by Fiona Quinn
“Nutsbe’s running us for the time being.”
Randy nodded and pushed eight on his quick dial. “Randy here. You’re on speaker with Rooster and me.”
“Lucky sons of bitches,” Nutsbe said. “You’re getting paid the big bucks to hang out playing Tarzan while I’m here punching keys in the war room.”
“Haven’t swung from a vine since we’ve been here. Did see a ghost, though,” Rooster said.
“How’d the contact go?”
“Interesting. Rex Deus tat. I didn’t see the whole thing but the illuminated sphere on this one was Gevurah.”
“Serious? He’s their punisher? And he’s on your trail? I’m suddenly liking the fact that I’m tapping my keys here in the war room. Good luck with that.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Randy said. He and Rooster sat on the bed with the phone between them, their heads lowered to keep the conversation from being heard by any interested ears on the other side of the wall.
“He said he’s here because Momo Bourhan is showing an unhealthy interest in one of their scientists,” Rooster said. “An Israeli who’s involved in the Key Initiative. He’s going to take the guy’s place until the group is back at the capital.”
“Roger that,” Nutsbe replied. “He’s playing the role of Dr. Abraham Silverman.”
Randy sidled closer and leaned over the phone laying on the bed. “Got any intel on the good doctor?”
“His specialty is renewable energy. He’s working out of Technion—Israel Institute of Technology.”
Rooster rubbed the back of his neck. “Well then, that explains that. The ghost said that Silverman was supposed to be out at the Afar camp last month chatting with the elders. That region is sitting on a geothermal hotspot, and they’ve got a wind blowing so hard it could probably power half of Africa. Wonder why he had Meg Finley take his place?”
“My guess would be that Meg was already in Tanzania doing the legwork for the group, setting up the meetings,” Nutsbe said. “She could have easily taken a quick flight to Djibouti when Silverman’s father was hospitalized. I’ve followed that trail. It’s legit. Silverman’s dad kicked the bucket. The funeral’s scheduled for tomorrow.”
“That’s what the ghost said. But he also said that they pulled their scientist off the Afar trip because they heard Silverman’s name on Momo’s channels.”
“Noted. I’ll do some digging.”
Randy leaned closer to the phone. “Where are the other scientists on this gig?”
“They had a pre-meeting gathering of those working in Tanzania. There were supposed to be four, all told. Silverman, Finley, and the two who got hung up with visa issues. You’re filling their shoes until they get back to the capital. Those two plan to land in Dar es Salaam Monday.”
“And the ones not assigned to Tanzania?”
“The others are gathering at the airport tomorrow morning to fly out on the private charter to the crater. You three will be taking a puddle jumper over to Dar es Salaam in the morning to meet them, but you know that already.”
“I have a package from our new friend,” Rooster said. “You think I should open it or wait for Christmas?”
“You sent your equipment back with the courier. Iniquus said you’d be uncomfortable with a plan that put another country’s operative on the tour bus with you, when you weren’t comparably equipped.”
“Tell me about that contact chain.” Rooster ran his thumb over the latch of the case.
“Assumed operative contacts their mothership, the Mossad. CIA contacts the Mossad. Mossad says they’ll make an asset available for a meet and greet. CIA hires Iniquus to go to the party. Iniquus assigns Panther Force. Panther Force is going wheels up. You and Randy got tapped to keep eyes and ears as things unfold—or don’t unfold—since you’re our closest operatives. And it helps that you know Dr. Finley and are already heading in the same direction.”
“Okay, the case then.” Rooster moved off the bed to squat. “If Randy and I take a free flight to the Pearly Gates, you know whose neck to break in retaliation.” He pushed his thumb in. Pop. He pushed the other lever. Pop. He lowered to his knees to be eye level with the seam. If this thing was going to explode, he might as well have a front row seat. He cracked the lid a millimeter and ran the pad of his thumb along the groove. He didn’t feel any catches that might signal a booby trap. He lifted the lid.
Randy jumped forward, his hands spread. “Boom!” he shouted.
“Jackass.” Rooster hadn’t flinched, didn’t even look up. He was much more interested in what the ghost thought to equip them with. Two ankle holsters with Glock 36s all ready to go with full magazines and one in the chamber. Seven bullets in all. There were two in-waist holsters with Heckler & Koch MK23s, six extended magazines, two suppressors, four boxes of .45 caliber ACP hollow-point bullets. He pulled the items from the case. “I thought this bag had a little heft to it.” This was where Rooster had trust issues. He liked his guns, his bullets. Borrowing felt hazardous, even when it was a friendly handing them off. If it was an unknown quantity with a possible revenge mindset, it made Rooster even more squirrely. A soldier had to trust that his weaponry was functional.
Randy picked up one of the guns and worked the slide. “You think he wants us arrested? If we strap these on, we’re going to need to Sharpie the consulate’s phone number on our arms for easy access.”
“Good toys?” Nutsbe asked over the speaker.
“Good enough.” Rooster pulled out three covert ballistic vests. “He found a vest in my size in short order. I’d say he’s got some pull. He has one here for Randy, and I’m assuming this little one with the boob space is for Meg Finley. Did you get the connection? Her brother is Special Agent Steve Finley. Someone might want to pull him into the loop. We don’t need to be burning bridges.”
“You’re right, if Meg stubs her pinky toe, and we had operatives around and allowed it to happen, it could sour our relationship with the Bureau. Oh, and Randy would be the worst brother on the face of the Earth. We can’t forget that part.”
“Ain’t happenin’ on my watch, bro.”
“As of right now,” Nutsbe said, “Spencer has a request out to the CIA for permission to read Steve Finley into the program, at least up to the part where we have operatives functioning in the area. We haven’t heard back yet. It’s their call who we include on the need-to-know list.”
“Is Meg on that list?” Randy asked.
“That’s an emphatic negative. Your assignment is eyes and ears. There should be no reason to get any civilians involved.”
“Out of twenty should-be scientists we know that three of that number are operatives. Have you vetted the other seventeen?”
“In process, both in-house and at Langley.”
“Looking at this equipment, I’d say Randy and I are missing a big chunk of the information pie.” Rooster pulled out two mace cans, and two KA-BAR knives with belt holsters. “I could take down an African village with the shit we’ve got here. We’re missing blast cord, and flash bang, but other than that…” He scraped his fingers through his short-cropped hair. “Seriously, Nutsbe, you can’t be sending us into a trap we’re not prepared to handle. I’m not big into shadowboxing. I want to know who or what I’m looking for. Why is Panther Force mobilized?”
“Need to know.”
“Fuck you,” Rooster growled.
“Seriously. I haven’t got any information to hand you. Titus is grabbing his go bag over at the barracks. I’ll give him your update and see what he’s willing to give up.”
“When are they wheels up?”
“It’s still Friday here. They leave at twenty-two thirty hours, Zulu time. They expect to arrive in Dodoma at zero five hundred hours your time Sunday. It’s a twenty-eight-hour flight to Dodoma if all the legs run on schedule. You should be waking up in Arusha when they get in-country. The team will be catching up on their sleep and setting up the new crib there in Dodoma. They’ll interface with our CIA head of station and
be ready for you when you come in to the capital with Meg Finley’s group. You’ll need to kiss her goodbye at the airport. We want her to think you’re heading to your next destination. We have tickets in your names for Rome, I’ll text you the name of a restaurant where they make good pizza. We’ll send one of our team to pick you up at baggage claim.”
“Roger that.”
***
At zero five hundred hours Meg Finley knocked on Rooster’s door, as promised. She smelled like peppermint shampoo. Her hair was pulled back into a still-damp braid that hung down her back over a warm jacket. Her head scarf was poking out of a pocket. She smiled as she held three cups of coffee in her splayed fingers.
“Is it cold out? Thank you,” Rooster said, relieving her of two of them.
“Yeah, a little bit. July is the best time to be in Tanzania—lows around seventy, highs around eighty. But that wind must have brought in some weird front. It’s sixty-two.”
Rooster lifted the cups. “Does it matter which is which?”
“The one in your right hand is mine. I already doctored it.” She held out a cup to Randy. “This one’s splash of milk no sugar.”
“Good woman.” Randy put a hand on Rooster’s shoulder as he reached around him to retrieve his cup.
Rooster watched Meg’s gaze move from Randy’s hand to the two suitcases perched side by side next to the bed. The new bag filled with Mossad goodies rested next to them. Meg brought her focus back to Rooster with a bit of a sigh and a tight-lipped smile. Rooster wished he could read her mind in that moment. Whatever she was thinking, she shook it off quick. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out packs of sugar, packs of Splenda, and four plastic containers of cream. “I didn’t know how you took your joe.”
“Black is fine.” Rooster handed Meg her coffee.
“Meg, I need a favor.” Randy took her by the hand and led her to the bed, where Rooster had quickly pulled the covers in place, and Randy had laid out the ballistic vest.
In a follow-up discussion with Nutsbe that morning, Randy and Rooster were told that the case they were working had to do with Momo Bourhan and not the scientists with the Key Initiative. That the ghost was an adjunct to the group was interesting, but not game changing. The equipment was there as a courtesy, nothing more. “Enjoy your adventure, gentlemen,” was their last command from their commander, Titus Kane, before he boarded the plane.
Rooster and Randy both took in the information with a big old grain of salt. They got that they’d been excluded from the need-to-know loop. The CIA wasn’t big on sharing. They decided that they were going to treat this as a covert personal security operation, the kind they’d go on when executives didn’t want their wives fearful of where they traveled, but also wanted them kept safe. In those cases, the operatives usually posed as private tour guides, chauffeurs, or personal aides provided for their convenience. In this case, they’d go with “fellow tourist” as their cover. Randy and Rooster had been playing gigs like this so long that it should be as comfortable as an old shoe. But this was Meg’s safety they were planning for, so the tension was there.
“A favor?” Meg asked as she pulled her cup away from her lips.
Randy held up the ballistic vest. “Well, we both need a favor, right, Honey?”
“That’s right.”
Randy focused back on Meg. “Sometimes we deal with hostage situations. Girls. Women. Sometimes we’re pulling them out of hot spots, and we need to get them to safety. Iniquus is trying out a new vest.” He jostled the vest up and down. “We need input from a regular woman—well, I wouldn’t call you regular.” He smiled. “We need input from a woman without military training about how comfortable this is and if it’s a problem for them to wear as an everyday thing.”
“You sound like you two are up to something.” She narrowed her eyes at Rooster, as if trying to read him from across the room. She focused back on Randy. “Are you up to something?”
Randy didn’t answer. Rooster thought that was a smart move.
Meg walked forward and fingered the poly-cotton outer shell. “This is soft.”
“It should be thin enough to not show under your clothes.”
“My clothes?” Her eyes flashed up. “You want me to wear this thing?” She looked over to where Rooster leaned against the wall and gestured toward him. “It might not show if you’re built like a man. This thing isn’t going to follow my curves, even if it does have this weird shelf thing in it. It’s gonna look like I’m wearing some kind of brace. And surely I won’t be able to move freely in it, bend and twist. What a terrible way to endure a plane ride.”
Rooster stood and held his arms out. “I’m wearing one now. Randy too. So far, it’s okay. I’ve been inside and out and the design keeps up with the temperature changes.”
She wrinkled her brow. “You were out already today? So much for my weather report. Where did you go? It’s five in the morning.”
“I did my jog earlier to get it out of the way.” He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest.
“In the vest?” She moved forward to rap a knuckle on his chest.
“Yep.”
“It doesn’t show through your clothes. I don’t think it changes your silhouette.” She moved toward the bed and lifted the vest from Randy’s hands. “It’s not as heavy as I thought it would be.” She cocked her head to the side, looking at Rooster. “What’s it supposed to protect me from?”
“You? Honey badgers, maybe.” He smiled. “It’s rated for stab protection and small arms fire.”
“Hand guns are illegal where we’re going.”
“Right, well this is just to get some feedback on comfort. We’re hoping you’ll forget you have it on,” he said. “It’s a big ask, you’re free to say no.”
Meg’s brow creased. “You just happened to be carrying my size of bulletproof vest in your bag with you? You didn’t know I was going to call and invite you.”
“Bullet resistant. There’s no such thing as bulletproof. We have a friend in the area we came from who had some with him. He lent these to us to try. We’ll return them later.”
Meg squinted. “Fair enough.” She carried the vest to the bathroom to put on.
Rooster turned to Randy. “That went better than I thought it would.”
“Our vests are still in the bag. And you let her knock on your chest, you asshole.”
Rooster reached for the briefcase. “All right, let’s get them on. I don’t want to be lying to Meg.”
Chapter Twelve
Meg
The Road to Ngorongoro Crater, Tanzania
Meg shifted in her seat. The vest that she’d agreed to wear wasn’t as bad as she’d envisioned, but she still wondered how long she’d have to keep the damn thing on. If it had been Randy asking, she’d probably have worn it for an hour or so to be a good sport. But Rooster had asked. Okay, that was bad. She really had to find a way to shift her thoughts from Rooster. Right now, it was hard not to think about him, since he was sitting right in front of her in the passenger van that was taking them from the Kilimanjaro airport to the Ngorongoro Crater Imperial Hotel, where their safari vehicles would meet them for their excursion.
Randy and Rooster weren’t sitting together. Rooster didn’t fit on the bench seats with the rest of the group. He had to sit next to the driver where he had a little more leg room. Meg got to stare as much as she wanted to at his broad, muscular shoulders. It seemed unfair that all the guys she met who had what she was looking for—the triumvirate of intelligence, looks, and personality—seemed to be taken or gay. Or in this case taken and gay. At what point had they all been scooped up? Seemed like she should have started looking earlier to find a good match. Like when she was three or four years old. “Sucks to be me,” she muttered under her breath and took a swig of water.
The driver pulled into the hotel’s side parking lot. An English breakfast waited for them on the lawn under a yellowwood tree. She checked her watch, everything was go
ing well. They had arrived at 8:40—a mere ten minutes later than they were scheduled to begin. She glanced over at the string of Land Rovers with pop-up tops they’d be using later. That should give Rooster more head space. Meg bet Rooster would like to get hold of a pop top for everyday driving back in the states.
The group debussed, standing in loose groups, waiting for a directive. Rooster and Randy were having a tight-knit conversation. It was kind of cute how they talked to each other. They’d maneuver until their heads were side by side and talk softly into each other’s ears. A discussion for them alone.
Meg decided to give them some space and moved with the others toward the buffet. They had a small window to take advantage of the breakfast and use flushing toilets before they took off for their first stop at the Maasai village.
A boy with a bag popped up by her side.
“Miss Dr. Finley?” he asked.
“That’s me, but you can call me Meg.” She sat down on the stairs and patted the place beside her. “What’s your name?”
“I am Ahbou Sulenah. I was hoping I might come with you to the Maasai boma.”
“Sure, we can take you with us to the boma.” Meg searched the area. “Where are your parents? Did they say it’s okay if you go with us?”
“Oh yes.” He pointed to one of the waiters, who waved at them. “My uncle said I should come today and ask you for a ride.”
“But how will you get back here to your uncle?”
“I will walk.”
“By yourself? That’s tens of kilometers. It would be dark before you got back.” Distance on foot was a relative thing. Here in Africa, she knew that walking many miles a day was quite normal, especially for women looking for water. But she didn’t like the idea of a boy this young walking alone. It piqued her protective instincts.
“I’ll stay the night there. I have something I need to give them.” He patted his bag.
“What have you got in there?” Meg looked over curiously. “Will you show me?”
