by Fiona Quinn
“With a tracker attached? No.”
“Can you tell me her symptoms?” The longer Rooster could keep this asshole talking, the better shot they’d have of picking up ambient noise. Clues to his whereabouts.
“I believe the heat and stress, along with her particular location, are all problematic.”
“She doesn’t work for Hesston Corporation. Why don’t you let her go? Call it a good faith gesture.”
“I would like nothing better. As soon as the payment is made, I will take her immediately to the hospital.”
“Is the hospital a far distance? Should I arrange for a helicopter?”
“Ah, you think you can trick me into giving you information about where the Bowens are held. Listen to me. Anjie Bowen needs immediate attention. I want to get her that attention. It is you who prevents me from doing this.” He let his words seep in. Waited for Rooster to panic.
Rooster knew all the tricks and traps. He sat silently, listening to the static.
“I realize how this works. It will not be Bowen’s corporation that pays the ransom monies, it will be the insurance company. You don’t work for this man, Mr. Honey. You are paid by the insurers. But if this man or his pretty little wife dies, your reputation will be tarnished. The insurance contracts will go away, as will your paycheck.” He paused. “Really, it’s self-preservation that should make you wish to come to a happy conclusion.”
Rooster leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, staring down at the mic. He took a breath, making sure Brilliant had finished his communication before depressing the button to talk. “This is a business transaction. Your opening bid was three-million dollars, and you aren’t coming down. I can tell you straight up, the insurers won’t pay that. Not even close. And while Derek Bowen works for Hesston, Anjie Bowen does not. I’m sure you understand from a businessman’s point of view why letting Mrs. Bowen go still gives you all the leverage you need.” He paused to slick his tongue over his teeth. “And it shows everyone on this side of the table that you’re acting in good faith. I need proof of life, and I need a more reasonable number.”
Another man’s voice could be heard in the distance. The sound of a car’s horn. Then the crackle of radio static.
Rooster waited. Brilliant gave no reply.
Rooster sniffed hard, setting the handset back in its indentation on the radio. He focused on the shadowy corner of the room. As he let his thoughts percolate, he reached for the jug sitting beside his chair. He upended it and chugged big gulps of the warm water. Swiping the back of his hand over his mouth to catch the drips, he turned to Randy.
“Almost ten minutes. That’s an improvement,” Randy said, sending the audio file back to Iniquus’s Headquarters in Washington DC. “Still full of himself. He’s convinced he holds a winning hand.”
While Randy sounded like the name of a man raised on football and apple pie, he was actually from El Salvador. Randy was his call sign. He’d come to America over a decade before to put his considerable athleticism to the test, hoping to gain citizenship from his US military service. He’d served two rotations in the sandbox as a Ranger, tough as nails, with the brain and stomach for the hairiest of missions.
Now, Randy and he got their paychecks from the for-hire security complex, Iniquus, that worked civilian contracts as well as running black ops for the government. While Randy was a Strike Force member, commanded by Striker Rheas, and Rooster was on Panther Force, commanded by Titus Kane, those designations were often fluid. Operatives went where they were told to go, based on capability and availability.
Randy had just finished up a close protection detail for an American businessman and put the guy on a flight from Kenya back to New York. The boarding call had sounded over the P.A. system, calling for Randy’s flight to Tahiti where he planned to take his R & R. But Randy answered his phone and thus pulled the short stick. Now Randy was sitting in this rat hole with Rooster.
“Brilliant gave up some stuff this time,” Rooster said. “Play that bit at the end again before the horn honk.”
Randy tapped the computer, cocking his head as he strained to weed out what hid under the ambient noise.
“Do you hear that guy in the background? Can you isolate that voice?”
Randy fussed with his software then hit enter, and they listened to the man’s voice, free of distractions.
“I don’t recognize that language. Any guesses?”
“Nada,” Randy answered. “Let’s see what I can find.”
Africa was a continent rich in languages and cultures. Tradition. Segregation. And turbulence. If Randy’s software could translate the sentence and give them a dialect, they might have something useful to work with.
Rooster pulled his headphones into place to listen to the recording. He believed what Brilliant had said about Anjie Bowen. She was in dire straits. With her medical history, extremes were perilous. Why she’d followed her husband on his boat trip along the coast of Africa at this time of year was a mystery to him. But it wasn’t Rooster’s job to second guess people’s decision making. It was his job to save their lives. And Anjie felt fragile to him.
Rooster knew that Brilliant had already figured out Anjie was disposable. It might even work in the kidnapper’s favor to let her die. Rooster had hoped that Brilliant wouldn’t realize that fact. But Brilliant’s tone and word choices told Rooster Brilliant had already drawn that conclusion. He would use her as a bargaining chip as long as he could, but didn’t care one way or another whether Anjie made it home to her three young kids or not.
Word choices were everything. In people who negotiated in English as a second language, those word choices came from how deep their vocabulary well ran. This guy was fluent. That was a win for the good guys. It meant he had a wide range of phrases to use, and therefore specific meanings could be weeded out. Rooster moved the recording back to the beginning of their conversation when Brilliant had laughed.
“Mr. Honey. You know every time I say your name, I laugh at the irony.”
The irony of my name. The irony of my name. He pressed play. “Oh, if you knew, you would kick yourself.”
My name is part of the puzzle. Not Mr. Just Honey. Honey is ironic. Rooster stretched his arms above his head, laced his fingers together, and cradled the back of his head in the hammock they made, flicking his thumbs against one another as he let his mind wander. He worked to put a pin in the irony of “Honey.”
“Got it.” Randy’s voice held a grin. It pulled Rooster’s attention to him. “The man’s speaking Afar.”
“Translation?”
“He said, ‘They bring the salt.’ And that belching sound you hear isn’t a man dying of indigestion. It’s a camel’s grunt.”
Rooster tapped at his computer. His eyes scanned over the screen then he leaned back in his chair and laughed with his hands covering his face. He scrubbed his palms up and down over his cheeks, around the back of his neck. “Oh, the irony,” he said as he focused back on Randy. “The Afar tribe harvest salt spheres from Lac Assal. They bring them to the harbor on the backs of camels.”
Randy waited patiently for the piece that made Rooster react.
“The Arabic name for that lake is BuḥayrahʿAsal, which literally translates to Honey Lake. I do believe that Brilliant has failed to live up to his name.”
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Acknowledgements
My great appreciation—
For the love and support I’ve always received from Scott Silverii and Liliana Hart and from SilverHart Publishing who started Relic on its publishing journey.
To my editor, Heather Osborn.
To my Beta Force, who are always honest and kind at the same time.
To my Street Force—who support me and my writing with such enthusiasm.
To all of the wonderful professionals whom I called on to get the details right especially: J. Scaparoti, R. Soper, H. Russell, my local law enforcement office, Piedmont Search and Rescue, and the NYC FBI. Please note: this is a work of fiction and while I always try my best to get all of the details correct, there are times when it serves the story to go slightly to the left or right of perfection. Please understand that any mistakes or discrepancies are my authorial decision making alone and sit squarely on my shoulders.
Thank you to my family, especially to our medical alert service dog Little Bear who lays at my feet and alerts me to my youngest daughter’s blood glucose numbers so she is safe while I am busy taking down the bad guys.
I send my love and thanksgiving to my husband—he is wonderful, kind, supportive, and oh so handsome. I am truly blessed. I love you, T.
And of course, thank YOU for reading my stories! I so appreciate you!
Canadian born, Fiona Quinn is now rooted in the Old Dominion outside of DC with her husband and children. There, she homeschools, pops chocolates, devours books, and taps continuously on her laptop.
Copyright
Relic is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
©2017 Fiona Quinn
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Melody Simmons from eBookindlecovers
Fonts with permission from Microsoft
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