bar, and once again, he watched. She seemed to get more perfect every time he saw her. Not only the long legs disappearing into the ridiculous plaid miniskirt that the bar's waitresses were forced to wear but the fact that the sun always seemed to be shining around her.
Which, in a way, it did. Her parents were rich, her grades were irrelevant, and half the guys on campus would kill the other half to get a date with her.
He, on the other hand, was screwed.
He'd just left his last on-campus interview, and though the interviewer had been perfectly nice, it was clear that he -- like all the rest could spot a loser when he saw one. It was easy for Josh to hide his past from his friends but not so easy to keep it from a professional recruiter with half a brain and an Internet connection. Every corporate interaction he'd had followed the same pattern: the recruiter's initial excitement at seeing his resume and setting up a meeting followed by a cool, disinterested interview, culminating in a polite letter saying that he wasn't what they were looking for.
The rest of the beer went down even more easily than normal, and a moment later Cindy returned with another one. When she tried to take his empty glass, he grabbed it and wouldn't let go. Her brow furrowed and her head tilted, but she finally retreated to the bar empty-handed.
Josh slid it to the edge of the table -- the first of many. A monument to the weight of the responsibilities bearing down on him and the fact that he'd lived up to none of them. His medium? Pint glasses and dying brain cells.
His cell phone rang, and he looked down at the incoming number. Laura.
His sister had an uncanny ability to remember his interview schedule and religiously called after each one to see how things had gone. Amazingly, this wasn't new she'd done the same thing when he'd been looking for engineering jobs after getting his undergrad degree. She'd been twelve at the time.
He turned the phone off and jammed it back into his pocket. What would he say to her? She was annoyingly difficult to lie to, so he'd have to spend some time devising and rehearsing something plausible a creative recasting of the truth.
And what exactly was the truth? That strapping yourself with a mountain of debt to get an MBA because no one would touch you with a ten-foot pole after you graduated near the top of your class in engineering school wasn't a work of genius?
The worst part, though, was that deep down he'd known that the whole time. He'd run away from the world, retreating to the only place he could convincingly pretend not to be a loser. School.
He sat there for well over an hour, slumping farther and farther into his seat as the alcohol slackened his muscles but not his anger -- at himself, at the companies that had no concept of the idea of second chances, at the world. He leaned forward and looked through the empty glasses lined up along the table's edge, trying to focus on the distorted image of the building beyond. A guy in a suit had just taken a stool at the bar and was trying to get a conversation going with Cindy. He clearly wasn't a student -- suit, tie, and a midsection in irreversible-growth mode. Traveling salesman. Vacuum cleaners. Maybe encyclopedias.
Josh snorted at his own bad joke and pulled a pen from his pocket. Using a damp napkin and his six-figure education, he calculated how long it would take to pay off his student loans working at a Jiffy Lube. If he went back to his ramen-and-hot-dog diet, lived under a bridge, and managed to hold on for the average American life span, he'd make his last payment two years after he was dead.
"Cindy!" he yelled, noting that the telltale slurring had begun. "Tequila!"
He watched her approach through the lens of the glasses and immediately downed the shot she slid onto the table.
He squinted up at her. "Okay. Now I've hit rock bottom. I'm being lectured by a twenty-one-year-old waitress."
"I'm twenty-two, and you're being an asshole, Josh." She slapped the side of his head and started back toward the bar. This time he just stared down at the grain in the tabletop.
She was right. And not just about her age. He pushed himself into a sitting position and took a deep breath to clear his head. Sure, he'd come up with a big goose egg from on-campus interviews. But the world didn't end at the well-manicured lawns of the university. What about the interview he had next week at a local company that was advertising in the paper? He was wildly overqualified, and the pay probably wouldn't be much more than he could make fixing cars, but at least it would be a foot in the door that led to the mysterious world of the white collar.
"Mind if I join you?"
He hadn't noticed the man who had been sitting at the bar approach and would have been startled if he hadn't been so drunk.
"Why?" was all he could get out.
The man laughed and slid into the opposite side of the booth. "You're Josh Hagarty, aren't you?"
"Do I know you?" The response was just a reflex. The man was probably in his mid-forties with an acne-scarred complexion and an oddly shaped bald spot that would be hard to forget.
"I'm John Balen." He reached across the table and shook Josh's hand before leaning back and loosening his tie. "I'm a recruiter for an organization called NewAfrica. We're based in New York."
That sobered Josh up a bit. "I didn't see you on the schedule."
"We weren't on it. We've never been all that impressed with the on-campus interview format, you know? Kind of a cluster-fuck, and in our experience you don't end up getting the right people. Everyone's angling and got their game face on."
Josh's mind was still running at less than half speed, and he couldn't figure out where this conversation was going. Was the guy just bored and wanted someone to talk to?
