Seal of Surrender (9 page)

After escorting her back to her room, Chago returned to the café to access the hotel's wi-fi system and check his voicemail. Two more messages popped up from Barron, followed by one from Luther and three from Xander. Chago punched the speed dial for his commander, choosing to start with what he hoped would be the most beneficial conversation.

“Well, well. Sleeping beauty has awakened.”

“The term is jet lag.”

“Right.” Xander chuckled, not the least bit put off by Chago's irascible tone. “At least now you've got an excuse. Morning is not your best time.”

“Is there a purpose to your call?”

“Yes. Luther and I should arrive later this week for support.”

“Good.” Adrienne's breakfast conversation topic reared its ugly head. “I believe Archon is here. There were a rash of murders, an entire tribe of Bantu wiped out near the coast. All the bodies were drained dry.”

“I'll put Barron on the research. What about the civil conflict?”

“I met a militia member at breakfast. His name's Innocent Balewa. He seems legit, but it wouldn't hurt to have Barron check him out too.”

A nearby elevator dinged and Drake exited, striding purposefully toward the café. Shit. Chago sank low into a nearby chair to avoid detection and whispered into the phone. “Hold on.”

Drake's bandages were gone, leaving only a faint yellowish discoloration on his jawline. Bastard. He'd have to punch him harder next time. His scheming turned to disgust as Drake shook hands with Adrienne then bent and kissed her on the mouth. Instead of protest, the stupid woman fawned all over him like a besotted groupie.

His fist clenched and the tiny mobile device creaked.

As if his morning hadn't taken a long enough trip down FUBAR lane, Irena emerged from another elevator and headed toward the dining room. Goddammit. Chago sprang to his feet ready to storm the café.

She froze just inside the entrance, ignored the maître d, and approached the table, pulling a small canister from her purse and wielding it like a weapon in Drake's face. Whatever was in the can had her boss backing off faster than germs from penicillin.

Chago forced himself to remain calm as he concluded his conversation with Xander, his focus never leaving Irena. “Anything else?”

“Be careful. Barron is still trying to piece together the reports of those tribal murders. If Archon's involved you know better than to cross him without proper back up. Watch yourself.”

“Si. Talk to you later.”

Chago was beside the table in four long strides. “Irena?” He saw the fear in her eyes and hauled her away before the others had time to react. “We're leaving.”

“Are you alright?” His voice was rough as gravel as he marched her out of the restaurant and into a secluded corner of the lobby.

“I'm fine.” She disengaged herself from his fierce grip, her face flushed and eyes wild. “You can't swoop in every time Drake shows up. I can protect myself.”

His kiss extinguished any further speech. It was a hard, possessive, punishing act — more of a brand than a tender caress. He pulled away and glared. “Being your fiancé affords me certain privileges. Privileges I refuse to share with anyone.”

Irena stared at him, open-mouthed and bug-eyed like an owl on crack.

Shit. He hadn't meant to kiss her. What the hell was wrong with him?

He backed away and smacked into Innocent.

“You don't look so good, Mr. Chago. Why don't you go out and get some air? I look after Ms. Irena ‘til you get back.”

Space. Si. He needed space.

Exiting the hotel, he weaved a path deep into the bustle of downtown Kinshasa, driven by a soul-deep need to maintain distance from the woman who had so easily surmounted all of his barriers.

He entered the farmer's market and stopped near a stall of colorful scarves. One with graduated tones of blue snagged his attention and he soon found himself haggling with the owner over the price. His use of the local dialect benefited him and he walked away with his prize and a great deal.

As he made his way back toward the hotel his thoughts continued to linger on his target. A strange emotion fizzed low in his gut before spreading higher. Irena terrified him. The last woman who'd owned his heart had died for the pleasure. Divinity's words echoed inside his head.

Don't fail again.

Deep in contemplation, he continued on.

Three steps later, gunfire erupted and screams rang out.

Chago ducked around the gnarled edge of a fruit stand. Bullets whizzed through the crowded marketplace and rust-bucket yellow pickups overflowing with insurgents stormed forward, heedless of the people underfoot.

A truck rattled by at top speed. He grabbed a woman and her small child and pulled them into the safety of a nearby alley. From around the corner of a dilapidated building, he spied troops exiting the vehicles, fully loaded with the latest model Russian assault rifles.

How the hell had they gotten those weapons? A memory from Drake's office rode the edge of his mind, but disappeared before he could recall the full details.

He inched to the end of the narrow corridor for better tactical surveillance. His attempts to count the shooters, who scattered with the panicked mob, failed. He skirted an area where insurgents looted the market stalls and spotted an armed rebel in close proximity. Chago nabbed the man, snapped his neck, and stole his weapon. A quick check of the guy's ID confirmed they were hired thugs, reinforcements from neighboring Sudan.

Under the cover of shadows, he slipped farther down the block, and disposed of two more insurgents in the process. Now fully armed with a pair of AK-12s, an Ash-12, and a stockpile of C4, Chago continued toward a faded yellow Datsun idling at the deserted market's core. He ducked low behind the rear bed and planted two charges near the gas tank.

A niggle of unease gnawed through his calm reserve. Things were going too smoothly. His warrior senses clicked to high alert. He swiveled, ready to dart into the alley, only to be halted by a rifle barrel between the eyes. Chago glanced at his captor before dropping his gaze to the C4 ready to detonate beneath the vehicle. Shit
.
This was going to hurt.

“Quoi de neuf, mon ami?” Despite the disaster about to implode, Chago kept his tone full of distracting swagger. His insolent ‘what's up' in French, lost its punch in translation.

In the distance, Chago spotted the mother and child he'd pulled to safety earlier. They edged toward the curb once more — an easy target. Another insurgent grabbed her, shoved the woman to the ground, and pushed the toddler away. The soldier kicked her hard in the ribs and cursed.

His ire cresting, he abandoned all pretense of civility and cast a lethal glare at the armed man to his front. Hades could expect several new arrivals today. “Prêt à rencontrer votre créateur, fils de pute?
”
Ready to meet your creator, son of a bitch?

The soldier's derisive chuckle barely registered in the wake of the explosion.

Shrapnel and various body parts splattered everywhere. Chago dove for cover … too late. The blast threw him backward. He landed hard on the roadway while debris rained over him. Breathing became near impossible in the intense heat, but he managed to crawl out of ground zero. Slumped near the curb, he did a quick survey of his injuries. Broken ribs, a sticky, sore spot on the back of his skull and a damaged hand. Fuck. Retirement couldn't come soon enough.

Sudden movement caught his attention. He glanced sideways and found the mother and child huddled against a nearby wall, dirty and battered but otherwise unscathed. He gave a silent prayer of thanks to Divinity and flashed them a small smile. The child returned his gesture with a tentative grin. Maybe this line of work did have its rewards.

More gunfire burst. Determination flooded his system and overrode the temporary complacency the child had sparked. It was time to end this fiasco.

He pushed to his feet and ignored the pain rippling up his side from his damaged ribs. Jaw clenched and weapons cocked, Chago headed straight for the stalls, intent on taking out insurgents like carnival ducks. The center of the market stood vacant. As he looked around, dread oozed over him like sludge. This was nothing but a fucking trap.

A rifle butt struck his temple.

Chago stumbled and fell forward to his knees, a sick burst of light exploding before his eyes. Hands stripped him of weapons and pushed him flat to the ground. One booted foot held his neck hostage while another person patted him down. Madre Dio, his head thumped worse than a military drum corps. He peered into the fuzzy distance and spotted a man lounging against the counter of a produce stall. An oscillating fan creaked beside him, blowing fetid air in wobbled, brief gusts.

He blinked several times. His head injury must be worse than he'd first imagined. Chago squinted and refocused. Nope. The man was still dressed in bad pimp imitation, his garish print shirt unbuttoned to the waist and his tight white pants shining in bold contrast to the lime green flip flops adorning his feet. A chunky gold chain dangled down the man's chest while his straw Panama hat sat cockeyed, dipped low over one eye.

A gun nudged Chago's back and a soldier grabbed his arm, forcing him to his feet and closer to the man who now eyed him with frank annoyance.

“Who da fuck are you?” The guy spoke in the broken vernacular of a person who'd seen one too many action movies. Chago stared back without answering. The gun barrel moved to rest at the base of his skull, demanding a response.

“Chago.”

Mr. Pimp repeated his name with emphasis on the ‘a' so it sounded like a donkey bray. “Well Mr. Chago, we gots ourselves a problem, yeah?”

No shit. Chago masked his emotions beneath a façade of practiced stoicism. Another insurgent ran up and whispered something in the man's ear. The leader nodded, growled out a series of low quick orders, and the soldier quickly departed, his guns cocked. The Pimpmeister smirked and shook his head before he addressed Chago again. “You ken who da fucks I am?”

You mean besides a worse dresser than my brother, Wyck?
The smartass question hovered at the edge of Chago's tongue, along with a misplaced chuckle. He swallowed it, unspoken. Wouldn't do to irritate the locals too much. Not yet anyway. He shook his head.

The man stepped closer and met his gaze. “Name's Mack Turay. They call me da fucking Terminator, yeah? These here my troops, da LRA — Lord's Resistance Army.”

“Oh, so you're doing the Lord's work then?” He couldn't prevent the sarcasm from drenching his words.

A woman's scream echoed, followed by the resounding thwack of flesh striking flesh. Chago shifted his gaze and caught sight of the soldier from earlier. The thug backhanded an elderly man before hurling him into the dirt street. He transferred his sinister glower back to the man edging his way closer to the top of the most-likely-to-die-a-painful-death list. “That's some god you got there.”

“Forget religions. You got large problems. Killed five of me men and stole them weapons. What you gonna do ‘bout dis? You owe me somes payback, yeah?” Turay circled around him, each sentence uttered on a different side before ending face to face once more. “Where's me justice?”

Chago had a few ideas about the type of justice he'd dispense to this jackass. His fists clenched and his eyes narrowed, searching for an opportunity. He planned to end this bastard where he stood.

A sudden roar interrupted his murderous train of thought.

From the opposite end of the street, a hulking black van headed straight for their position. A guard near the perimeter of their makeshift circle delivered the news in bullet-point French. Turay's left cheek ticked as the information relayed. Militia. Full contingent. Heavily armed.

A shadow darted past Chago's peripheral vision. The gun that had been pointed at the base of his skull lifted, only to slam down hard into the side of his head. Pain radiated from his temple and surged into blinding agony. He lurched forward, face-planting in the dirt, his cheekbone mashed against the hard-pebbled street. His eyes remained open, witness to the events he'd been unable to halt.

The rebel leader crouched at his side and leaned low near his face to fill his vision. His tone reeked with pompous bravado. “Worry not, Chago. Me find you real soon so you's can pay up.”

Turay spit on the ground and scurried away as the militia grew near.

Consciousness wavering, Chago attempted to lift a hand to the sticky spot at the rear of his head. The wound had reopened now, gone deeper. The black van rumbled closer. Its shadow engulfed his prone body and forced him to action. Must get out of the way.

His ravaged body refused to budge. He sagged to the ground and squeezed his eyes shut against the impending calamity, cringing in tense anticipation. Run-overs were the worst.

The vehicle ground to a halt inches from his legs. After several long seconds, Chago inhaled and peeked one eye open. The van's side door slid open. Men climbed out into the streets with their weapons at the ready. The last man exited from the driver seat and walked to his side.

“You alright, Mr. Chago?” Innocent bent and inspected the growing bump on the back of his head with gentle fingers.

“Never better.” He slowly propped up on one elbow, hovering for a few seconds to establish his balance before swiveling in the direction his assailant had disappeared. “Who the hell was that guy?”

“Mack ‘Terminator' Turay.” Innocent stepped back and lit a cigarette. “Biggest butcher in these parts. I ain't talking meat parts neither.”

Pain zinged through Chago's skull and the world tilted. His recent meal threatened to make a hasty escape. He lowered his head and covered his eyes, willing his stomach to settle. “Why didn't you tell you're the militia leader?”

Innocent helped him to his feet and into a chair from a nearby stall then pulled up a seat for himself. The acrid smell of burning tobacco from Innocent's cigarette made his gut rioted anew. He forced his attention from his cramped stomach to what Innocent was saying.