Complicated Creatures: Part One Read online

  Sam narrowed her right eye, staring hard at the tent in the distance through the fine target lines etched into the glass of the scope. She watched a loose tent flap sway in the breeze, noting the wind coming in steady from the east. She made the appropriate adjustments, accounting for the curvature of the projectile, the friction and gravity that would naturally drag the bullet down at that distance. She took deep, even breaths as she watched the men, listening to sounds on the landscape, the breeze, her own heart, her right finger lightly touching the trigger.

  “They’re just having a smoke,” Carey murmured.

  “Think they’ll let me bum one?” Simon joked after a moment.

  “Nah. But I’ll be happy to stick a nicotine patch over your mouth,” Sam muttered.

  “Should have done that years ago,” Henri put in. “He would have quit smoking and shut up,” he whispered.

  Sam smirked.

  Simon Michaelson and Julien Henri fit right in with the Lennox crew. Between Simon’s humor and Henri’s taste for risk, they were getting along great with the other guys. Once Simon and Henri had located Cameron Kurt, who was going to their next Leviathan recruit at this rate, she and Carey had decided to take them along for the trip—see if they couldn’t help talk the former Green Beret into coming over to their side.

  So here they were…six hours lying in the dry heat, waiting for Kurt to arrive as they watched the excavation site. It wasn’t clear how he’d be coming in, but it was clear al-Shabaab were guarding only a handful of camouflaged tents surrounding the mining area while the rest of the men drilled and blasted in the open pit. They hadn’t seen Bassett yet, but she’d bet her Corvette he was in one of those tents.

  A sudden, massive blast ricocheted throughout the site, followed within moments by the ground quaking with aftershocks.

  Sam’s eyes widened around the scope. What the fuck had these idiots triggered?

  Dozens of startled men ran from the tents, shouting, swarming the excavation site where the mining blast had been set off. The earth shook again, a slope from the open pit sliding down into the blast area. The men patrolling the encampment took off running for the edge of the site, frantic.

  Sam tapped her earpiece. “Move in,” she ordered.

  Chaos ensued as all three prowled forward amidst the tremors, taking advantage of the crisis. Men poured over the excavation area like ants, hunting for survivors, shouting at each other as all digging and drilling stopped. The ground rippled with another multi-second tremor, causing massive slides of dirt to collapse into the pit. Sam crawled forward, focusing on covering Carey and Henri’s positions as they closed in. She could hear the frantic shouting, see the sandy dirt floating above the site and choking the air.

  Amid the flurry, a medium-build, white-haired Caucasian man dressed in a tattered khaki shirt and dirty jeans was jerked from the one of tents by two Somalis. His hands came up as they dragged him toward the edge of the site, shouting.

  “It’s Bassett,” Henri confirmed.

  “Steady,” Sam murmured.

  She could see all three men peering down into the blast area, one gesticulating wildly. The ground had finally stopped shaking, but the damage still ricocheted throughout the site. She had no idea how many men were left in the tents, but she doubted more than a handful stayed behind to guard Bassett with the mayhem going on outside.

  Sam assessed the two men holding Bassett. They were shouting at him as they pointed at the crater, as if blaming him for the blast effects and the earth’s disproportionate response. One Somali was tall with a slight build, carrying an M16 rifle. The other man was heavier set and average height with a semi-automatic gun on his belt. Bassett was shaking his head vigorously in denial. The heavyset one pulled out a knife, jamming it up against Bassett’s throat. He continued to shout at Bassett, his words lost in the breeze and the havoc.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Simon spoke suddenly over the comms.

  Then Sam heard it. The unmistakable bass thump of helicopter blades beating against the arid heat of the desert plains in the distance.

  “How the fuck did that git get his hands on a Black Hawk?” Simon said in awe.

  Sam smiled in spite of herself. Kurt was clearly a resourceful man, even if he didn’t have a hope in hell of getting out of this without their help.

  “You sure it’s him?” Carey asked.

  “Passed right over me,” Simon answered.

  “Is he alone?” Sam asked.

  “Couldn’t see anyone else in there with him,” Simon replied.

  “Let the scene play out,” she said as the Black Hawk passed over her position, sending dust and shrub flying around her ghillie suit.

  She would have been worried that their cover would be quite literally blown away had the al-Shabaab not been completely distracted with the mining explosion. The Black Hawk was painted a drab khaki color and looked like it had been retrofitted into a utility helicopter rather than the war bird it had been designed to be. No matter. It still had an average speed of 160 mph loaded. She’d take that type of ride out of there any day.

  The bird landed about thirty yards from the closest tent. The men holding Bassett were joined by three others. They all turned from the mining area back toward the Black Hawk.

  “Simon, get closer,” Sam ordered as the chopper blades slowed enough so that she could be heard over the din. “Carey, can you get to the bird?”

  “Affirmative,” he answered in a low voice.

  Kurt didn’t power the helicopter down. He was either expecting a quick exchange or hedging his bets on the need for a quick getaway. The rotors continued to sway as he stepped down, wearing an airport mechanic’s jumpsuit.

  So that’s how he got ahold of a Black Hawk, she thought. He’d probably walked right out onto Adden Ade Airfield and stolen it.

  Sam began to belly crawl forward again. By the time she’d made it to within a hundred yards, Kurt had already tossed forward a beat up canvas duffel bag. Two men were hunched over it, counting the money, the third holding his rifle loosely, aimed at ground near Kurt. Kurt watched Bassett, still being held by the heavyset guy and the thinner one. The men counting the money looked up, shouting something in Somali to the men holding Bassett. The heavyset man nodded.

  All three men drew on Kurt.

  “Go,” Sam uttered, watching through the scope.

  Henri rose up right behind the heavyset man like a ghost from desert ash, silent, covered in dirt and the camouflage of his ghillie suit. He slit the heavyset man’s throat so quickly that Bassett wasn’t even aware of what had happened until the man’s grip on him slackened. By the time Bassett turned to look down at the heavyset man sliding wordlessly to the ground, the second man holding him was clutching his throat, blood spilling through his fingers, flowing down his shirt in thick red rivulets.

  Watching intently as the scene played out in front of him, Kurt raised his hands slowly. If he was surprised, he didn’t indicate it. Sam watched his mouth moving, distracting the three men who remained unaware of the imminent threat behind them.

  Bassett stood stock still, frozen in silent horror as Henri rounded him, his right arm raised, Glock in hand, the suppressor adding another six inches to the barrel. Henri fired at two of the men before the third managed to swing around. Kurt pulled a gun from inside his overalls, nailing the man in the back of the head before he was able to fire on Henri. The shot seemed deafening amid the din. The unmistakable sound of a semiautomatic being fired drew inevitable attention away from the open pit.

  Sam immediately scanned the mining zone through her scope, her cheek resting against the stock. Two heads popped up. Three. Four more.

  “Shit. Simon get in here! Henri, get Bassett into the Bird!” she ordered.

  Carey was already climbing into the Black Hawk, starting her back up, the blades whirring back to life.

  Kurt swung his head round, gun raised.

  Carey waved at him, flashing a smile.

  Henri pushed p
ast Kurt, gripping Bassett’s lax arm. Kurt got over his astonishment quickly as he snatched up the bag from the bodies, following Henri to the chopper. They pushed Basset in just as several Somalis ran from the site, shouting, drawing the attention of others, rifles raised.

  Sam breathed out, willing her heartbeat to even and slow.

  She fired.

  One.

  Her heart thumped.

  She fired.

  Two.

  She exhaled another breath.

  Fire.

  Three.

  Fire.

  Breathe.

  Fire—Again.

  Fire.

  Methodically, she picked men off like ducks at a carnie booth.

  The Black Hawk lifted into the air.

  Sam managed to take down six others before the rest got wise, crouching down behind tents, attempting to guess her position while aiming at the chopper.

  She heard Simon roaring forward. Now her cavalry had arrived. She thanked her stars again that Kurt had stolen the bird.

  The chopper ascended rapidly, veering strongly to the left. She couldn’t tell whether it was Kurt or Carey flying, but they were all inside, and the Black Hawk was getting too far out of range to be an opportune target.

  Simon stopped the Humvee less than fifty yards to her left. Sam collapsed the bipod legs on the rifle, sliding backward in a fluid motion.

  Then she saw it.

  A Somali emerged from one of the tents, lifting a shoulder-fired Stinger rocket launcher, aimed straight for the Black Hawk.

  Sam sat up, holding the butt of the rifle against her shoulder as she aimed…

  And fired.

  She missed.

  Barely.

  The man turned, looking her direction, launcher firmly on his shoulder, rocket pointed right at her.

  Sam wasn’t certain he could see her, but with that kind of firepower, it didn’t really matter. In the second and half it took her to draw another breath, she weighed the risk of shooting again and exposing her exact position.

  Four lives in the air to her one.

  No contest.

  She exhaled, firing.

  An inch-wide hole bloomed blood, bone, and brain matter, the body dropping, rocket launcher tilting and falling uselessly from the man’s hand.

  And her cover was blown. Completely.

  A hailstorm of bullets rained in her direction.

  She heard Simon gun the engine, swerving toward her in a swirl of dirt and track.

  I’m a goner, she thought, dropping flat to the ground, shrouded in only her ghillie suit. She didn’t have time to set up the bipod, so she used her arm to steady the stock.

  Sam fired again and again, her sole focus on taking as many men with her as possible. They were becoming more confident, rising up in ever-increasing numbers, uniting behind the deaths of their brothers.

  Simon spun the Humvee to a halt in front of her, letting loose a rain of heavy artillery from the machine gun he’d welded to the hood the night before.

  Sam rolled, glancing at the horizon, the Black Hawk now a distant figure against the open plain. She stayed low, climbing into the Humvee as Simon continued to fire, cartridge cases flying out and hitting the hood and ground pinging like fat brass coins.

  “Get us the fuck out of here!” she shouted, dropping her rifle so she could take over the machine gun.

  Simon shoved himself back into the driver’s seat, gunning the engine.

  A glancing shot cracked the windshield. Another shattered it. She felt a slicing burn graze her arm, tearing through the fatigue jacket. Sam opened fire, sweeping the tight cluster of men hunched into the ground near the tents.

  And then it happened.

  The low whistle of a bomb being dropped, followed by a sonic boom, ripples of air pressure beating against the Hummer, deafening all other sound.

  Sam was thrown back into the seat.

  She looked up at Simon. She could see his mouth moving, could see him frantically spinning the wheel of the Humvee, sand and debris pounding the vehicle from the force of the explosions.

  Her ears rung. She hadn’t heard that sound since Afghanistan.

  But once you know that sound, you never forget it.

  Predator drones.

  Airstrike.

  The real Cavalry.

  How American.

  Chapter 11

  October—One week later

  Lincoln Park, Chicago

  J A C K

  Jack stepped into the ultra-modern, bi-level dining room of Alinea, following the maître d’ to his table. As he strolled across the room, he saw Jaime standing nearby, speaking with Carey and two other men seated at a corner table.

  “Carey,” Jack acknowledged, coming to stand by Jaime. “Nice to see you. How’s it going?”

  The men shook hands, and Carey introduced the other men at the table. “Jack, meet Cameron Kurt and Simon Michaelson, two of our most recent recruits,” Carey beamed. “We’re havin’ ourselves a little welcome to the company and a ‘thank God we survived last week’ dinner.”

  “Apparently, they barely got out of Somalia a few days ago,” Jaime explained, catching Jack up.

  “Helluva start,” Jack commented, his brows raised. “You guys should be drinking champagne.”

  “Can’t stand the stuff,” the one named Simon answered in a thick British accent.

  “I’m just so damn happy to be on American soil, I’d have been good with Potbelly’s sandwiches and a Coors,” Cameron Kurt grinned.

  “Now that’s the kind of talk that’ll get you kicked right outta here,” Mitch commented, appearing at Jack’s side.

  While Carey introduced the men to Mitch, Jack took a minute to observe them. Both Simon and Cameron had the controlled, alert look of military men. Though both were impeccably dressed in fine wool suits, neither looked like the kind of men to be trifled with.

  “What are you all up to tonight?” Carey asked.

  “Trying to do a little recruiting of our own,” Mitch confided. “We’re opening up a new restaurant in one of our buildings, and we’re here to talk to one of the chefs about it.”

  “And I’m just along for the ride,” Jaime laughed. “I’ll never turn down a meal at Michelin-rated restaurant.”

  “Don’t let Jaime’s scrawniness fool you,” Jack added, slapping his brother’s back. “This one can eat his weight and probably yours too.”

  Carey’s brows rose as he glanced over Jaime’s lanky frame.

  And because he couldn’t help himself, Jack heard himself asking, “Samantha joining you all?”

  Carey nodded. “She’ll be around soon, once she’s done getting her stitches out.”

  Jack stiffened. “Stitches?”

  Carey nodded again, expression unconcerned. “Got a little nick while we were pulling Kurt out.”

  “Jesus, is she okay?” Jaime asked before Jack could say anything.

  “Grazed her arm. She’ll be fine,” Carey told them. “Didn’t even notice until she went to get out of her camo.”

  Jack thought he looked…proud.

  “It’s my fault, I’m afraid,” Simon spoke up. “I should’ve gotten us out faster.”

  Cameron shook his head. “Are you kidding? You wouldn’t have been there at all if you hadn’t been saving my ass. I’m just so glad she was covering for us when they pulled out that Stinger missile.”

  Somalia. Simon. Stitches. Covering Kurt’s ass. Stinger missile? Jack’s mind ping-ponged around the implications as he was bombarded with so many thoughts and reactions that he wasn’t sure which to address first. Anger was the strongest and at the forefront; so he went with that.

  “She was protecting you guys?” he asked, his voice hard. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

  Carey and Simon exchanged looks before laughing, the sound rippling across the dining room, turning heads.

  “He’s having me on, right?” Simon asked Carey. “Us protect Sam? Don’t know how well you know
her, mate.” Simon turned to Jack. “I can’t think of anyone less in need of protection than that bird.”

  Jack felt his fists tighten.

  “Jack, she’s fine. Honestly,” Carey told him, noticing his tense expression. “She’ll be here soon. You’ll see for yourself.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but should I seat you together at a larger table?” the maître d’ asked, glancing uncertainly at the two groups.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mitch responded, patting Jack on the back. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt the rest of your business dinner.”

  “Let’s have a drink afterward,” Jaime suggested before nudging Jack to follow the maître d’ to their table. “You guys have a good dinner.”

  Jack just nodded curtly as they turned to leave.

  “What’s with your new, scary-looking friends?” Mitch asked as they were seated. “And why do you look like you want to maim men you’ve only just met?” he added, glancing back across the restaurant.

  “Don’t know the other guys, but Carey is Sam’s business partner at Lennox,” Jaime supplied. “We all went fishing on the boat after the fundraiser. He’s good people.”

  “So he’s another negotiator?” Mitch asked.

  “No,” Jaime shook his head. “Carey heads up security.”

  “What the hell kind of head of security lets his partner get into trouble?” Jack replied, glaring at Carey across the room. “And who the fuck is this guy Samantha let herself get shot at for? And who is this other guy who doesn’t think she needs protecting?” He snapped open his menu. Words floated meaninglessly. “Jesus,” he muttered, slapping the menu down on the table as the waiter arrived. “I need a scotch and soda.” Jack informed the waiter—who heard the secondary message in his tone: I need it now. The waiter promptly spun around to get it.

  Mitch and Jaime appraised Jack over their menus.

  “Starting a little early, aren’t we?” Mitch murmured.

  “And Somalia?” Jack continued. “Motherfucking Somalia? Is she nuts?” He stared hard at Carey and Kurt. “Are they nuts?”

  Mitch and Jaime exchanged looks.