WAR: Opposition: (WAR Book 3)

by Vanessa Kier

  Trouble. She looked like five foot something of pure trouble. The kind of woman that once upon a time he’d have run toward.

  Yeah, well, he wasn’t that man any longer. So he shifted deeper into the shadows and hoped she’d pass on by.

  But of course she didn’t. Instead, she stepped forward into the pool of lantern light on the other side of the gate. Bringing her close enough for him to see that her hair, skin, and clothes were covered with red dust. Several scrapes and bruises marred the captivating planes of her face.

  Trouble, for sure.

  He flicked his thumbnail against the underside of his bent index finger. Whatever she was doing here, it wasn’t his business. Finding the assassin and dying. That was his business. Ensuring that his family would be safe from his blackmailer’s hit man, that was the only thing that mattered.

  Only, the tiny part of his soul that hadn’t been destroyed over the past three years refused to listen. Long dormant protective instincts roared into play. His body tensed, ready to rise out of his seat as the woman pushed open the gate to the patio.

  Halfway through the gate, her eyes landed on Seth. She froze. Her mouth opened on a silent exclamation and he didn’t need to be closer to know that her pupils had widened in fear. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes in the dim light, but as she stared at him, his breath caught and something deep inside his chest tightened so quickly it hurt. Rubbing at it didn’t relieve the ache, or the sense of fascination he felt as she stared at him.

  She blinked once, closed her mouth, and quickly backed up. The gate swung shut behind her as she spun around and hurried back across the concrete slab that served as a bridge over the drainage ditch.

  Yeah, that’s right sweetheart, I’m no knight in shining armor.

  Still, it hurt his ego to watch her walk away. Safer for her, for sure, but depressing as hell. Once women had flocked to him. They’d found his cocky attitude and tough, rebellious reputation a turn-on. Knowing instinctively that not only would he overload them with pleasure, but that he’d keep them safe, as well.

  Now he brought the threat of death to anyone he cared about.

  Shaking his head to stop grief from raising its head, Seth tilted the beer bottle and let the last drops slide down his throat. He raised his hand to knock on the wall behind him for another, but froze as the angel came barreling back through the gate, dashed past him, and raced into the main bar.

  Instinct propelled Seth to his feet. A quick glance down the street showed a rebel truck pulling into view. “Rebels!” he shouted to Komi. “Hide the lady.”

  “On it.”

  Seth shoved his letters into his shirt pocket, then sat back in his seat. He and Komi were the only people in the bar at this hour, so at least he didn’t have to worry about collateral damage.

  Trusting that Komi would keep the woman safe, Seth watched the rebels drive down the street. He didn’t think they’d been close enough to see the woman, yet they aimed straight for the bar.

  Figured.

  Dammit, so much for not getting involved. But it didn’t matter what he wanted. He wouldn’t turn a rat over to the rebels, let alone a white woman. And it wasn’t as if he was messing up his timeline. Once the rebels went on their way, he’d point the lady in the direction of the nearest international airport, and she could get back to wherever the hell she belonged.

  Then Seth would set himself up as bait for the assassin. And wait to die.

  Oh, God. Moving with a speed she hadn’t thought possible given her exhaustion and her sore feet, Kirra dashed across the dimly lit patio, past Mr. Scary-and-Dangerous, and into the bar. Slipping to the side of the door so that the rebels wouldn’t spot her, she glanced frantically around for a place to hide.

  “This way.” A tall, broad man with medium brown skin stepped out from behind the bar. He led her to a back room, bent down, and opened a hidden door that led into a dark storage space. “Inside. Quickly. And make no sound or the rebels will hear you.”

  Kirra stared at the opening in horror. Darkness. Pain. Struggling to cry out through her damaged throat…

  Brakes squealed as the rebels pulled up out front.

  “Hurry!”

  Kirra took a deep breath, then wedged herself and her backpack into the narrow space.

  “Remember,” the bartender said, “no noise.” Then he shut the door.

  The darkness pressed against her, heavy to the point of suffocation. Fear spiked her pulse. She didn’t want to die alone in the darkness. She wanted to see the light one more time. Tears burned the cuts on her cheeks as she struggled to get her damaged body to move. Then pain swamped her and took her under.

  Gasping for breath, Kirra groped for the latch. She couldn’t stay in here. She—

  Doors slammed on a vehicle, sounding so close that Kirra startled. The rebels called to one another. The gate opened with a crash.

  Cold sweat broke out over her skin despite the hot air.

  No. She couldn’t afford a panic attack. Not with the rebels here.

  Shifting so that she could rest her forehead on the top of her backpack, she pulled the guitar pick out of her pocket and worried it between her thumb and forefinger while she strained to hear what was going on. Now she realized why the bartender had told her to be silent. This space must border the patio, because she could hear the voices of the rebels as clearly as if they were in the next room. Which meant that if she scuffed her foot or sneezed, they’d hear her.

  “Hey, obruni,” a voice called out. “You seen a white woman come through here?”

  “Nope.” The white man’s voice, as gravelly and threatening as his appearance, sent shivers down Kirra’s back. When she’d spotted him on the patio and met his gaze, all of her survival instincts had screamed at her to run. Partially hidden by shadows, he’d reminded her of a hunting cat waiting for its prey. What light had fallen on him had revealed several days’ worth of dark stubble on his cheeks, although golden glints made her think that in the sunlight he’d be a dark blond. He wore a t-shirt under an unbuttoned collared shirt, both of indeterminate color in the faint lighting. Even with only part of his body showing above the top of the table he’d given off an aura of menace that had sent her fleeing back into the street. She’d met men like him in Cape Town’s underworld. Men who would rather kill you than talk to you.

  “Maybe we don’t believe you,” another voice said. “Step away from the table.”

  Even from her hiding place, Kirra heard the white man snort. “Seriously? You think I’m hiding some white chick under the table?” The voice was undeniably American. “Be my guest.” The sound of a chair scraping against the concrete floor of the patio let Kirra know that he’d complied with the rebels’ request.

  “You need to learn respect, white man,” a rebel said. “Maybe we need to teach you proper manners.”

  Kirra bit her lip against the memories as she listened to the too familiar sound of fists hitting flesh. Someone grunted in pain, then one of the rebels said, “Hey, look at his ID. You’re that pilot who does work sometimes for Morenga?”

  “Yeah,” another man commented. “You used to fly for Natchaba too, didn’t you?”

  The American answered with a curt “Yes.”

  The breath stuck in Kirra’s throat. Every news station had covered the Hospital Massacre and the man behind it, Sani Natchaba. Just hearing about the atrocities his men had committed had been enough to turn her stomach.

  Tensing, she waited for the American to betray her to the rebels.

  “I don’t care who he worked for,” said the rebel who’d mentioned respect. “We are strong West Africans. We don’t need help from foreigners.”

  “Leave him alone,” another man ordered in an authoritative voice that had Kirra marking him as the leader. “We cannot afford to anger this man’s allies. Remember, our mission is the woman.”

  The other rebel muttered angrily. Tables and chairs crashed to the patio. Glass tinkled as something broke, then Kirra sm
elled kerosene.

  She rocked forward, prepared to bolt. If the bar went up in flames, she wasn’t going to stay here to be roasted alive.

  “Hey! Are you trying to burn down my bar?” The bartender’s angry voice was followed by the sound of cloth slapping concrete. The rebels laughed, covering up the slight sound of Kirra’s cough as smoke seeped into her hiding place. She pulled the corner of her headscarf free and held it over her nose and mouth as a filter.

  Boots stomped away, then Kirra heard the muted sound of furniture being overturned as the rebels moved inside.

  “Where is she?” the leader demanded.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about. The white man is my only customer.”

  “We saw the white woman take the road into town. This man swears he saw her enter your gate.”

  “Perhaps she slipped around the side of the building. I have not seen her.” Damn, the bartender was an excellent liar. Even knowing differently, Kirra wanted to believe him.

  A rebel entered the room on the other side of Kirra’s hidden door.

  Kirra focused on keeping her breathing even and quiet. The man stomped around, but his angry mutters proved that he had no idea this secret room existed. When at last he moved away, she sagged in relief.

  “Anything?” the leader barked.

  “No, sir.”

  “That is a pity, is it not?” the leader commented. “Maybe we should help ourselves to some of this fine alcohol as compensation for not finding the white lady.”

  “Take as much as you like,” the bartender said tightly.

  Kirra hoped the rebels would take the alcohol and leave. Her legs were starting to cramp painfully from being in such an awkward position. She was out of practice for holding still, but was too terrified of drawing the attention of the rebels to move.

  The squawk of a radio drowned out the sound of clinking glass from the main room. The rebel leader responded in the local dialect. Judging by his tone, he did not agree with whatever orders he’d received. Glass crashed against the floor and this time Kirra smelled alcohol.

  The leader snapped off a series of commands in the local language. Several minutes later, doors slammed shut on the Jeep and the rebels drove away.

  Shutting her eyes in relief, Kirra sagged against her pack. That had been close. Too close. And what really ticked her off was that she had no idea what the rebels wanted. They were clearly searching for something they hadn’t found on any of the bus passengers, but what? And why did they think she had it?

  It took another ten minutes before the bartender opened the door. “Well done,” he said, giving her his hand so she could climb awkwardly to her feet.

  “Are they gone?”

  “Yes. Their commander has sent them somewhere else for now.”

  Kirra set her pack in front of the little room, stretched her arms overhead, then sighed and followed the man into the main room. Oh, God. The rebels had broken every glass and bottle in the place, turning the floor into a glittering carpet of multicolored shards. The scent of alcohol and spilled gaz coldrinks hit her. She reeled back, coughed, and pulled her scarf back over her nose and mouth. The bartender opened several windows, and in a few moments the air became tolerable.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kirra said, dropping the scarf. “I had no idea the rebels were so close behind me. I thought I’d moved out of their sight before I turned down this road.” She rummaged in her backpack for one of her business cards. “If you’ll send me a bill, I’ll make sure to pay for the damage.”

  The bartender shook his head. “It is not your fault. The rebels are the ones who did the harm. They are the ones who must pay.”

  Kirra shoved her card at him. “But they won’t pay, will they? It might take a bit of time, but I promise I’ll send you the money.”

  The bartender ignored her outstretched hand. “Keep your card. I don’t want your money. This is a dangerous world we live in. I would be no kind of human being if I let the rebels capture you.”

  “But—”

  He shook his head. “You will not pay for what the rebels have done. Not only that, you should not give out your cards to people here, as the rebels could use the cards to identify you.” He reached for the broom in the corner, but Kirra beat him to it.

  “At least let me help with this,” she insisted.

  He shrugged, then grabbed a rag from behind the bar and began to mop up the spilled liquid. Kirra set about sweeping the shards of glass into a big pile in the middle of the room.

  “There will be other rebels searching this area for you,” the bartender warned as he wrung out the rag into the sink. “Where will you go next?”

  “Yeah, where?” The American stood in the doorway, scowling at her. His right hand held a pistol along his thigh with the casualness of someone who considered the weapon an extension of his body. He stood in that balanced way of trained fighters, reminding her of her brother and Thabo.

  In the light from the two lanterns not destroyed by the rebels, she noticed that his eyes were a wary, hazel brown and his hair was indeed a dark blond. She judged him to stand at close to six feet. Under other circumstances, she might have considered him sexy, but blood trickled from a cut on his cheekbone and guilt hummed through her veins. Dammit, she didn’t want anyone getting hurt because of her.

  “There’s nothing of interest to a foreigner down this way,” the American pointed out. “Even the surfers are too afraid of the rebels to try their luck on the waves. So why the hell did you show up here, tonight?”

  Kirra’s temper flared, but she quickly sucked back her anger. This man had deadly allies. Who knew how he’d react if she antagonized him? So she said, as meekly as she could, “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to lead the rebels into the bar. I already told Mr.—” She glanced over at the bartender.

  “Komi Adebayor.”

  Kirra nodded at him. “I already told Mr. Adebayor that I thought I was out of sight when I turned down this way. I’ve offered to pay for the damages, so I don’t see what business it is of yours why I’m here or where I’m going. As soon as I’m done helping Mr. Adebayor clean up, I’ll be on my way.” According to her paper map, this town was the last one in the country. If she’d stayed on the road there would have been no other shelter between here and the border one hundred kilometers away. She’d hoped to find a room for the night, but since the rebels were hot on her trail again, she guessed she’d be spending another night on the beach. Assuming she could find a suitable hiding place.

  The American’s scowl deepened and he shot a glance at her feet. “You were limping as you came down the road. How far do you think you’re going to get tonight?”

  Not far, which was why the beach was her only option. But there was no way she was trusting this man with that information. So she shrugged, walked over to the other side of the room, and resumed sweeping up the glass.

  “See?” The American swept his arm out. “Limping.”

  Damn him, her limp wasn’t that bad. She’d put on her takkies once she’d left the beach, but it had been years since she’d spent that much time climbing barefoot over rocks and the bottoms of her feet were bruised and cut. Still, she wasn’t dragging her leg or anything. She raised her chin. “I’m trying to avoid broken glass.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” The American snatched the broom out of her hands. “Let me do that.”

  She grabbed it back and grit out, “I am fully capable of sweeping the floor. This was my fault. So I will help clean up.” Despite his ferocious scowl, the American didn’t try to take back the broom. When he didn’t make any threatening moves, she dared to point at the overturned furniture. “Why don’t you set the tables and chairs to rights?” The man certainly appeared fit enough to handle much heavier weight than this plastic furniture.

  He blinked in surprise. One corner of his mouth lifted in the start of a smile. He threw her a mocking salute, then did as she’d ordered.

  She almost returned his smile. But the
n she remembered that he’d flown for Natchaba. She couldn’t trust him.

  “Hello?” a voice called from the patio. “Komi, are you fine? We saw the rebels stop here.”

  Kirra quickly, but quietly, set her broom aside and raced into the back room.

  “Yes, I am very fine, Madame,” the bartender said, striding out to the patio. “Thank you for your concern.”

  Kirra pushed open the door to the hidden room, but the American stopped her. “It’s not safe,” he whispered. “That woman knows about the hiding place, and she’s a rebel informer. If she finds you here, the rebels will destroy Komi.” He reached for her pack. “You’d better come with me. I’ve got a spare room.”

  Kirra snatched her pack up before he touched it. “Thank you, but I heard what the rebels said. You work for their allies. For all I know, you’re going to turn me in.”

  “If I meant you harm, I would have given you up when the rebels first asked,” he snapped.

  “You’re not hiding anyone in the back, are you?” the woman’s voice said. Heels clicked across the wooden floor of the bar.

  The American grabbed Kirra’s hand and hustled her out the back door.

  “This way,” he whispered, tugging her into the section of coconut trees between the back of the bar and the beach.

  Kirra took several deep breaths of warm ocean air to clear the scents from the bar out of her nose. When they were close enough to the beach for the crashing of the waves to mask conversation, she dug her heels in and stopped. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine on my own. I—”

  He slapped a hand over her mouth. “Shh.”

  The light from the half moon barely provided enough illumination to show that he was staring between the coconut trees toward the beach. Kirra shook free of his hand and edged closer to the escarpment that led down to the sand. Oh, no. Vehicle headlamps moved toward them along the beach. Behind the vehicle trailed several smaller, bobbing lights that must have been rebels on foot with torches.

  Her shoulders drooped.