by Vanessa Kier
Dev didn’t point out that technically he and Kirra were also African.
“But if there was a white woman on board, it might explain why there are no survivors,” the sergeant added.
Shit. “Was this a rebel attack?”
The sergeant shrugged. “We have no witnesses. But it seems likely, yes.”
Dammit. He was going to wring Kirra’s neck when he found her. Hadn’t she realized that her very presence would put all the other passengers at risk? Clearly, despite her claims that she’d matured, she still didn’t have the common sense God gave a turtle.
“Now, sir, we need you to please move back so that the coroner’s van may enter.”
Dev stepped to the side and let the vehicle go by. The sergeant followed in the van’s wake.
“I promise not to cross into the crime scene,” Dev told the constable, who was still blocking his path.
The constable gave him a sharp look, then nodded and went back to his post. After a few moments, his attention stopped straying toward Dev, so Dev moved slightly to the side where he could better see the action.
Dev studied as much of the scene as he could from his vantage point, cursing the fact that his sat phone didn’t have a camera. Since he’d planned to spend his vacation either on the water or sleeping, he hadn’t bothered to bring a regular camera with him.
When the constable continued to ignore him, Dev inched round the perimeter of the crime scene, studying the details and trying to reenact what had happened, while staying out of the line of sight of the officers. Local law enforcement tended to be split in their opinions of WAR, so he couldn’t risk having these men guess he was anything more than a frantic brother.
Most of the victims appeared to have been shot execution style in the back of the head. Personal possessions covered the ground in uneven piles. Suitcases and purses had been emptied of their contents and their linings ripped out.
So this hadn’t been a random attack with the intent of burglary or intimidation. The rebels had been searching for something.
Which meant that it was possible they’d taken hostages. Including Kirra.
Icy fingers squeezed his heart. He knew he should have been keeping a closer watch on her. But with his switch from South Africa’s special forces to WAR, and his team at WAR running round putting out fires, he hadn’t had time to keep in touch.
His team’s schedule had also provided an excuse to avoid the chaos that inevitably surrounded Kirra. Although, right now he’d gladly endure a shit storm of turmoil if it meant he could hold his sister and know that she was okay.
He walked along the length of the bus. Just beyond the rear wheel, a glimmer of white next to a burnt cell phone caught his attention. Waiting until the police were all looking elsewhere, he darted forward and picked it up. The heat had separated the phone’s screen from its interior, and most of the protective case had burned away. A quick rub against his leg cleared the worst of the soot, revealing what had once been a white case with black musical notes.
Sounds dimmed. His hand trembled. This had been his Christmas gift to Kirra.
Not caring that he was removing evidence, Dev slipped the phone into his pocket. Then he simply stood in place for a moment while he wrestled his fear under control.
Don’t jump to conclusions. You don’t know that the rebels have her. This only proves that she was here.
Once he could think again, he headed to the back of the building. A dead man lay face down not far from the building. From the position of the body, the man had been heading away from the bus. He must have either attempted to make a break for it or had been dragged apart from the others. Dev moved closer and knelt down to get a closer look at the man’s face. No one he recognized.
He remained crouched by the body, thinking and studying the scene around him. A dark gap in the wall of the building indicated the previous existence of a door. Farther down, vines partially covered the security bars protecting a window. Dev stood and went to investigate the door. The vines on the outside of the doorframe appeared newly torn, and the weeds between the door and the tall coastal grass had been trampled. So, someone had exited the building and run into the grass. The number of bootprints indicated that the rebels had given chase.
The police hadn’t marked the door as part of the crime scene. After checking that they remained out of sight, Dev stepped inside. The light had fallen enough that he needed his torch to examine the room.
The footprints in the dust indicated the rebels had been here. Along with someone wearing some sort of sandal. A vaguely rectangular shape suggested that there’d been some sort of luggage here also. But what interested him the most was the metal handcuffs dangling from the security bars over the window. There was blood on the bracelets.
That put things into a different perspective. He studied the room again. The rebels had found someone of particular interest among the passengers and secured him or her to the window. But the prisoner had escaped.
God, he hoped it was Kirra, although he had no idea how she would have managed to free herself from the cuffs. Maybe the dead man outside had helped her.
Dev carefully poked around a bit more, but didn’t find anything else of use. He stepped back outside and followed the trail of trampled weeds and grass out to the road, half expecting to find another dead body.
No more corpses. Just empty road.
Dev crossed to the other side and climbed down a fall of rocks onto the beach. After a series of devastating storms two decades ago had eroded kilometers of beach, the local governments had reinforced the coastline with tons of rocks and dirt. This stretch of coastline had been raised several hundred meters to create a cliff where before the beach had run straight to the highway.
Right now, Dev wished the government had been less enthusiastic in its development efforts, because the rocks offered too many hiding places.
The tide was up, leaving only a strip of sand about as wide as his surfboard. Lines of bootprints led both right and left. Damn. The rebels had been out in full force. So who had they been pursuing?
He glanced up and down the beach.
“Dammit, Kirra, where are you?” He had no reason except for stubborn hope to believe that Kirra had eluded the rebels. But if she had escaped, the beach would be a perfect hiding place for her. God knows that as kids, she and Kyle used to drive him crazy hiding in nooks, crannies, and barely safe caves near their home.
Blowing out a breath, Dev decided to start his search to the left, since the beach didn’t extend very far to the right and therefore wouldn’t have appealed to Kirra. He picked his way between the rocks and sand, searching for any clue that his sister had passed this way. “Kirra!” he called. “Kirra, are you here?” But the wind snatched his words away.
Within minutes, the storm clouds blotted out the setting sun and the wind whipped the waves into whitecaps. Thunder rumbled an instant before the skies opened up and dumped a torrent of rain on his head.
Driven by panic, he kept searching even though he could barely see a meter in front of him. He had to find Kirra. What if she was out here, hurt and frightened?
He couldn’t fail her yet again.
“Bureh’s faction needs to be destroyed,” Rio Martinez said into his satellite phone while he watched the cops process the scene of the bus attack. It was a risky move telling his boss, Jonathan Morenga, what to do, but Jesus, if someone didn’t rein in Bureh, his rebels would kill off half the damn region. “They killed every passenger.”
Rio averted his eyes so he didn’t have to watch the coroner load a child-sized body bag onto the wagon. Taking advantage of the shadows thrown by the setting sun and the massing storm clouds, Rio prowled through the crime scene. He’d disguised himself with a police uniform, yet he was careful not to let anyone get a good look at his face. His skin was brown enough to pass as a very light-skinned black African, but his facial features would definitely give him away. Plus, there was always a chance that someone would recognize him as
being part of Morenga’s organization.
Spotting a white man slipping around back of the building, Rio mentally cursed, then followed. This was a complication he didn’t need.
“Did they get my diamonds?” Morenga demanded.
And that’s why Morenga had risen to the top of the West African illegal arms trade. His boss possessed a stone-cold attitude when it came to his business deals. Never mind how many innocent people had died here today.
The only time he’d seen his boss show any deep emotion had been after his son had been killed.
Although, come to think of it, Morenga had winced slightly when he’d seen the video of the Hospital Massacre. Video Rio sincerely wished he himself hadn’t watched. Because that had been some seriously sick stuff. Yet while Rio had been horrified by the brutality of the attack against the patients and hospital staff, Morenga’s primary objection had been that the massacre had turned the population against the rebels, weakening their support and forcing them to go underground to avoid the vigilante groups that sprang up.
Rio didn’t want to know what six years of working undercover with such men said about him. He sighed and barely resisted rubbing his eyes. He was so damn tired these days. Yet another sign that he was treading too close to the edge and needed to get out.
But first he had to finish this job. And that meant not pissing off Morenga after spending a year working his way up in the man’s organization until Rio, aka Rick Martin, became second-in-command of Morenga’s security forces.
“I don’t know about the diamonds, boss,” Rio said, keeping far enough back that the white man, who he now recognized as Dev Neilson, second-in-command of one of WAR’s military teams, wouldn’t realize Rio was following him. “There’s no one left to question.”
“What do you know?” his boss demanded.
Uh-oh. Morenga rarely raised his voice, but when his tone turned icy, watch out.
“Your supplier validated the diamonds before handing them off to our courier. The courier completed all but his last check-in, indicating that he had not been followed and that the bag of diamonds had never left his sight.”
“And then?”
“The courier called me to report that he’d been robbed by rebels belonging to Bureh. I told him to go to our safe house, but he never made it. By the time I reached the area, our man was dead and Bureh’s men were chasing the bus to New Accra.”
“Are you certain the thief was on that bus?”
“One hundred percent certain, boss.” Rio turned the corner to see Neilson kneeling by the dead body of the man Rio had hired to steal the bag of uncut diamonds from the courier.
Rio pulled back out of sight as Neilson examined the body. George, why’d you run, man? You knew better than to draw attention to yourself that way. The rebels love to chase down prey.
But George didn’t answer.
Rio had already searched the body, so he wasn’t concerned about Neilson discovering anything that would tie George to the theft or to Rio.
Neilson stood, then entered the abandoned building. The man wore surf shoes, board shorts, and nothing else, giving him the appearance of a laid-back surfer. In fact, he was a highly trained military operator who Rio didn’t want to compete against to find the diamonds.
Dammit, could this situation possibly get any more complicated?
“I must have the diamonds back before Friday,” Morenga said.
“Yes, sir.” Technically, Rio and his security team hadn’t been responsible for the courier’s safety between Angola and Volta. Rio had been scheduled to meet the man in one of the larger towns along the coast of Volta tomorrow, then escort him to Morenga’s headquarters. At that point, the courier would hand over the diamonds. But from Morenga’s tone, Rio’s head would be on the block if he didn’t find the diamonds in time for Friday’s meeting.
“You understand the consequences if Bureh retrieves the diamonds.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Bureh’s violent agenda gained popularity with a certain segment of the rebellion, Morenga had stepped forward to set himself up as the leader for the more moderate rebels. One of his first decisions had been to refuse to sell weapons to Bureh’s rebels, creating a bitter divide between the two groups.
With the regional governments taking stronger action against the rebels in the wake of the Hospital Massacre, Morenga had decided that violence was not the proper response. He’d switched his financial support to backing political candidates and increasing the influence of businesses favorable to the moderate rebels. The diamonds had been promised as payment for a lucrative business contract to be awarded to the company run by one of Morenga’s allies. If Morenga failed to produce the diamonds, his reputation would suffer. If Bureh obtained the diamonds, not only would his reputation improve, but he would be able to afford to purchase weapons outside of West Africa, circumventing Morenga’s boycott.
Morenga continued, “You will also bring me the name of the man or men who leaked the information about this delivery, arranged for the theft, and killed the courier.”
“Yes, boss.”
Morenga’s reply was a dial tone.
Rio pocketed his phone. Bring Morenga the name of the man who’d arranged for the theft? Yeah, the odds of Rio turning himself in were somewhere between zero and when hell freezes over. And George wouldn’t have killed the courier. First, Rio’s instructions had been for George to swap the diamonds out for the fake ones, leaving the courier none-the-wiser. By the time the diamonds reached Morenga’s main office and he discovered the stones were actually quartz, it would be too late to bring in replacements. Morenga’s deal would fall apart.
Second, George was a highly-skilled, experienced thief. The switch would have gone off smoothly. Even if George had been caught red-handed, he wouldn’t have killed the courier. George was staunchly non-violent. He didn’t own, or even carry, a weapon. He certainly didn’t have either the skill or the strength to have slit the courier’s throat in such a professional manner.
According to Rio’s sources, Bureh’s men had attempted to convert the stolen diamonds into cash. When the fence proclaimed the jewels to be fake, the rebels had stormed out. Given the state of the courier’s body, Rio suspected that Bureh’s men had tortured the courier, then killed him when he couldn’t produce the real diamonds. But Rio wouldn’t share that with his boss until he had proof.
He glanced back toward the burnt shell of the bus. A customer at the restaurant where the courier had stopped for lunch had pointed the rebels toward a man who’d sat near the courier. Bureh’s men had tracked George to the bus, but if they knew what he looked like, why had they killed everyone on the bus?
Okay, scratch that. Bureh’s men loved violence. Give them the slightest excuse, and they’d slaughter the entire country. In fact, rumors claimed that Bureh’s ultimate goal was to pull off a region-wide campaign of violence that would essentially raze the area to the ground in order to build it anew on a model that would allow Bureh to rule. The last thing the region needed was Bureh’s rebels rampaging through it wielding high-tech weapons. They did enough damage with their AK-47s and machetes.
Still, if they’d been able to identify George, his body would have shown signs of torture. So the description from the restaurant must have been vague.
Rio shifted, uncomfortably aware of the bag of fake diamonds weighing down his pocket. Unfortunately, with Morenga now aware of the theft, Rio couldn’t pass off the fakes as the real thing unless he came up with a damn good explanation. Which made it doubly important that he find the real diamonds. Then he’d figure out a Plan B for ruining Morenga’s deal.
Rio watched Neilson exit the building and disappear into the tall grass. The trail indicated that someone had escaped the rebels and been chased by a group of men. Either the escapee was someone who’d witnessed the rebels taking possession of the diamonds, or one of the bus passengers who’d found the diamonds and run. Or, given the bloody handcuffs Rio had spotted inside the back
room of the ruined building, more likely the rebels had located a known enemy on the bus and singled that person out for a little one-on-one attention.
No matter who the escapee was, the rebels wouldn’t let him live for long. Since Rio hadn’t found a dead body along the trail, he figured the rebels had recaptured their prisoner to torture at their leisure.
Poor fellow.
But Rio couldn’t do anything about that. He needed to uncover whoever had told Bureh about the courier and the diamonds in the first place. Only Rio; his boss, Laurent Decurey, the head of security; and Morenga had been privy to the courier’s travel plans. Decurey viewed Morenga as a combination father figure and messiah. Betrayal would never cross his mind.
More likely, someone involved in getting the diamonds out of Angola had tipped off Bureh. If Rio found out who that person was, he could turn him over to Morenga and come off looking like a superstar. But even that wouldn’t matter if he didn’t find the damn diamonds.
Rio sighed. He’d been in this business long enough to know that shit happened and he couldn’t protect every innocent person. Still, he felt responsible for this attack. If he hadn’t arranged for George to steal the diamonds, Bureh’s men would have had no reason to attack the bus.
This guilt would join the giant pile already weighing Rio down. Most of the time he was good at shoving his doubts and regrets deep into his subconscious where they only occasionally haunted him in nightmares. But ever since he’d seen that video from the Hospital Massacre he’d been having more and more trouble remaining impassive. For a guy in his precarious situation, that could be a problem of life-and-death proportions.
A complication of equally epic, although much less life-threatening, proportion was climbing down the rocks onto the beach. The rebels would love to capture a WAR military leader.
Not Morenga, though. Rio’s boss took a more subtle view of WAR. Morenga fought WAR when the organization worked against his personal interests, but had recently started feeding WAR information, anonymously of course, to help counteract the more vicious rebel groups, such as Bureh’s.
