“He looks bad,” Sam said.
“He’s unconscious,” Logan said. “Dislocated shoulder, cracked ribs, a bullet hole, but I think he’s slipped into a coma.”
For a second, they all went still. Logan checked his vitals as the ambulance halted just beyond the rotors. Sam worked off his helmet, spitting mad and helpless as they put Riley and Max in the ambulance and along with Logan, sped off.
The blades were still moving as he dropped onto the edge at the open door and cradled his head. My fault, he thought.
Thirteen hours later
Rohki breathed slowly, the pain jolting up his chest as he limped along the walkway outside the airport. People jolted him and he clenched his teeth and smothered the urge to retaliate. Attention was not what he wanted. He felt the strong fingers circle his arm an instant before the gun at his back. The jerk of his body drove a surge of pain up his spine again as he looked up, staring into strange black eyes surrounded by swarthy skin. Zidane. Around them, taxis took on fares, airport guards chatted instead of watching their posts, tourists loaded with baggage rushed to catch flights out of the flood-torn area. No one paid them any attention as the tall man ushered him away from the crowd.
He jerked his arm free, then regretted the move.
Zidane only gestured to the small jet on the runway, guarded, engines running. “Quickly.”
Together they descended the short ramp and walked toward the plane. Heat rose in waves, blistering his scalp. As he mounted the first step, he felt underdressed for such a luxurious jet. Then he was grabbed back, a curved knife suddenly near his eye.
“The stones.”
“Of course, but they aren’t cut.”
That didn’t seem to concern Zidane and he warned, “You have already tried to sell them once.”
Rohki paled. How had he known?
“There’s no turning back. Betray him and I will see your eyes in a jar.” He released him, pushed him up the steps.
Rohki gave up on fighting his bruised body. A short man with Slavic features stood at the top of the gangway.
“Search him, thoroughly,” Zidane said.
The Slav inclined his head and he stepped inside. He wasn’t underdressed. While the outside of the craft was pristine, the inside was a dark hole, with only a few seats. A heavy curtain separated the rear section. He started to sit when two more men approached him, and without speaking, yanked him off his feet and tore off his clothes. He stood naked inside the jet, humiliated by the body search. He stared straight ahead. After what he went through last night, this was inconsequential.
One man wore an amused smile as he grabbed his dick, lifted, and cut the leather sack laced under his balls, nicking him.
“So that’s your preference, eh?”
The man sneered, spilled the contents into his palm, rolling the large stones. The other threw his clothes at him. Rohki dressed as the man spoke to Zidane in an unfamiliar dialect. Congolese?
Zidane’s dark gaze flicked up, pinning him. They couldn’t know one was missing, Rohki thought, staring back. He held his hand out for the sack and stones. The guard eyed him, refilled the pouch and returned it. Rohki tucked them into his pocket, wondering when he could conceal them again before the final stop, and if the buyer was powerful enough to skirt customs there too.
The doors closed, the engines whined louder as he lowered gingerly into a seat and exhaled. The aircraft moved, shaking everything inside. He glanced around, pausing on the shifting curtain. Shock jumped through him when he saw shackles and chains anchored to the wall.
They were occupied.
Sam stood outside the ICU unit in Colombo, staring through the glass.
Logan had set Riley’s shoulder, removed the bullet, and stabilized him as best he could. Then Sebastian ordered Riley on the jet along with several locals who needed intensive care in Colombo. The team’s cargo plane, Dragon Six, lifted off as a hospital jet. Surgery had taken hours and Logan assisted the government surgeons. Riley hadn’t regained consciousness.
A coma. Logan tried to convince Sam it was the body’s way of healing itself, but seeing him hooked up to tubes, with a machine pushing air into his weak, perforated lung, it looked doubtful.
Sam wanted him to just wake the hell up.
The vigil felt weakened without the missing members. Dragon One’s leader, Killian Moore, was off on his honeymoon and, typical of his former CIA wife, they hadn’t told anyone where they were. Sam didn’t blame them, if this was the news waiting for them.
He didn’t see Max nudge Sebastian, then motion to him. The men stepped out and closed the door. Sam continued to stare through the glass.
“He survived Belfast, he’ll be fine.”
“Sure, he’s just itchin’ to rip off those wires and go dancing.”
Sebastian Fontenot was silent for a moment. “It’s not your fault.”
Sam tensed, as Sebastian voiced his feelings. “I went after the runt, if I’d stuck closer—”
“The dam would have broken anyway.”
“I was his backup. I left it unguarded.”
“He didn’t get shot in the back, either. That hit was at point-blank range. Intentional. And if the dam hadn’t caved, you and Max were next.”
Sam’s lips tightened and he fingered his hat, then suddenly turned away.
“Where are you going?”
Sam didn’t break stride. “To find a bar, or the bastard that shot him. Whichever comes first.”
“He’s miles away or probably dead.”
“He better hope so.”
Sebastian muttered a curse. “Wait, take this.”
Sam stopped, half-turned, eyeing Sebastian’s approach. He held out a palm sized, grayish-white rock. “Riley’s fingers were locked around this so tightly it cut into his hand.”
Sam plucked it, holding it up. Prisms of light shot through it. A conflict diamond. Uncut, bloodstained.
And from the look of it, the biggest puppy the market had seen in a while.
Two
Archaeological Restoration Dig
Udon Thani Caves
Northern Thailand
“Xaviera, I found something.”
Viva flinched, smacking her head on the tunnel ceiling. If she didn’t recognize the voice, she’d have known who it was instantly. No one ever called her that anymore. Viva backed out of the narrow tunnel, giving the dig workers and Dr. Nagada an embarrassing view of her butt in shorts. Clearing the tunnel, she rolled to her rear, pulled her scarf off, then blotted her face.
“More pottery?” That’s all there was here. Aside from heat. Spending long, humid days brushing at powdery bits of dirt to reveal a single shard was, well, a real snoozer. Probably why she never did it for very long. Face it, you never do anything for very long.
“Would I truly bore you with something so uneventful as that?”
“Yes. You would. Remember the dig outside Giza? The third one,” she said before he could ask. “I trekked through the Sahara to see some pieces of a sarcophagus.”
He looked adorably affronted for a wizened old man. “For a queen to Ramses I.”
“Whoop-dee-do. He had hundreds, and just as many kids. Which is so the way to go if you’re a pharaoh, but if you’d found the rest of her, that would be something to crow about.” She stood and didn’t bother to untie the rice sacks strapped to her knees.
“You were more fit and eager for the discovery then.”
“Yes, well, so were you.” She tugged a lock of his long white hair. He had a dashing look about him: white hair, dark brows, rugged features, and she adored Salih. He let her join his digs whenever she had the urge. “So what’s this find?”
“Come see.”
“The suspense is killing me.” Probably a whole pot this time.
He handed her a bottle of cold water. She cracked it open, drank and when they stepped out into the sun, she poured half over her head, shook like a dog, then wiped her face. Then she dumped a bit down the front of her
shirt.
He stared at her, neither frowning nor smiling. “You are such an odd woman.”
She fanned the material. “I don’t see you in the tunnels baking like pita bread.”
His face, weathered from years in the desert sun, wrinkled like a dried apple as he grinned. “I promise, this you will like.” They walked.
“You’re so sure?”
“It’s jewelry.”
“Will it go with my shorts?”
He laughed, guiding her to the second cave. A portion was a dwelling where they’d found more than pottery—a rudimentary hearth, sleeping quarters, and even a drainage system. Got to love those ancient Thai, she thought. They were quick on the draw. Imagine, plumbing in the BC days. They didn’t even have plumbing on the dig. That was just wrong.
She ducked under the canvas tarp and into the cave. Low rock ceilings tickled her hair, the corridor lit with electric lamps, yards of cables leading to the generator outside. She wished they had enough juice for air-conditioning. Wasn’t in the budget.
She almost ran into Dr. Nagada as he squatted, pointing to the corner of two blocks. “See? And it appears to be gold.”
Viva knelt, pulling her brush from her back pocket and swiping lightly.
“Your technique has improved.”
“I’m trying the Van Gogh style of brushwork. Oh, wow, this is incredible. Get that side, it’s sandwiched between something else.” She glanced up to make certain she wasn’t going to pull the whole dig down on top of them. Which would be so her.
She brushed and worked the rocks loose, and was suddenly touched that he’d let her do this. With Salih’s direction, she gently pulled the item out, then handed it to him. He brushed it, blew off the dust, and she stood, then moved with him to the lights.
“It’s a bracelet, a cuff. Excellent condition, must be gold.” The two inch wide band was hammered and etched with markings almost too worn to see. “It’s particularly small. A child’s perhaps.”
“In here?” Viva said. “This was just the average Joe’s cave dwelling, and we haven’t found anything like that before.”
“And we are not done, either.”
The man had the patience of a saint. No, two saints. After years of excavating around Egypt and Israel, and digging up all there was, he’d offered his services elsewhere. Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, and once on the island of Timor. If it was lost, he’d find it. Even if it took years. Viva admired that kind of diligence. She could barely find her panties before breakfast.
Salih walked toward the entrance and Viva dogged his heels. At a worktable shielded with a shade tarp, he brushed the cuff some more, then dipped it in a solution, rinsed and dried it.
He met her gaze. “It has stones.” He held it out.
She took it, tipping it to the sun. The gleam of old gold blinked greenish in the morning light. “Small ones, but look at the faceting. And two cabochon cuts. Rubies, you think?” Thailand was famous for blood rubies and sapphires. “And if these are sapphires, they’re good ones.” So blue they were nearly black.
“Even more rare.”
“But how could they have cut these? They didn’t have the equipment, not to facet, create a bevel like this. Amazing.” She stared at it for another moment, then handed it back. “So what are the markings?”
“That, my dear Xaviera—” She loved the way his Egyptian accent made her name sound. “—is the real question. I think they are Thai royalty.”
“No kidding.” She glanced back at the cave, and noticed a couple of dig workers listening to the conversation. “Hiding during an uprising or something?”
“We are near the Laos–Cambodian border and there are four temples in a straight line right to this area.”
“A summer home, how lovely for them.”
“I was thinking a pilgrimage. These markings are Thai, but the design is Cambodian. Though I am not well versed in its ancient text.” He frowned at the piece a moment longer, then drew a small box onto the table, filled it with shredded material, and set the bracelet inside. “I want you to take this to Dr. Wan Gai in Bangkok.”
Her brows tightened. “Okay, I give up, why me?”
“You’ve had that look lately.”
She made a sour face. “Darn, I thought I was hiding it so well this time.”
“You have been on five digs with me since you were in college. It is not hard to recognize. You stop chattering constantly.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Smiling, he pressed the box into her hands. “Take it to him, see the city while he makes his findings. Then perhaps you will come back and enjoy yourself.”
She doubted it. Viva knew herself well, and her biggest flaw, her indecision, her complete and utter incapability to stick with one thing for longer than a year—no, wait, six months—was embarrassing. At her age, she should have a real paying career in something.
She looked at the small wood box, then up at Dr. Nagada, and thought, Oh, goody, Bangkok. Great hotels, a decent shower, food, and some real girl clothes were just too wonderful to turn down. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’ll make you some babaganoush when I get back.”
He grinned. “I am already missing you. In the morning?”
“It will take me that long to scrape off the dust. Get all dolled up.” She turned away, still talking. “And look fashionably cute for the train ride.”
He frowned. “A plane ride, Xaviera.”
“Is boring. On, up, down, off. What fun is that? At least with the train I get to commune with the locals, see more of this country.” She walked backwards, smiling.
“And the dangers.”
“Well, you know what they say?”
“No, what?”
“You’re the expert on old stuff, figure it out.”
“Tree!” he shouted and she turned, smacking into it.
“I meant to do that.” Rubbing her forehead, she kept going to her tent, and Salih thought, she’d be lucky to survive the trek.
Twelve hours later
West of Chao Phraya River
Thailand
Sam parked his ass on a mossy rock at the river’s edge, pulled off his hat, then scooped up some water. He poured it over his head, but wasn’t dumb enough to drink the bacteria-infested stuff. To make the point, a lizard slid into the stream a couple feet away. Instead, he pulled the tube from his Camelbak water supply and drank fresh. Texas heat had nothing on Thailand, he thought. On so many levels. The air hung, and in the darkened jungle it dripped with humidity. Damn beautiful, though. Kingfisher birds darted overhead, as if warning him of their presence, then dove into the water for food. Hornbills, the bullies of the bird pack with thick, colorful faces and long, hawkish bills strong enough to chop a finger clean off, weighted branches overhead. And then there were the monkeys. Food for the local hill tribes and an annoyance. They threw stuff, mostly their own shit.
Sam fell back, then noticed banana trees a couple yards away, bright yellow fruit in the blanket of green. He shouldered off his pack and stared up at the trees, contemplating how to get up there. The locals could do it in a heartbeat, kids shimming up the trees and cutting down bundles. He stood, took several steps back, then pulled the whip from his belt, and unrolled it.
He raised and snapped it, the crack soft in the dense forest. The rawhide whip caught the bundle, ruined a few, but had a good hold. He yanked. It tore free and dropped to the ground.
“Like roping a calf,” he muttered, crossing to the cluster and ripping off a banana.
He peeled and ate, then checked his GPS. A couple more miles to the meet, he figured, then glanced the way he’d come, pulling the shotgun over his shoulder to aim with one hand. “Come on, Max, show yourself.”
“Don’t shoot, my mom will be pissed at you.” Max Renfield strolled into the open, splashed through the stream. A slung Uzi bounced against his side, and he stopped a few feet from him.
“Go away.”
“You like pissin
g off all of us at once?”
“I don’t need backup.”
“Yeah, sure, and if I was someone else?”
“You’d have a hole in your head. I could hear you a mile back. You tromp like my dad’s prize bull.”
Max shrugged, not the least bit ashamed that he lacked the quintessential silent-and-deadly skills. “I’m not Recon, just the go-to guy.”
“Then go-to somewhere else.”
Max’s lips tightened. “You need me, two heads are better.”
“Like we have a clue where the bastard is, or the diamonds?” Sam offered a banana.
“He’s here, we know that much.” Max squatted, removed his pack, and fished in his gear. “And the next buyer.” Max pulled out a small packet, tore it open, and squeezed peanut butter onto the banana.
Sam shook his head, amused. All former military, Dragon One was a retrieval team for hire, and Max was logistics and supply. A damn good mechanic, he could find food and equipment where no one else would look, and amazingly, knew where he was without a compass. A GPS had nothing on him.
Max shoved a wad of banana and peanut butter in his mouth and Sam thought, the guy’s a bottomless pit, never without some chow.
“You were right. Happy?”
Sam sat, his back against a tree. “That I missed the jet? No. Rohki’d be dead if I’d found him.” He was the only one close enough to have shot Riley at that range.
Yet word was out that the diamonds were for sale and the Sri Lankan government’s threat—that anyone dealing with the Tigers or anyone else for the stones would end up in a cell in Welikada Prison—wasn’t much of a deterrent. Just the image of that hellhole should be, but there was enough intel traffic in the Congo, Sierra Leone, and Angola to know that more than one terrorist group has stones mined on the backs of babies.
Evidently, someone had found a large geode and was hot to sell.
Sam would get the stones back and find their intended purpose. He had a sneaking suspicion it was Turkish missiles, made in the USA. Buying the stones off the market was still an option. Well, they hadn’t planned to actually buy them in the first place. Confiscate was a better word. If all else failed, then they’d fork over the cash. Riley had developed a plan to intercept the cash too. It made no sense to take the stones off the black market and give the assholes the money they needed to buy weapons.
Hit Hard Page 2
