They both tossed back their shots and slammed their glasses on the table.
“Tomorrow’s going to be a rough day for you, Doctor Ackerman,” Demby said as he poured the pair another drink. “That much I can promise you.”
“Bring it on,” she said.
Ibrahim nudged his boss and spoke softly, “Much more of this and she won’t remember her name, let alone what you might be slipping into her trucks.”
Demby winked at Ibrahim and raised his glass in the air, smiling as he stared across the table at her. “Ibrahim, have I told you lately that you’re smarter than you look?”
Ibrahim beamed as he shook his head.
“Well, you are,” Demby said as he tossed back another drink. He leaned in close to Ibrahim. “You’re in charge of sneaking the product out using the SLAM aid trucks.” He grabbed the front of Ibrahim’s shirt. “Don’t disappoint me. I’d hate to have to hurt her.”
Ibrahim nodded knowingly. “You have nothing to worry about.”
CHAPTER 11
WHEN IT CAME TO MANAGING FIRESTORM, Blunt preferred to simplify the operations. Hawk served as primary problem solver for most missions, while two other operatives worked on ancillary projects—Hal Beckham and Bo Lowman. Collectively, Blunt called the trio, “The Killer B’s”, his own tip of the cap to the nickname given to a handful of long-since retired sluggers from the Houston Astros. However, he assigned them code names, aside from Hawk, who he decided giving a code name to would be a shame when his given name was sufficient. Beckham went by Thor, and Lowman went by Zeus. Hawk’s seldomly used code name was Ares. Blunt conceded that the names weren’t creative, but he was aiming for practicality, not originality. Two Greek gods and a Norse one—all mythological names for an agency that he preferred to remain a myth in spy circles.
Blunt used Hawk on every mission when he was available. If a new mission came in and it could wait, Blunt would wait until Hawk returned. But this time, it couldn’t. Hawk’s assignment in Sierra Leone was of utmost importance, both to putting a major dent in Al Hasib’s operations as well as for recovering the stolen Colton Industries weapons. And pulling him out suddenly might risk tipping off Musa Demby that someone was on to him. Blunt resigned himself to the fact that he’d have to use his second best option: Thor.
Thor was forced out of MI6 after going rogue on several missions, a fact that didn’t bother Blunt. When assessing whether an operative was the right fit, Blunt only looked at the results—and Thor’s results sparkled. Working under deep cover, Thor once goaded two weapons dealers into a showdown. The result was the largest recovery of black market weapons in the history of MI6. And while Thor didn’t have to fire a single shot, he was chastised for kidnapping the Prince of Monaco to incite the conflict. Repercussions aside, Thor more than impressed Blunt.
With Hawk gone on assignment, Blunt needed to move quickly to get Thor engaged. Blunt followed contact protocol by placing an ad in The New York Times, an archaic way of communicating in the 21st Century but still effective when it came to spy craft. Two days later, Blunt was standing in front of a painting in the Byzantine collection inside the National Gallery of Art at precisely 11:00 a.m. when Thor approached. Blunt stood about six feet away and stared at the piece of art before uttering a word.
“This is a fine painting,” Thor said.
“Yes, it is,” Blunt replied. “Almost as fine as the art in the second stall of the men’s bathroom.”
And with that, Blunt’s work was finished. All the details of Thor’s assignment had been burned onto a flash drive from a laptop computer that had never been connected to the Internet. Leery of digital signatures, Blunt exercised the utmost caution when working on such sensitive missions.
The instructions for Thor were simple: a date, a location, a time, and a target. The method was also strongly suggested: Make it look like an accident.
Blunt could only imagine what Thor would think when he saw the name of the man he was to eliminate: Liam Jepsen, the prime minister of Denmark.
CHAPTER 12
THE FAINT OUTLINE of the sunbaked letters on the Jourbert Safaris wooden sign saved Hawk from spending the night in his Forerunner. As he pulled through the gate and surveyed the property, he wondered if the untended grounds were a result of the operation recently re-opening for business after a long hiatus or the general inattention to upkeep that seemed germane to the entire continent. Were it not for the light emanating from a window at the corner of a building, he would’ve assumed the place was abandoned.
After he parked, Hawk grabbed his gear and marched toward the entrance, one that was demarcated with a hand-drawn sign on a piece of paper. A screen door was shut, but the main door was wide open. Hawk eased into the lobby area, which was illuminated only by a faint amount of light coming from the bottom of a door behind the counter.
“Hello?” he called in his Kiwi accent. “Anybody here?”
Hawk scanned the room. It was tight, furnished with two folding chairs and a coffee table covered in hunting magazines. A clock hung on the wall behind the counter and ticked with the passing of each second.
“Hello?”
After a few moments, the door behind the counter swung open and a small Asian man shuffled out into the lobby and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened.
“Oh, the damn power is out again,” muttered the man. “Welcome to Sierra Leone.”
Hawk chuckled. “Sierra Leone doesn’t have the corner on the market for power outages in Africa. It’s an epidemic.”
“More prevalent than Ebola?” the man shot back.
Hawk couldn’t tell if he was joking or not but concluded nervous laughter was better than no laughter at all.
“It’s a joke,” the man said as he squinted at the paper. “Be right back.” Less than a half minute later, he returned carrying a candle, the one that had been providing the light in his office. “Now, let’s see here. You must be Oliver Martin.”
Hawk nodded.
“And you’re from New Zealand?”
“Yes, the mystical land of adventure and hobbits.”
The man stopped and looked up from his paperwork. “Hobbits?”
“Never mind. It’s from a movie.”
“Ah, movies,” the man said. “We don’t get to watch many of those—or at least finish them. Never know when you’re suddenly going to be sitting in the dark.”
Hawk smiled. “That’s a good metaphor for life.”
The man eyed Hawk closely. “You obviously haven’t been to Sierra Leone before. No one who lived here would say that.”
“What would someone from Sierra Leone say about life?”
“They’d say, ‘You’re alive. Good. Now just try not to die today.’”
“An even better metaphor for life—well, at least the people around me.”
The man scribbled on the paper and asked Hawk for his signature. “My name is Joon Yun, and I manage the lodging here. If you have any questions, you can knock on this door at any time, and I’ll be happy to help you.”
“What time does my hunting party leave in the morning?” Hawk asked.
Yun laughed. “Party? You mean you and your guide?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Breakfast is served at five-thirty down the hall, and you will leave at six for the hunt.” He slid a key and an information sheet across the counter to Hawk. “Your room is the first one on the left down the hall. Enjoy your stay.”
Hawk started down the hallway before he stopped and turned around. “You know where I can get a cold drink and some food around here at this time of night?”
Yun glanced at the clock on the wall behind. “There’s a bar about a mile down the road on the left. They will have something for you.”
Hawk found his room, threw his equipment inside, and locked the door. He couldn’t ignore his stomach’s rumblings any longer.
Five minutes later, he strode into The Errant Apostrophe’s and sat down at a table in a vacant corner of the room. His intent was to drink a
beer, eat some meat, and retire for the evening. But a poker game broke out.
Minutes after he ordered his food, a trio of men sat down at the table next to him. One of the men Hawk thought looked like an illegal arms dealer from South Africa from a photo he’d seen once in a CIA report. Hawk couldn’t be sure. But whoever the man was, Hawk sensed trouble.
The man cut his eyes over at Hawk and pulled out a deck of cards. “You play poker?”
Hawk glanced at him and pointed at his own chest. “Me?”
“Well, I ain’t talking about the oke sitting behind you,” the man said in a thick South African accent.
Hawk shrugged. “I play from time to time.”
“Pull up a chair. I’ll deal you in. It’ll be a jol.”
Hawk joined the men. “Oliver Martin.”
“What are you? A fashion designer?” the man groused. His companions both chuckled.
“I’m in taxidermy. Here on a hunting expedition.”
“Well, Oliver Martin, with a name like that, I think you chose the wrong profession.”
Hawk pounced on the opportunity to plant a seed that might come to fruition sooner rather than later. “Only if you don’t need to get your kills out of the country. I have quite the export license.”
“Expecting to kill something you’re going to need to export?”
Hawk nodded.
He looked Hawk up and down before smiling. “I doubt you’ll need any such license for your trip here this time, mate.” The man winked. “My name is Keanu Visser, and these two okes are forgettable, so you don’t need to worry with their names.”
One of the other men lit a cigar and blew a ring of smoke. He then glared at Visser. “I’m Soto—and you’ll remember me because I’m the one who’s going to take all your money.”
“We’ll see about that,” chimed in the remaining nameless man. “I’m Perryman, and both of these blokes are full of it, mate. I’m the one who’s going to take all your money.”
An hour later, Hawk raked the remaining pot in front of him and declared himself the winner.
“You need to come back tomorrow and give me a chance to win my money back,” Visser said before chugging the rest of his beer.
Hawk stood up. “No promises. I’ve got a hunt in the morning, but I’ll see what I can do.”
***
THE NEXT MORNING came early for Hawk. He groaned as he rolled out of bed and quickly dressed himself. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal and a banana. When he finished, his guide met him on the front steps of the outfitter’s main building.
“Ethan Jacobs,” said the guide. “Are you ready for a fun day of hunting with this motley crew?” He gestured toward his Range Rover.
Hawk noticed several familiar faces packed into the vehicle. All three of the men he played poker with waved at him.
“Let’s go, Martin,” Visser said. “I hate losing, and I need to win my money back.”
Hawk sauntered over to the Range Rover. “What makes you think you’re going to win it back?”
“What makes you think I won’t?” Visser snapped. “How about double or nothing on our hunt today? Whoever kills an animal with the farthest shot wins.”
Hawk put on a concerned look and hesitated.
Visser goaded him on. “What’s the matter, mate? You scared you might lose?”
After another moment of silence, Hawk finally responded to the request. “Since you insist—”
“Good. Now that that’s settled, shall we be on our way?” Jacobs said as he climbed into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine.
Hawk opened the door to the backseat and gestured for Perryman to move to the center so he could sit on the side.
Perryman’s eyes narrowed. “You can sit in the middle.”
“Is that any way to treat your poker champion? Besides, I get motion sickness rather easily.”
They drove an hour south until they turned off the main road and bumped along a dirt road that had appeared as if it wasn’t properly maintained. Potholes the size of small children and small bodies of water stretched across the road made for an interesting next five miles.
Once Jacobs parked the vehicle, they piled out. “I hope you gentlemen are ready. This is going to be some of the best duiker hunting you’ve ever experienced in your entire lives.”
They drew lots to see who would shoot first. That honor fell to Visser. Hawk was second.
Two hours into their hunt, they came across a duiker foraging near a stream. Visser took aim and dropped the animal on his first shot from about seventy-five meters.
Thirty minutes later, it was Hawk’s turn. His shot, however, was from a much farther distance. Jacobs estimated it to be no less than 200 meters.
Hawk pulled the trigger, and a bullet ripped down the hillside. The duiker crashed to the ground as if it had been instantly put to sleep. Hawk patted Visser on the back. “That’s how you do it.”
Jacobs hustled toward the animal, followed by Soto and Perryman. Hawk moved to fall in line, but Visser grabbed him by back of shirt and yanked him backward.
“What’s this all about?” Hawk asked.
Visser grabbed Hawk’s arm and twisted it before he jammed a gun beneath Hawk’s chin. “That’s funny. I was just about to ask you the same thing. Now, who are you, Oliver Martin?”
CHAPTER 13
THE HUM OF LARGE EQUIPMENT rumbling across the grounds of Sefadu Holdings’ mine sounded like music to the ears of Musa Demby. Given the opportunity to blossom, Demby’s entrepreneurial skills were finally producing what he always dreamed possible: truckloads of money. The diamond firms in Antwerp were calling him daily, resulting in a steady profit flow. But the amount the Belgian companies paid him for his raw diamonds paled in comparison to what Al Hasib forked over for rocks the terrorist group would eventually place on the black market. Demby believed in diversification, but he favored the highest bidder.
By the time Demby arrived on site, the grounds were like a hive of activity. Large trucks were carting out processed soil. Excavators scraped away at the soil. Workers sifted through the dirt in the open-pit mine. Engineers plotted their next blast in order to convert portions of the mine into the underground variety.
Joined by Ibrahim, Demby followed the circular route to the bottom of one of the open-pit mines. He kicked at the dirt as he listened to a synopsis report from his top aide.
“Did you make contact yet with Al Hasib?” Demby asked.
Ibrahim nodded. “They said they are willing to wait up to a week longer if that’s what it takes to ensure they get the diamonds without incident. The last thing they want is anyone figuring out what they’re doing.”
“And that’s the last thing we want too.” Demby stopped and scanned the grounds. “If we can maintain a portion of our operations as compliant with regulations and continue to exist as a reputable firm, no one will ever take this away from us. No matter what we do, we must be careful.”
“I understand.”
Demby put his hands on his hips and eyed Ibrahim closely. “So, do you think we can use SLAM to transport the diamonds to Al Hasib?”
Ibrahim shrugged. “At this point, I’m not sure. We still have some more work to do.”
“The most important thing is that Alissa doesn’t find out. She could ruin everything if she knew what we were doing.”
“Agreed. I’ll make sure she never suspects anything.”
Demby slapped Ibrahim on the back. “Excellent. I expect nothing less.”
They both continued to amble down the road. After another fifty meters of walking in silence, an explosion shook the earth. Instinctively, both men dove to the ground as they watched a plume of smoke and dust encompass the area.
“I hope that’s part of the block caving process,” Demby said as he glanced at Ibrahim.
Ibrahim shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s not.”
After the dust cleared, Demby heard frantic shouting coming from the mine below, followed by screaming. He stood u
p and brushed himself off before looking at ground zero of the explosion.
“It seems like we have a problem on our hands,” Ibrahim said.
Demby scowled. “A problem?”
“The mine just collapsed.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’d bet my life on it.”
Demby broke into a sprint down the road. “Then we don’t have much time to lose. We can’t let all those good diamonds go to waste.”
Ibrahim shouted after his boss, hustling to keep pace. “There are workers trapped inside.”
“Workers can be replaced.”
Ibrahim frowned. “Everyone’s going to know something happened.”
“We’ve been blasting in these mines for how many years now? Nobody will suspect a thing.”
“Maybe not now, but eventually they will when these men don’t return home to their families.”
“You leave that to me. We can’t experience any more delays in getting these diamonds to Al Hasib. You know what they’ll do to us. Their favor toward us will only last so long.”
After they arrived at the entrance to the mine, they surveyed the damage. The opening was covered by rock and other debris. Workers shoveled away the pieces blocking their way. One of the foremen shouted directions while his subordinates carried out the orders.
Demby saw a man’s hand sticking out of the rock. As he got closer, he could hear the man pleading for help.
“I’m right here. Can anyone help me get free?” the worker said.
Demby knelt down. “I can.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“There’s just one thing I need you to do for me first.”
“I swear I can’t do anything right now. I can barely move. I can’t even feel my legs.”
“Just hand me what you collected today.”
The man’s hand disappeared beneath the rubble only to emerge again a few seconds later clutching a pouch of diamonds. Demby tugged it from the man’s hand.
“Very well then,” Demby said. He proceeded to shovel dirt and more debris onto the opening.
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