Deep Cover (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 2) Page 7

  “These men are being suffocated and crushed beneath the weight of the debris,” Akili argued. “We can’t just stand by and let that happen.”

  “We can and we will. Besides, that’s nothing compared to what my client might do to all of us if we miss the delivery deadline.” Demby circled the room once again. “Now, let’s give these men who are trapped a merciful ending. Round up the rest of our demolition team and put them to work. I want that area demolished as soon as possible with no trace of what happened. Is that understood?”

  Almost every man nodded—everyone except Akili, that is.

  “No. You can’t let those men die like this. I won’t let you do it,” Akili protested.

  Demby unholstered his pistol and wheeled in Akili’s direction. Demby stopped and trained his gun on his contentious subordinate.

  “Then you can join them,” Demby said.

  Akili put his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. You’ve made your point.”

  “Does anyone else want to protest?” Demby said as he turned to face the rest of the men.

  He waited briefly as the room remained silent.

  “Very well then. Now, go round up the demolition team.”

  CHAPTER 17

  ALEX DUNCAN STOPPED HER MIDDAY RUN short when her phone started buzzing again. She’d sent the first call straight to voicemail with the click of a button without even bothering to see who it was. Her regular exercise routine calmed and centered her like nothing else could—not even yoga. Her time wasn’t to be interrupted. But today, it couldn’t be helped.

  When the phone vibrated again with another call immediately after she’d ignored the first one, she knew it could only be one person.

  “Senator, sorry. I was running,” she said as she tried to catch her breath. “What’s so urgent?”

  “I need you to look into something for me right away,” Blunt said.

  “What’s going on?”

  He exhaled. “I’m not sure. But this morning around ten o’clock, I was approached by a man who told me about another shadow organization called Searchlight.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Me neither, which really made me question if it exists. But I implicitly trust the source, and he told me that Searchlight was making a play to shut down Firestorm.”

  “And how would they do that?”

  “I’m not sure, but my source died moments after he told me this.”

  “You saw him die?”

  “Yeah. I was at the National Mall when he surprised me with a visit and then collapsed right after he finished meeting with me.”

  “Who is this source?”

  “Plausible deniability, Alex,” he grunted. “There are some things it’s best you don’t know—and it’s for your own good.”

  “So, you want me to look into Searchlight?”

  “Would you? And do it right away?”

  “I’ll do my best. I’m also working with Hawk right now, remember?”

  “Have you heard from him lately?”

  “He’s fine. He made it to Sierra Leone and made contact with the outfitter he was scheduled to meet.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not yet, but I’m keeping an eye on the mine. They had some kind of explosion there, but I haven’t been able to find out anything through the news.”

  “Keep me posted, and find out what you can as soon as possible on Searchlight. I want to know who we need to put in the crosshairs.”

  Alex hung up and finished her run, her mind spinning with possibilities over the turf war about to take place between two black ops programs. She felt confident that Hawk gave Firestorm the upper hand.

  ***

  FRESHLY SHOWERED, ALEX WALKED back into the office with a new sense of urgency and purpose. She sat down at her desk and concluded that before she continued with her task, she needed a power ballad.

  Adele should do the trick.

  Her favorite Adele album began pumping through her computer speakers as she started pounding on the keyboard in search of answers.

  Searchlight, who are you?

  For the next hour, her searches led her from one dead end to the next. She decided to phone her friend at the CIA, Mallory Kauffman, and find out if she’d heard anything.

  “Searchlight?” Mallory asked. “That name doesn’t ring a bell, but that doesn’t mean much.”

  “It’d sure mean a lot to me if you could figure out who’s behind it.”

  “I’ll do some poking around, but if you can’t find anything, I doubt I’ll be able to. You’re the one with all the freedom out there to hack away until your heart’s content, free from all repercussions.”

  “That doesn’t work so well when you don’t have a starting point. I literally know nothing other than what Blunt told me.”

  “Which was what?”

  “That they’re trying to take down Firestorm, and the man who told Blunt about it today was assassinated at the National Mall.”

  “Assassinated? Like gunned down?”

  “Blunt didn’t get into specifics, but he did say the man collapsed.”

  “Find me a name. I’m sure there might be a medical report somewhere or a responding unit that details who paramedics attended to. I mean, I’m assuming he isn’t still just lying there dead.”

  “I doubt the guy gave anyone his name, especially if died per Blunt’s report about the incident.”

  Mallory sighed. “Aliases work, too. Or even a picture. Just find out something and send it to me. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Alex hung up and went to work. She hacked into dispatch databases, called various precincts and hospitals around the city. Nothing. There was no record of any man requiring medical attention at the National Mall. No one had even called in such an event.

  She looked at closed circuit monitors surrounding the area around the time Blunt alleged this incident occurred. Still nothing. Even footage of Blunt ever being there didn’t exist.

  After Alex exhausted all her tricks, she phoned Mallory.

  “I can’t find anything anywhere.”

  “No footage?”

  “Nothing. I can’t even find an image of Blunt being there.”

  “Maybe it didn’t happen.”

  Alex sighed. “That’s not like Blunt though. I get the feeling he trusts me implicitly.”

  “You’re in the world of espionage, Alex. Nobody trusts anybody implicitly.”

  “Perhaps not, but I find it difficult to believe he made everything up.”

  “He could be creating a trail with you, building some alibi before he goes off the grid.”

  “That’s not his style, either.”

  “Desperate times—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. Well, thanks anyway for being willing to help. Just keep your ear to the ground for me, will ya? If Searchlight is for real, I want to know about it.”

  “You got it.”

  Alex then called Blunt to deliver the bad news. He didn’t answer.

  She decided to ask General Johnson if he’d ever heard of Searchlight, but he wasn’t at his desk, files and documents strewn across it. Lingering longer than she should have, she glanced down at his desk and a word caught her eye on one of the papers: Searchlight.

  She reached down to slide the page out of its folder when the sound of a man clearing his throat from startled her. She spun around to see the General standing there.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Agent Duncan?” he asked.

  “I was wondering if you’ve spoken with Blunt lately.”

  He walked past her and settled into his chair behind his desk. “Not lately. Why? Is everything all right?”

  “I think so, but he asked me to look into something for him, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”

  “Well, when you do, would you let him know I’m trying to reach him?”

  “I will.”

  She turned to leave before he spoke, halting her progress. “And Agent Duncan?”


  “Yes?” she said without turning around.

  “Don’t ever enter my office again if I’m not in here. Understand?”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Good. Now, get back to work.”

  Alex swallowed hard and hustled back to her desk. She wanted to see if she could find out something else, but not now. Not with General Johnson possibly knowing something about Searchlight.

  The idea that such an organization existed both perplexed and excited Alex. And now she had a link, albeit a tenuous one. Even more important, the fact that perhaps General Johnson was the link complicated matters more than she'd imagined.

  And she’d have to tread more carefully now.

  CHAPTER 18

  ON THEIR DRIVE BACK to the outfitters, Visser asked Hawk how large of an item he could sneak out of the country using his taxidermy skills. Hawk explained that it had to do with the size of the animal as well as the creativity of the client. Fully embracing his legend, Hawk shared the story of how Martin Exporter’s once smuggled five hundred kilos of cocaine out of Peru and into Canada for one client.

  The story almost tripped up Visser. “I thought you said you never asked what your clients ship.”

  “I don’t. But some things are obvious.” Hawk paused. “Though it could’ve been five hundred kilos of powdered sugar from a client who was trying to avoid paying import tax.”

  “If I’m going to work with you, I need to know that you will use utmost discretion in talking about us to other clients.”

  Thinking on his feet, Hawk looked to assuage Visser’s fear. “I understand. I only tell that story because those clients are dead. They both drowned in a boating accident, if you know what I mean.”

  Visser knew exactly what he meant. The Diego brothers were renowned in the organized crime world for their ability to move large volumes of drugs across various borders. They’d also both drowned several years before while fishing near the Florida Keys.

  Hawk never breathed their name, but he figured Visser would connect the dots.

  “The Diego brothers?” Visser said. “Those are some high-end clients.”

  “High end, low end—it makes no difference to me. The only kind of clients I’m inclined to work with are paying clients.”

  Visser grinned. “We fit into that category.”

  “Good. You just let me know whenever you need help. I’ll be here.”

  “Nothing super urgent, but I’ll let you know when we’re ready to move.”

  Hawk shook Visser’s hand and patted him on the back. “It’s always a pleasure meeting new business associates.”

  ***

  WHILE HE WASN’T YET CERTAIN as to Visser’s reason for being in Sierra Leone, Hawk assumed it wasn’t simply for the hunting. He’d been around enough lowlifes to know what they smelled like. Based on their shooting ability and other vague comments, Hawk figured Visser and his men had to be more dangerous than previously imagined. Hawk surmised that they had to be connected to Demby, if not loosely then very tightly.

  Hawk texted Alex photos of Visser and his crew and asked her to look them up. In the meantime, he decided to grab something to eat at The Errant Apostrophe’s again.

  Ten minutes later, he was sitting at a table and looking over the menu. Hungry for some red meat, he ordered a steak.

  “Our bongo steak is the best,” the waitress said.

  He shot her a funny glance.

  “I know, I know. It’s raised on a farm. I have to remember to say that first. It might cut down on all the strange looks I get.”

  Hawk snickered. “Someone in this part of the world is getting conscious about their food choices?”

  “Never the locals. They’re more concerned with survival. But you’d be surprised at who comes through these parts.”

  “Bongo steak it is.”

  She smiled. “I’ll have that out for you in about twenty minutes. Ciao.”

  Hawk opened up the latest edition of Taxidermy Today and started thumbing through the pages. He found an article about hair-on tanning and started to learn about the “wet scrape” technique. He knew enough of the craft’s basic terminology to fake it, but the more he could learn, the better. It didn’t take him more than ten minutes before he was done with the article and ready to move on to something else when he noticed an American woman who’d just taken a seat at the table next to his.

  With long dark hair worn up in a bun, the woman wrung her hands as she glanced around the restaurant. Hawk thought she looked down to earth and even slightly ragged, but the glimpse of her smile that he’d caught arrested him. Whatever she did, she worked hard—though Hawk suspected she would be a stunner once she cleaned off a day’s worth of African dirt. He never expected to see such a beautiful woman in a location like this.

  She put on a pair of spectacles, peering through them at the menu. The waitress delivered a glass of wine to her table, which went briefly ignored.

  “So, Dr. Ackerman, are you going to mix it up today and order something different or are you just reminding yourself that you order the best dish on the menu every single night?”

  The woman took her glasses off and smiled at the waitress. “Carley, I think I’ll take the usual.”

  “Excellent choice, as always,” Carley said before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Hawk glanced back down at his magazine, hoping to avoid eye contact.

  Dr. Ackerman caught his lingering glance and leaned toward his table. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before.”

  Hawk looked up from his magazine and forced a smile. “Is that your best pick up line?”

  The woman didn’t bat an eye. “I only engage in polite conversation. Nothing good ever came of me trying to pick up a man—herniated discs, lower back pain. No. I just never pick up men.”

  “Quite the sharp wit, too,” Hawk said with a wink. He offered his hand to her. “Oliver Martin.”

  She took it. “Alissa Ackerman.”

  “Alissa? Isn’t it Dr. Ackerman?”

  She nodded and leaned down, trying to peek at the title of his magazine.

  He held it up. “It’s just a boring taxidermy magazine.”

  She rolled her eyes and took a gulp of her wine.

  He closed the magazine. “Sorry, it’s not as noble of a profession as medicine, but it pays the bills.”

  “You’re here hunting, aren’t you?”

  Hawk nodded.

  “Figures. Just come and exploit the last shred of survival that’s left in this country. Kill it and take it home.”

  “Just because I’m hunting doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

  She held up her hand. “Please. Save the self-righteous act for someone who might believe you. I’m not impressed.”

  Before Hawk could respond, a young boy ran into the restaurant, shouting. “Doc! Doc! We need you!” The child grabbed Dr. Ackerman by the arm and started to pull her out of her seat.

  “What is it, Solomon?” she asked, almost falling out of her chair before she stood up and stopped the boy from pulling her any farther.

  “The mine! The mine! It’s collapsed. My father is trapped inside, and Mr. Demby is doing nothing about it.”

  She got up and ran.

  Hawk followed her.

  “Can I help?” he asked as he chased after her.

  “Please. For the sake of everyone here, why don’t you just get on a plane and go home?”

  “I can’t,” Hawk said. “It sounds like there are some people who need help. Getting on a plane and escaping this place is the last thing I’d do.”

  “Look, Mr. Martin, you don’t have to impress me. I get it. You’re altruism is unmatched."

  “I’m not trying to impress anyone; I’m trying to help.”

  “Whatever. Get in.” She pointed at the Jeep in front of them. It was covered with rust spots and plenty of caked on dirt, yet possessed four new tires.

  Hawk obeyed, and Ackerman fired up the engine
. Solomon hopped in the back, as did a couple of other younger boys.

  “Has this happened before?” Hawk asked.

  “Not since I’ve been here,” she said, shouting over the whine of the engine and the breeze caused by her speeding along the dirt road.

  Hawk played dumb. “Who runs this mine?”

  “My boss,” she said as she shifted gears. “I run his humanitarian organization here, SLAM.”

  “SLAM?”

  “Sierra Leone Aid & Medical Supply Company. I know. It’s a terrible acronym, but it’s Africa. I’m just grateful there’s someone funding my work here.”

  “And your boss, what’s his name?”

  “Musa Demby.”

  “Musa Demby—why wouldn’t he be doing something about this?”

  “He’s full of contradictions, but I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

  “How much farther?”

  She shot him a look. “The kids are in the back. With a question like that, I wonder if you’d like to join them.”

  Hawk chuckled and glanced at the back. They’d started with three kids, but Hawk noticed the number had now doubled.

  “Six kids?” he said, pointing behind him.

  She smiled. “Welcome to Africa, Mr. Martin.”

  A few minutes later, they arrived at the mine. Hawk had been so shocked by the multiplication of kids in the back of Ackerman’s Jeep that he’d barely noticed the train of vehicles behind them. When Ackerman finally skidded to a stop at the top of the Sefadu Holdings mine, more than a dozen vehicles had fallen in line behind her. Mostly young men and boys along with a few frantic mothers and wives unloaded and joined Ackerman and Hawk as they jogged down the pit road. A few of the boys ran ahead.

  Once they reached ground zero, one of the foremen held up his hands. “Whoa! Whoa! You shouldn’t be here.”

  Ackerman pushed her way past him. “Where’s Demby?”

  One of the men pointed toward the western portion of the pit.

  She marched in that direction, Hawk trailing behind her in an attempt to keep pace.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded as she interrupted Demby’s conversation.