Deadlock

by Fiona Quinn

  Randy continued to lay down a hailstorm of bullets with minor breaks of silence as he changed his magazines out.

  Peeking through the small visual he’d acquired, Rooster yelled over the noise, “Bowen, grab the rifle. Use the butt to clear this glass.”

  Bowen hunkered against the door, pulling his knees up until he’d curled into a protective fetal position.

  Rooster slapped his hand out, catching the guy on the side of the head. “Grab the rifle and get this glass cleared away. Now!” His voice roared like God Almighty making the command.

  Bowen fought against his shaking hands as he complied.

  “Honey, the Seahawk requests you stop pussying around,” Nutsbe deadpanned. “They can’t use their hellfire missiles. You’re at risk for collateral damage in the strikes. Suggest heading to your two o’clock. There’s a rock outcropping that could give you some cover.”

  Rooster wrenched the steering wheel to the right.

  “Hold steady. Fifty meters and closing,” Nutsbe directed.

  They went over a bump that threw the occupants into the air, hitting the ceiling, only to land and be thrown again.

  Rooster sensed rather than saw Randy hunkering over Anjie Bowen.

  With another vertebrae-dislocating lurch, Rooster maneuvered behind a barely visible boulder. He wrenched his night vision goggles away from his face just as the atmosphere was painted bright gold. Four earth-shaking explosions followed the first in quick succession.

  The air grew heavy from the smoke and fumes billowing from the incinerated cars dotting the horizon. By the light of the fires, Rooster did a quick assessment of Derek Bowen. Randy was doing CPR on Anjie from a claustrophobic crouch in the back.

  ***

  Flying over the Gulf of Aden in the Navy Seahawk, Rooster was strapped into place next to Derek Bowen, who had fallen asleep with a rehydrating IV dangling from his arm. It was the sleep of the nearly dead, his reserves depleted.

  Adrenaline still charged through Rooster’s veins, making sitting still a challenge. He watched the lights of the USS Stenett blinking closer.

  Randy sucked water from the blue tube of his camelback in his rucksack.

  Anjie was going to have a hell of a bruise, but the defibrillator had done its job. She breathed rhythmically with an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. Her IV line swung with the motion of the heli. Rooster knew that once they were onboard the destroyer some of the best medical attention available in the world would be focused on keeping her alive.

  His precious cargo was back in US hands. His job done, Rooster only gave a glancing thought as to whether Brilliant had been exploded in the fireworks show or whether he was off somewhere contriving his next scheme. It was a game of whack-a-mole. If they took Brilliant off the playing field, there was always another bad guy ready to hustle up and fill the void. It was just a matter of time before Rooster would be called to save the next victim.

  Chapter Four

  Rooster

  Djibouti, Djibouti

  “Yo, you serious?” Randy swung his heels off the tabletop in his Djibouti hotel room and sat tall with the phone pressed to his ear. His gaze focused hard on Rooster until his partner turned to look at him. Randy bobbled his brow to let Rooster know something was cooking. “Hang on. Let me find something to write with.” Randy patted his chest then stood.

  Rooster picked up the pad and pen from the nightstand and stretched to hand it to him.

  “Go.” Randy scribbled the incoming details across the page. “Yup. I’ll be there as soon as I can get a flight… Yeah, I’ve got someone with me.” He lifted his chin toward Rooster. “Me too. I’ll call you back when I have details.” Randy slid his phone into his pocket. “Cool.”

  Rooster waited.

  “That was Meg. She’s hanging out on the beach in Zanzibar.”

  “Sad life.” Rooster sprawled out on the bed, crossing his arms under his head, his legs sticking a good five inches off the end.

  “Yeah, I feel for her.” Randy took a swig of water. “She says a couple of the scientists that were heading in for a meeting are running a few days late, and she wanted to know if I wanted to fill their shoes.”

  “You have a science degree?”

  “Nah. I have tourist skills, though. They’re heading to the Ngorongoro Crater tomorrow, and then they’re going to climb Mount Kilimanjaro the day after.”

  “The scientists are up to that?”

  “I doubt it.” Randy opened his laptop to do an airline search. “They’ll probably hang out at the lodge, drinking. Meg’ll go for sure.” He pulled up a screen and ran his finger over the details. “You heard Commander Kane. We’re on required R & R.”

  “Nice of him to call at zero dark thirty with the news.”

  “He doesn’t give a shit about time zones. You in?”

  “Me in what?”

  “Zanzibar and Tanzania. Watch some hippos humping, giraffes wandering in the trees through our binoculars. Change it up from the usual guerillas.”

  “What kind of science?”

  “She’s a wildlife migration specialist, part of some big multi-disciplined study funded by the Gateways Foundation. They’re supposed to figure out how to save endangered species and indigenous tribes from the changes in weather. Why would that matter?”

  “It doesn’t. Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

  The men stuffed their clothes in their duffels. They gave Iniquus their flight itinerary, and got in touch with a local contact that Headquarters provided to pick up their communications and tactical equipment to send back stateside. Tanzania had laws that prohibited handguns, and while they could bring up to three hunting rifles now that the dry season had begun, it might be hard to explain the special configurations of their weapons. It was extra weight and a theft concern. No big deal. They kept their night vision and cameras, though. Out in the crater, they might prove to be cool toys to play with.

  ***

  The flight was going to be a long one. Three layovers meant that if everything ran on schedule, they’d get to their Zanzibari hotel in time to shower for dinner. So far so good. At least they’d made it out of Djibouti.

  Rooster had given up on the red vinyl seats in the boarding lounge at the Addis Ababa airport. The security dog gave them a wary eye as he panted his way down the aisle. Rooster hadn’t shot a gun or handled explosives since he’d been to Africa this go-round. But that didn’t mean his clothes weren’t full of gunshot residue. Yeah, soap and water were supposed to take it out, but dogs’ noses and human noses were on different ends of the spectrum. Last thing he wanted was to get dragged into a room for a chat with some uniformed guard.

  His back pressed against the wall, Rooster had stretched his legs out on the cool floor and watched the comings and goings while he and Randy waited for their flight to be called. He finger-waved at a little kid clinging to his mother’s hand, being dragged past them; the boys’ eyes wide with astonishment. It was a normal kid reaction. At just shy of three-hundred pounds, Rooster had decided pro-ball wasn’t his gig. If he was going to take someone down, it wouldn’t be well-padded players on the football field. He was going after the worst the world had to offer. While his size made some things a challenge—like sitting in chairs—for the most part, he wouldn’t give up an inch of his height. “Okay, so now that we’re on the way to Zanzibar, tell me, who’s this Meg science person? How’d you get on her fast dial?”

  “Meg Finley?” Randy raised his eyebrows. “You know her brother.”

  Rooster canted his head. “Yeah? How’s that?”

  “Special Agent Steve Finley, FBI, terror.”

  “Son of a fuckin’ gun. You shitting me?”

  “Small world, huh? All of the Finley kids have got the same makeup—smart as hell, athletic. Do-gooders working to make the world a better place. Three kids. Meg’s the oldest. I hung out more with their youngest girl, Kelly.” Randy scratched the back of his neck. “Kelly’s back from her stint in the Peace Corps. She just h
ad a kid.”

  “I thought you went right from El Salvador to boot camp. How’d you come to know the Finley’s?”

  “I got a Rotary scholarship to come to the US my senior year. They were my foster family. I still call them Mom and Dad. Meg is my American sister.”

  “And once you got to the Finley’s house, you decided you liked Pop Tarts so much you were willing to risk life and limb to stay there?”

  “After I developed my Pop Tart addiction, there was no going back.” Randy let his slow smile slide across his face. “I only saw Meg that first summer, then on holidays. She was working on her PhD. But we’ve always gotten along and stayed in close touch.”

  Randy lifted his phone and scrolled through his pictures until he found one of a woman with her head thrown back in a full-body laugh. Strands of long, strawberry-blonde hair blew across her face as she gripped her stomach, her knees pulled up.

  The picture surprised Rooster. He took the phone in his hand and drank it in like she was water on his thirstiest day.

  Randy took the phone back and gave it another swipe that brought up a picture of Meg holding a baby orangutan on her hip, her emerald-green eyes sparkling with amusement. She looked like a doting mother. No makeup, freckled nose, sunburned forehead. The body of an athlete. Yeah, Rooster could see this woman climbing Kilimanjaro. Randy swiped again, and Meg was squatting next to an African elder. She had a no-nonsense, what you see is what you get feel. And Rooster found himself impatient to get to Zanzibar.

  Rooster pulled the phone away then tapped and scrolled through Randy’s phone.

  “Careful there, brother, I have pictures on there that are private.”

  Rooster handed the phone back to him. A new picture filled the screen. “Familiar?”

  Randy looked down at the photo of a man standing in the shadows behind them. “Yeah. He was in the neighborhood around our safe house in Djibouti.”

  “And now he’s flying Ethiopia to Kenya.”

  “Was he on our flight this morning? I didn’t spot him.”

  “Nope.” Rooster pulled his bag into his lap and rifled through it, using the distraction to watch the guy pretending to not watch them. His nonchalance seemed contrived.

  “Odd coincidence.”

  “Yep.” Rooster didn’t believe in coincidences. He pulled a box of Altoids from the bottom of his bag and offered one to Randy.

  Randy shook his head. “I’ll send this to Deep back at Iniquus, see if he can put a name with the face.” His fingers tapped at the screen.

  “If this guy ends up in Zanzibar, we’ll need to have a chat with him, regardless.”

  “Roger that.” Randy paused while a disembodied voice spoke over the loud speaker in Amharic. “That’s us.” He swatted Rooster’s leg.

  The men got to their feet and made sure they were the last to board. Rooster wanted to keep his eye on the stranger with the black hair.

  Chapter Five

  Meg

  Abeid Amani Karume International Airport, Zanzibar

  Meg’s eyes stretched wide as she watched Randy elbow the guy beside him, then raise a hand to wave at her. Randy looked like a child standing beside a man-mountain. The guy nodded as she waved back at them. She flicked her hair out of her eyes and tilted her head up with a smile. As they moved forward in line, Meg sidled over to stand with the others outside of the secure area as Randy and the mountain made their way through customs.

  Watching Randy approach, Meg bounced up and down, clapping her hands like a little girl who was about to receive a gift. They were both laughing as Randy ran toward her, scooped her up, and swung her around. When he set her back on her feet with a loud kiss on her cheek, Meg looked over Randy’s shoulder to find the mountain studying them curiously.

  Randy turned to see what had caught her attention. “Hey, Honey.” He gestured the guy over. “Come meet Meg.”

  It only took the mountain three strides to reach them, where a normal human being would have taken six. When he towered above her, she was almost as shocked at his height as she had been that Randy had called this guy honey. “How tall are you?” popped out before she even said hello. Meg clapped a hand over her mouth. Someday she’d get control over the braking mechanism that held back her words. “Think before you speak,” had been the childhood admonishment that her mother most wished Meg could master.

  The mountain sent her a wicked grin. “Six-foot-eight and worth the climb.” He winked, and Meg’s face heated to what she was sure must be flame-red at the mental picture of this guy lying naked and ready on her bed. That kind of bawdy imagery wasn’t something she normally conjured. It shocked Meg, and she stood there feeling off-kilter and not quite able to breathe.

  Randy backhanded the guy’s chest. “Cut it out.”

  The guy spread his arms and herded them out of the stream of people passing on either side.

  When they reached the wall, Meg said, “Welcome to Zanzibar.” She stretched out her hand for a shake, trying to reset the introduction. “I’m Meg Finley.”

  “Rooster Honig.” He wrapped her hand in his with gentle pressure.

  Meg thought that if he wanted to, he could pulverize her bones. “Rooster’s an unusual name. Is that like Eduardo being rechristened Randy by the army?”

  “Rooster’s not a call sign. I ticked my mom off when I was a fetus and that was her idea of payback.”

  Randy tipped his head down the hallway. “Let’s keep this conversation going in the cab. We need to catch a shower back at the hotel.”

  “And get to dinner, I’m hungry as a bear.” Rooster looked down at Meg when he said it and gave her a smile. That must be some kind of private joke, unless he was teasing her about her gaffe when they met. She sent him a tight-lipped smile in response. Something about Rooster Honig was throwing her off-center. Short circuiting her brain. She felt a little dizzy and a lot ridiculous. They came to a halt in the baggage area.

  “How long have you been in Zanzibar?” Randy stood next to the conveyor belt, watching the luggage stream past.

  “A few days. I’ve been over in Tanzania trying to put together this conference. The touristy part—the crater and Kilimanjaro—is supposed to be the icebreaker. Give us a little group history and adventure together. Hopefully, when we pull our chairs around the conference table, we’ll be able to communicate effectively during our strategic planning.”

  Randy reached out and picked up a hard plastic case with metal corners. It looked like if a bomb were to explode and take down the building, this case would be the lone, undamaged survivor. “Here, Honey, take this,” he said, handing it off.

  Rooster reached for the box, then set it between his feet.

  When Meg had seen Rooster standing next to Randy, her first thought was that here was a man’s man. The rugged individualist type that she’d often seen on conservation hunts put on both for population control and tourist dollars by the Tanzanian government. What she hadn’t suspected was Rooster was also a “man’s man.”

  She thought back to any time that Randy had told her about his love interests, but Meg could only remember them being women. Gorgeous, voluptuous, accomplished women. Randy was handsome and smart, an American hero, and all that. But still, it always seemed to her that he was hooking up with girls who were out of his league. She wrinkled her brow and considered Randy. He had signed on to the military before 2010, when the ban on gays and bisexuals serving was lifted. And he had tried out for the Rangers as soon as his citizenship papers were signed. Was there something in that ultra-manly world that would make being “out” a problem? She tipped her head. Well, Randy was working for the security group Iniquus now. Maybe this was the first time he felt comfortable sharing this kind of relationship publicly.

  “Meg,” Randy called loudly.

  She jolted herself back to present moment. “Sorry, I was in la-la land. What were you saying?”

  He flipped something toward her, and Meg reached up to snatch it out of the air. It was one of the
little wooden puzzle balls that Randy liked to whittle to beat the boredom on his missions. “Aww, thank you, I love these.” She looked over to Rooster. “I have a wonderful collection that Randy keeps adding to. They keep me company when I’m in waiting mode out in the bush.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a similar puzzle. “This was the last one. I still haven’t figured it out.”

  “Glad you still like them. This is all of it.” Randy pointed to their duffels. “Which way to the cabs?”

  ***

  Meg took the front seat to allow Randy and Rooster to sit together in back. They must have been a couple for a while now. Even in the short time she’d seen them together, she noticed how they could communicate by catching the others’ eye or giving some small sign—a tilt of the head, a lift of the chin. It was sweet, really.

  Even with her seat pushed forward as far as it would go in the Land Cruiser Prado, Rooster still had trouble getting himself into the car. Meg could feel his knee pressing into the seat, hitting her mid-back. She leaned into the car door, energetically dismissing the weird rush that the contact had given her. God, she needed to get out more. Her dry spell was obviously wreaking havoc with her libido. She rolled down the window and let the velvety warm air waft over her face. She breathed in the scent of cinnamon and lemongrass mingling with the pungent ocean salt air, trying to center herself.

  Rooster was off-limits. She wasn’t his preferred gender and he was in a relationship with her brother, for heaven’s sake. Meg truly did think of Randy as a brother; the Finley family made no distinction between the children they fostered and the three biological kids. She scooped up the hair that flew into her face and pulled it into a makeshift bun that she held at the nape of her neck. “Is the window being down okay for you back there?”