Monday, January 11. Harare, Zimbabwe
Kurt Montana caught the playful smile of a young, pretty, Black woman as she danced nearby. She crooked her finger, beckoning him to join her and her friends on the dance floor. He shook his head ruefully. She looked about the same age as his daughter and made him feel every second of his nearly forty-six years.
Even though it was a Monday night, the place was packed. He’d arrived early and managed to secure a table under the giant outdoor awning. Red bricks formed a wavy booth around his table—the next best thing to having a wall at his back. The man he was expecting, an old friend from his Army days, walked in and Kurt climbed to his feet to greet him.
“Bjorn. How was your trip?”
He’d first met Bjorn Anders in Afghanistan where the man had been working for the NGO he now owned, clearing remnants of war—landmines and munitions discarded after conflicts ended. It was good work, righteous work, but Bjorn didn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart. There was always money to be made from war.
“Can’t complain, man. Can’t complain.” The guy was originally from Norway and his accent had a decidedly wonky lilt.
“Take a seat. What are you having? My treat.”
They ordered pints of Zambezi beer and stacked burgers accompanied with mounds of fresh french fries. They ate and enjoyed the party atmosphere with the deep throb of African pop intermixed with the iconic sounds of the ’80s playing in the background.
The back of Kurt’s neck itched as if he was being watched, but he’d had that feeling on and off ever since he’d arrived in Africa.
After the server removed their plates, Kurt eased back in his seat and shook his head when Bjorn offered him a cigar. “Did you discover anything of interest for me?”
“Nah, man.” Bjorn shook his head. “Nothing, sorry.”
He’d delayed his return to the US specifically for this meet. Having spent nearly two months traveling in some of the most dangerous hot spots on the continent, Kurt was ready to go home. He was tired. Really fucking tired. His bullshit meter was honed to the sharpness of a samurai sword and his patience reduced to a cigarette stub. “Liar.”
Bjorn gave him a rueful look and his mouth curved into an easy smile. “Nothing I can confirm from a reliable source.”
“At this point, I’ll take gossip from your kids’ school friends. Shit, I’ll take gossip from kids they don’t even like.”
Ten days ago, one of his men had died trying to save a young woman who was being tortured by a serial killer, and it had gutted him and his men. Kurt should be in Quantico helping his team deal with the grief. He needed something to show for his time here. Going home without advancing the mission would be the ultimate topping on the shit sandwich this op had become.
He should have been there.
Maybe, if he had, Scotty would still be alive. Which was nonsense, but the guilt was real, and he knew every man—and woman—on the team would be feeling the same way.
Instead, he’d been stuck in Africa chasing leads about an enemy who was proving to be as elusive as the smoke Bjorn drew into his lungs and exhaled in a cloud of toxic vapor. Thankfully, they were far away from any other diners.
“Like I told you at the Falls, it might take a while to hear back from my sources.”
“Where are they that they don’t have cell service?” Kurt crossed his arms as he leaned back against the rough brick.
“Phone numbers change. People move.” Impatience leaked from the other man. “The man I knew who said he knew…your friend.” Bjorn glanced around without saying the name, as if afraid someone might be listening in. “He’s been dead for a long time. I reached out to a couple of people I thought hung out with him back in the day, but most of them also seem to be dead. I have feelers out with a few other buddies but, oddly enough, being a mercenary is not a job where people get to enjoy old age.”
“No shit.” Kurt smiled, the skin around his mouth and eyes pulling tight. Bjorn wasn’t telling him everything. “Give me the name of this guy who knew my friend. I’ll have him run through the system.”
Bjorn laughed uneasily. “The FBI has fewer resources than my kids have at school when it comes to these sorts of connections. It’s not like what we talk about around campfires turns up in some CIA report.”
You’d be surprised.
Kurt held Bjorn’s gaze. His patience was at an end, and Bjorn was hiding something. “What harm can it do to tell me his name? At least then I can go home with another lead rather than the bust I’m currently sitting with.” He softened the demand. “Don’t forget, there’s a hundred thousand US-dollar reward for any information that leads to an arrest…”
Bjorn’s cynical blue gaze sparked at the size of the not-so-subtle carrot Kurt was dangling.
“On the other hand, concealing information from the FBI won’t endear you or your NGO to the US government.” He was done with pretending to be Mr. Nice Guy. Not about this. “Would hate for any issues to come up in relation to applying for, or renewing, US contracts.”
Bjorn’s jaw tightened at the threat.
“Just give me the name. An address. What can it hurt? You already said most of the people from back then are dead.”
Bjorn scrunched up his face in defeat. “Fine, but it’s probably a waste of time. That’s why I don’t want to tell you. You have to remember, things were different back then, and maybe this fellow was full of bullshit, you know? Most ex-soldiers are.”
As they were both ex-soldiers, Kurt kept his mouth shut. Ironically, something he’d learned from his negotiator counterparts.
Bjorn leaned closer. Cleared his throat. “The guy I knew was called Dougie Cavanagh. Scottish guy. Said he knew the person you’re looking for from his university days. Talked about doing some kind of business together—your friend wasn’t a wannabe despot back then, so it wasn’t a big deal or secret. He was just another guy looking to score some money in a place that didn’t have too many rules.”
“Dougie Cavanagh?” The name wasn’t familiar to Kurt. The fact he was Scottish reinforced the possibility this story might be legit.
“Correct. A nice guy, Dougie.”
A nice guy who hung around with terrorists.
Kurt’s mission was helping to track down the current whereabouts of a shitball who was #1 on the FBI Most Wanted Fugitive list, a High Value Target named Darmawan Hurek.
Hurek had attended the University of St. Andrews at the tender age of eighteen under the name David Hurek. He’d studied political science while socializing with the children of the British upper-crust and wealthy elite. Little was known about Hurek’s friends during that time. Email had barely been a thing, social media non-existent with Zuck still too young to be thinking about rating the hotness of his fellow students. Photographs were on film rather than digital. The FBI and NSA had scoured everything they could get their hands on and found nothing. Rental contracts were on paper, with few official records being kept beyond a year or two. The FBI knew what courses Hurek had taken, his classmates, his teachers, and his grades, but little else. It was as if Hurek’s history from that time had been scrubbed off the face of the earth.
“Thank you. If it leads anywhere, I’ll make sure the authorities know where to send the reward.”
Bjorn waved the offer away and glanced around. “It might be more trouble than it’s worth. I’m not sure I want anyone knowing I’m in league with the FBI.”
“Fair enough.” Kurt would see what they could do about keeping the recipient anonymous. The Dougie Cavanagh name was a thread for analysts to pull—or a carefully constructed lie designed to tie up the FBI for the next few months while Hurek continued to evade authorities.
“What happened to Cavanagh? Do you know?”
Bjorn’s expression turned into a frown. “He disappeared off the scene. It happened a lot back then. People took off traveling or went home. I assumed he’d get in touch eventually. He’d left some of his belongings at my place. Nothing much. A bag of gear and some books and shit.”
“You still have it?”
“Nah.” Bjorn licked his lips before he shook his head. “About a year after he disappeared, I heard from someone that he’d drowned in a river somewhere in the Congo. I got rid of everything then.”
Kurt had no reason to believe Bjorn would deliberately lie to him, but he wasn’t stupid enough to take everything at face value either. Hopefully, this clue would give the task force another angle to pursue, although how it could lead to where Hurek was now was beyond him. He sipped his beer, then caught the eye of a white woman, an attractive brunette, who sat alone at the cocktail bar.
Bjorn looked over his shoulder, but the brunette had turned away and the dancers from earlier were once again beckoning Kurt to join them on the dance floor.
Did they want to humiliate the old white guy and laugh at what passed for his attempts at dancing?
Probably.
Not that he blamed them.
If his men could see him now.
“Maybe your last night in Africa holds a little more excitement than dinner with an old fart, huh?” Bjorn’s smile softened.
“I don’t think so.”
The brunette at the bar had also been watching him at The Lookout Lodge in Vic Falls when he’d first tracked down Bjorn, who’d been attending an ethical diamond-mining conference on the Zambia side of the river.
Kurt didn’t think it was coincidence. Nor did he think it was his rugged good looks that had captured her attention. The fact Bjorn didn’t remember that pretty face or mention seeing her at the Falls last week meant either the guy was losing his edge, or they were colluding in some way. Trying to set him up in a honeytrap, perhaps?
Or maybe she worked for Hurek?
“She’s a little young for me.”
Bjorn scoffed. “She looks legal.”
Kurt wasn’t sure which of the two women Bjorn was referring to, but both were in their early twenties and had more in common with his kid than with him.
“If I weren’t happily married, I’d definitely be chatting her up, and I have a decade on you.”
More than. “Yeah, well, you’re a dirty old man.”
“So my wife tells me, but she’d also cut my balls off if I so much as thought about it.” The guy was married to a much younger woman, and they had kids still in elementary school.
Kurt struggled with it. If a guy Bjorn’s age tried to date his daughter, he’d probably want to take him out to the woods with a shotgun and a nice shiny shovel. But it was up to Daisy who she dated.
Didn’t mean Kurt wouldn’t have opinions about the whole thing. Lots of opinions.
Maybe he was the old fart.
Loneliness pressed in on him. There was no wife waiting for him back home—she’d given up on him long ago. And while he had his daughter, whom he adored, and his colleagues, he missed having someone to hold at night, to laugh with, to confide in. But he had no desire to dive into the stormy seas of the dating pool. Not at his age.
Some days, Kurt felt twice his years. Especially right now.
The fact he was here, wasting his time on what had turned into a wild goose chase when his team needed him, pissed him off. If the target had been anyone except Darmawan Hurek, whose brutality he’d witnessed on that tiny island in Indonesia last summer, he’d have left with the DEVGRU boys eleven days ago. Instead, he and his right-hand man, Jordan Krychek, had been ordered to stay on so they could hit up a couple more potential sources of information. They’d struck out, and Krychek had left for home yesterday.
The Israelis had tipped off the US that Hurek had apparently been sighted in the DRC in November. By the time he’d arrived with what the public liked to refer to as SEAL Team Six, the terrorist had disappeared into the ether. The fact the guy was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list had only brought in more leads that had gone absolutely nowhere.
Being grumpy and frustrated wouldn’t endear him to his old pal though. He forced himself to relax, or at least to pretend to. “When is an old fart like you planning to put your feet up and retire?”
“As soon as I can afford it. Unfortunately, Zim doesn’t offer much in the way of a pension plan.” Bjorn stared thoughtfully into the bottom of his glass.
“A hundred grand could help with that.” Kurt wiggled his eyebrows.
A reluctant laugh seemed to catch Bjorn by surprise. “It would.”
“You wouldn’t go home?”
“Back to Norway?” He shuddered. “Africa seduced me a long time ago, and I’ve no desire to freeze my balls off every winter.”
“You’ve gone soft,” Kurt joked.
“And I’m not too proud to admit it.” The guy finished the cigar and stretched his arms wide in a yawn. “I need to head back. The missus wasn’t too happy I was going out on my first night back in town.”
“You’ll have to make it up to her. I appreciate you meeting with me.”
Bjorn laughed loudly and clapped him on the back. “As if you gave me much choice.”
“Get in touch if you hear anything.”
“Sure.” Bjorn hesitated. “Watch your back, ya? The man you’re looking for… he’s very dangerous. No one will want to admit ever having associated with him.”
“That’s why I’m looking for him. So he can’t hurt anyone else.”
“You Americans, so full of righteous optimism.” Bjorn laughed again and shook his head. “Let’s hope you find him. Goodbye, old friend.” Bjorn walked away.
Kurt grunted and asked for the bill. He paid, leaving a healthy tip, stood, and tucked his wallet into his pants pocket.
The brunette was nowhere to be seen. Whatever she was up to, he was grateful for the pistol he had unofficially strapped to his ankle. He strolled out of the front door of the restaurant and walked over to where he’d left his rental vehicle in the gravel parking lot.
And there she was, swearing colorfully at an old beater 4X4 with a flat tire. She kicked the deflated black rubber and then, hearing his deliberately loud footsteps, looked over her shoulder. She turned away, shoulders slumped in defeat.
Kurt hesitated by his SUV. There was no one else around, not even the red-shirted security guys who usually patrolled the lot.
He sighed. Was he about to get jumped?
“Need a hand?” he called out.
“No. Thank you.”
Her crisp British accent surprised him.
MI6? What was their angle?
She opened the cargo area and started digging around. Kurt climbed into his 4X4 and pulled the Glock 26 out of the ankle holster and laid it on his thigh as he started the engine.
She removed a tire iron and began fighting with the rusted-on wheel nuts.
Was this a setup?
Did she have friends in the shadows who planned to jump him when his back was turned? Was she going to pull a gun on him if he helped her out? Could she lead him to Hurek?
She glanced at him nervously and then back toward the bar where the music blared loudly.
She seemed nervous.
What if she wasn’t an operative but instead a sex worker or simply a tourist caught in a predicament that could go from inconvenient to terrifying in the space of a few seconds? What if he’d become cynical to the point of paranoia, losing his humanity along the way?
What if it were Daisy?
Thoughts of his daughter made him take a deep breath. He didn’t spend as much time with his kid as he wanted. He’d missed out on her growing up because her mom had moved to Denver after they’d split, and he’d thrown himself into his new career at the FBI. They’d reconnected after she’d gone to college, and he was working his way slowly back into her life.
Daisy was a petite blonde whereas this woman was tall and willowy, but she didn’t look that much older than his kid. And if she was an operative working for MI6 or for Hurek, maybe he could use her.
If she wasn’t, then maybe this would be his good deed for the day.
He turned off the engine, got out of the car, slipping his weapon into his waistband at the small of his back and covering it with his shirt.
He scanned the shadows and nearby cars, but he didn’t see anyone lurking. The night was still young for the partygoers.
The woman looked up warily as he approached.
“I said, I don’t need any help. Thank you.” The bite in her tone could have sliced meat.
He stopped about ten feet away as she struggled with the tire iron.
“What happened?”
“I must have run over a nail.”
“You have a spare?”
“Of course, I have a spare.” The expression on her face wasn’t convincing.
Kurt circled to the back of her SUV and glanced inside. A blanket had been shoved to one side. The dirty gray felt base of the cargo area was pulled back to reveal a dubious-looking spare, but at least it appeared to hold air.
“Hey, what are you doing?” She jumped to her feet and took a step toward him.
He eyed the metal bar and slipped his hand closer to his weapon. “Would you like my help, or would you prefer to spend the night stranded in this parking lot?” Although he suspected she might be sleeping in the vehicle, which wasn’t exactly safe for a woman alone.
She licked her lips, and Kurt felt a bolt of attraction that took him by surprise. He immediately felt like a sleaze. He was definitely old enough to be her father, which might not bother some guys, but it was a line he wouldn’t cross.
“Why would I accept help from a stranger?”
Kurt crossed his arms. “I wasn’t aware you were waiting for a friend to arrive to save the day. Forgive me.” He took a step back.
Uncertainty painted her features as she examined his face, clearly looking for some assurance she was safe with him. She appeared to come to a decision and held the bar out to him which was foolish as hell.
“The nuts are stuck. I don’t think you’ll be able to shift them unless you have one of those fancy Formula 1 tools in your boot.”
He grabbed hold of the bar, and she took a nervous step back, balancing on the balls of her toes, ready to run. At least she had some sense of self-preservation. He could be a serial killer for all she knew. He kept his awareness wide but hunkered down beside the tire that was almost bald and had a big-ass nail stuck in the wall. No way did she drive over that.
“Who are you?” She feigned casual interest.
Kurt wasn’t in the country on official business, although his presence had been okayed by the regional Legat—the legal attaché. Still, he didn’t need to advertise his position, especially to a potential threat. The last thing he wanted was a target on his back.
“People call me Joe.” That had been his nickname on and off for years.
“Joe?” She snorted then looked embarrassed.
He found himself answering her honestly, which was how he generally operated. “Yeah. Joe Montana.”
Her brows hiked. “Like the state?”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “Like the state. And the quarterback.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” She was both too young and too British to have heard of the famous 49ers’ Super Bowl triple MVP. He slotted the head of the tire wrench over the dirt-encrusted, orange-colored wheel nut and prayed that was African dust rather than pure Iron Oxide. His pride was at stake now. He pushed down on the metal bar with all his might, and the damned thing didn’t budge. Damn. The young woman moved beside him, the bare skin of her arm brushing his with a jolt of electricity.
Together their combined weight forced the nut to give, and she fell against him a little but quickly pulled away. He moved on to the next nut and again, it took the both of them to break the rusted seal. Her hair was soft against his shoulder, her scent tropical and floral, like hibiscus and sunshine.
Only a foot separated them now, and he noticed the color of her eyes in the lamp light. They were an unusual shade of green, like moss on the shadowy side of a tree.
“What’s your name?”
“Row.”
“Row like the boat?”
She laughed. “No, Row as in Rowena. Rowena Smith.” She wiped her dirty hands on the back of her jeans and held one out to shake.
Smith? Probably the most common surname in the UK and pretty common in this part of the world for whites too.
He ignored the lick of lust that traveled along his nerves as he took her hand, the frisson of connection he did not want to acknowledge.
She was way too young for him. Way too young. And even the idea he found her attractive made him feel like a slime ball. He quickly let go.
“What’s a Brit doing here all alone?”
“Who says I’m alone?”
Kurt turned to look pointedly around the parking lot.
She didn’t respond.
He bent down and loosened the remaining nuts thankfully without her help. “Fetch me the jack, will you?”
She dragged it out and slid it under the jacking point beside the wheel arch. At least she knew how to change a tire if she had to. She ratcheted the thing until it began to lift the car.
“Thanks for your help. I can take it from here.”
He ignored her and went to the rear, pulled out the spare, and wheeled it around to the side of the car. “You are British though, right?”
“The accent is a bit of a giveaway.” She inclined her head.
“What are you doing in Africa, Rowena Smith? Sightseeing?” Or just following FBI agents around.
“Row.”
He frowned.
“I prefer Row.” She pressed her lips together as if annoyed with giving him information. “I have family roots here that I wanted to explore.”
Kurt’s brows hiked. “Your family used to live here?”
Her brow furrowed with uncertainty. “Yes.”
“Were they evicted from one of the farms?”
She shook her head, but didn’t elaborate.
He jiggled her damaged tire off the bolts and leaned it against the fender. “If you’re here exploring your roots, why are you following me around the country? Looking for a sugar daddy?” He taunted her with something deliberately offensive, hoping for a reaction. “I hate to break it to you, darlin’, but I can’t afford a girl like you.”
“You think I’m a prostitute?” Her voice was pitched so high he thought the windows might shatter.
He suppressed a smile and kept his expression stern. “Pretty thing like you. Turning up in all the places I’m at? Catching my eye at the bar?”
“Are you out of your mind?” She rolled her eyes and planted her fists on her waist. “I wasn’t following you anywhere.”
“I saw you in The Lookout Lodge.”
Her gaze narrowed. “So what? It’s a free country.”
He took a step closer and frowned down at her. They were almost nose-to-nose. Up close she smelled even better. The skin under the soap. He dropped his voice. “What’s going on, Rowena? Who are you working for?”
Her eyes widened in alarm, and she took a quick step away. “I was at the Falls, but I don’t remember seeing you there.”
Liar.
Or maybe that was his ego talking.
He silently considered her. Was a man like him all that memorable to a woman like her? Both restaurants were on the tourist map. But he couldn’t afford to believe it was coincidence. Not when he was hunting one of the most dangerous men on the planet.
“I’m definitely not looking for a sugar daddy but thanks for the suggestion should my current career not pan out.” Amusement infused her tone, but he refused to be distracted or charmed by the fact she had a sense of humor.
He tilted his head. “If not me, then Bjorn Anders. Why’re you interested in him?”
She blinked rapidly. “My activities are none of your beeswax and I don’t know anyone called Bjorn Anders.” She pushed past him to lift the spare onto the axle. Her arms shook from the effort, but she managed. “Anyway, thanks for your help, Joe, but having suggested I’m both a sex worker and a stalker you can definitely go now.”
She took the tire iron from his grip and began replacing the nuts.
“Don’t over-tighten those, or you’ll run into the same issue next time.”
“Yes, Daddy.” Her sarcasm turned into something else, and they both looked away from one another uncomfortably.
He didn’t even remember the last time he’d felt this intrigued before.
Intrigued. That’s what the cool kids were calling it nowadays.
He rolled his eyes at himself.
He backed away. If she was a lure for a honeytrap, then the Russians or Chinese or certain corrupt officials within the country had tapped into a weakness he hadn’t even known he possessed—although he suspected she’d appeal to most guys.
“You take care of yourself, Miss Smith. And get that spare replaced ASAP. You don’t want to get caught out in the middle of nowhere without one. Too many predators lurking in the shadows.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, instead he headed to his vehicle as a small but vocal group of diners left the restaurant and climbed into their car, before quickly driving away. He pulled his head out of his ass and took a photo of Rowena Smith and her SUV and sent it to the task force at SIOC with a request for a background check, then sat and watched her replace the jack, kick the new tire a few times, and maneuver the damaged one back into the cargo space. She sent him a fulminating look before climbing into the driver’s seat, well aware he was watching her.
He raised a hand in acknowledgement and grinned when she raised her middle finger back.
The single men in Gold Team would have been lining up to ask her out.
He pulled a face at his thoughts. Right now, the men on his team were likely reeling with no time for romance. And poor Grace… Scotty had been a good man. A very good man. His heart broke anew for the widow who was expecting her third child in a few months.
It had been bad enough to have his wife leave him. Kurt couldn’t imagine how he’d have coped if she’d died and made him a single parent.
He followed Rowena’s car to the entrance of the restaurant. She indicated right, and he considered following her home to make sure she had somewhere safe to stay. But that risked freaking her out or walking right into the trap he’d so far avoided.
Instead, with an odd sense of wrongness, he let her go and headed left, taking the long way back to his hotel to spend another night alone in his bed—with just the memory of a pretty brunette for company.
