Short Fuse: Elite Operators, Book 2 (19 page)

The road to the mine was as empty as it had been during their dawn departure hours earlier.

“Is that something to worry about?” she asked as Dassie raced over the asphalt, expertly dodging the potholes. “I mean, shouldn’t there be a bunch of rebels trying to invade the site by now? And where is the army?”

“Stuck in the north, according to the last radio report we could get on the way out of August Town,” Bronnik replied. “The rebels blew a bridge to force the army to divert east.”

“Not that the Latadi army is an elite fighting force in the first place,” Dassie added. “When the news says they’re mobilizing, they mean they’re calling everyone on the roster and giving a gun to whoever turns up.”

“The rebels seem organized, but maybe they’re not. Or maybe Hambani isn’t the priority we thought it was.” Bronnik’s shoulders lifted above the edge of the seat.

“Or we just have no idea what their next move is,” she muttered grimly.

“Stay positive,” Dassie urged, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You’re in good hands.”

The site seemed deserted when they pulled up to the gate, which was locked and, as far as Nicola could tell, hadn’t been interfered with. The three of them got out of the car to peer through the chain-link, and she recognized from the way they both touched their backs that they had their handguns holstered there, just like Warren.

Her chest tightened at the thought of him. She was so close now—she prayed he was all right, that they’d find him hale and hearty on the other side of the gate, explosives disposed of, gold loaded, enjoying a cup of coffee while he waited for them to arrive.

There was no evidence to suggest otherwise, but her gut insisted something was wrong. That he needed her as soon as she could get to him.

Hang on, I’m almost there.

Dassie inspected the lock. “Do you have a key?”

She bit her lower lip. “In my bag. In the other car. Which is probably in August Town by now.”

With a roll of his eyes Dassie withdrew his gun, but Bronnik held up a hand to stop him.

“
Jislike
, you’re in a bad mood. Give me a minute, there’s a bolt cutter in the car.”

Five minutes later they drove slowly onto the site, alert for any sign of activity.

Dassie glanced at her over his shoulder. “Does anything look out of place?”

“It looks fine, but it feels—weird. Like something’s not right. But maybe it’s because it’s so empty, or I’m projecting—”

He shook his head. “Trust your instincts. You know the site, you tell us if anything is off, no matter how insignificant.”

Dassie parked the car beside the Land Cruiser in the spaces outside the office and checked his phone. “Still no signal.”

“And no welcoming committee. Guess we have to go find him.” Bronnik opened the door and stood up, and Dassie was right behind him. Nicola followed their lead and then all three of them were squinting in the sunlight, surveying the desolate mine.

“We did get here a little faster than expected,” Bronnik offered.

Dassie huffed dismissively. “He’s probably way out on the perimeter blowing something up.”

But their tones were unconvinced. They’d expected Warren to be here, waiting. And there was no sign of him.

She stiffened her shoulders, refusing to allow their uncertainty to affect her resolve. He was here, and he was fine. Just out of earshot, probably.

“Where should we start looking?”

It took her a second to realize Bronnik’s question was directed at her. “Uh, we could start by walking through the office, but his plan was to bring the explosives out of the mine and destroy them.”

“And inevitably he’d go down there by himself to start moving them, rather than wait for backup.” Dassie sighed. “I guess we know where to start.”

“The entrance is over there.” At her nod, they set off in that direction.

She studied the mine head as they approached, but other than its ominous inactivity, she didn’t spot anything out of the ordinary. She motioned the men into the locker room in the nearby outbuilding, flicking on the light as they entered.

“At least he had the good sense to wear a hard hat,” Bronnik muttered. She followed his line of sight and froze, unable to tear her eyes from the space where a hat was missing from the rack.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, sensing Bronnik and Dassie snapping to attention.

“What is it?” Dassie asked, pivoting to watch the open door behind them.

“Warren already has a hard hat. I saw him with it last night. He found it in the office, he joked about how well it fit, and then he was propping his feet on it while he kept watch. There’s no reason why he would’ve come in here to get a new one.” Her mouth was bone-dry, the words barely audible. “Someone else is in the mine.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Bronnik held up his palms. “Why wouldn’t Warren get another hat? Maybe he left the first one in the office. Or maybe he came in here for something else, forgot he had that one and picked up a new one.”

She shook her head. “The one that’s missing is a smaller size—see how it’s from one of the lowest rungs? It wouldn’t fit him.”

“No chance it was put back in the wrong place?” Dassie asked.

“Even if it was, he would take one from the right-size rack.”

“So maybe the hat is just missing, full stop.” Dassie shrugged. “Left somewhere when the site was evacuated. Or maybe it’s the same one Warren found in the office.”

“Maybe,” she acknowledged skeptically. “Check that closet, there.” She pointed over Bronnik’s shoulder. “Let’s see if any of the boots are missing. Warren was already wearing his work boots and I doubt he’d change out of them.”

He opened the door, which creaked on its hinges. Inside were three perfectly orderly rows of steel-toed rubber boots—with one pair missing.

Bronnik muttered what she assumed was Afrikaans profanity under his breath. “How do we get down there?”

After five solid minutes spent convincing the two men they had to at least wear helmets and self-rescue kits, Nicola guided them the short distance to the entrance.

“The elevator is here. That means someone sent it back to the surface.” She peered through the grated door for any sign of interference, but the interior looked perfectly normal.

“Maybe Copley sent it back for us,” Dassie suggested.

“Possibly.” She yanked open the door and stepped inside carefully, checking out the cage. “Normally the elevator is operated by someone in the hoist house, but there is a manual override function in case of emergencies. Sending it back up unmanned is annoying but not impossible.”

“What do you mean, annoying?” Bronnik asked. Dassie stood slightly behind him, his gaze shifting restlessly over the landscape.

“The manual controls are fixed to the wall, here.” She dragged the door shut, then stepped up to the steel panel and flipped open its box cover to study the buttons beneath. “The door has to be closed for the elevator to operate, so to send it back up, you’d have to lean through the grate to press the buttons, then snatch your arm away before it started to move. I guess you could find a way to make it work remotely, but it’d be a lot of effort. It does have a safety override whereby, if there’s any kind of interruption to the power source, it diverts to the nearest opening.”

Bronnik circled the elevator, studying the mechanism. “So if it’s closer to the surface, it goes back there?”

She nodded. “And if it’s closest to the entrance on the mine floor, it goes there, rather than try to make it all the way to the top. There are emergency shelters throughout the tunnels, so the theory is it’s better to have quick access to them than be stuck in the shaft.”

“Complicated stuff,” Dassie muttered, turning around to stare at the horizon.

“It becomes instinctive if you work in the industry. Sometimes staying in the mine is safer than trying to get out of it.”

She flipped the switch to activate the manual controls. The operating buttons glowed green and red, and she braced her hand against the panel as she leaned around it to speak to Bronnik through the grate. “Okay, I think we’re—”

The elevator shuddered to life beneath her feet, the overhead winch groaning as it began its descent.

Bronnik and Dassie rushed to the door, both shouting versions of “What’s going on?” But her eyes were fixed on the green button, lit up bright and unstoppable.

“Oh, shit,” she swore as the elevator picked up speed, building momentum for the two-mile journey down.

“I can’t stop it,” she called over the noisy mechanical clanking, deciding against a lengthy explanation of the override possibilities as her perspective on the two men rapidly dropped from eye level to shoulders, waists, knees… She cupped her hands over her mouth and hoped they could hear her. “I’ll send it straight back up for you, then shut the door and hit the green button!”

And then they were gone, and she was plummeting headlong toward the center of the earth, ferried at breakneck pace in her creaking, groaning metal cage.

Nicola practiced deep, even breathing as the elevator raced toward the tunnel, combating the claustrophobia that always overtook her on the trip from surface to mine.

Bronnik and Dassie will be right behind you
, she coached herself, switching on the headlamp on her helmet and trying not to notice the closeness of the walls on the other side of the cage.
You’ll send this up, hang out by the entrance, and in ten minutes they’ll be with you. You won’t have to do this alone. And anyway, you know this mine and its layout better than anyone else—you can hide if you need to.

Hide from who?

She shook her head against that line of thinking as the elevator hit the ground with a thud. She pulled open the door and was instantly reminded of the difference in pressure from the surface. The metal that had slid so easily above ground now felt like it weighed six times as much. The air was thick and hot, and she shrugged out of her zip-front sweatshirt and tied it around her waist.

Without a second’s hesitation she closed the door, stood on her tiptoes to reach in and reset the controls, then slapped the green button. The elevator renewed its clattering protest, but it cooperated, and soon it disappeared back up the shaft.

She was alone.

The tunnels looked odd with no one in them, without the bustle of personnel and the roar of machinery that had accompanied every other trip inside a mine she’d ever taken. Cut off from even the natural sounds that accompanied solitude aboveground—a rustling breeze, a chirping bird, a tree branch creaking in the wind—the huge passages jutting off from the shaft were eerie in the completeness of their silence. She heard nothing—only her own breath, and the crunch of soil beneath her boots.

And a voice.

She froze where she stood, every nerve on high alert as she stared down one of the tunnels. She held her breath, tried to calm the pulse pounding in her head.

There it was again—louder. Or maybe just clearer as she forced herself to listen for it. Either way, it was definitely a voice—a man’s voice. Echoing down the passageway.

“Well, this is probably the dumbest thing I’ll ever do,” she muttered to herself as she set off in that direction, but in that moment she didn’t care. She had to find Warren. Had to make sure he was all right. Had to help him if she could. She didn’t care what it cost her.

She was about six feet into the tunnel that led to the management office when the lights flickered and went out, plunging the mine into darkness punctuated only by her headlamp. She reached up and flicked it off, terrified it would give her away, and pressed her back against the exposed rock wall.

The voice, which was little more than an intermittent echo at its strongest, died away. She felt like the blood roaring in her ears must be audible, that she must have given herself away somehow, and she clenched her teeth as she focused on her best remaining sense given the darkness—hearing.

But there were no footsteps. No tiny rocks skittering ahead of someone’s advance. She was pretty sure she was undetected, and she exhaled heavily at the thought.

The cables overhead whined and then the lights blinked back on, seeming harsh and exposing after their brief absence. She crept farther into the tunnel, paused to listen, crept farther, paused, repeated the process despite not hearing another sign that there was anyone making their way through the depths of Hambani but her.

She had almost made up her mind to quit this stupid excursion and go back to the elevator when it rang out, loud and distinctive.

A laugh. An unthreatened, confident, male laugh.

And it wasn’t Warren’s.

Chapter Sixteen

“I guess I’m struggling to see the funny side.” Warren adjusted his grip on his gun, having had it pointed at the green-eyed man for so long his fingers were starting to cramp. It had to have been more than half an hour since he’d come across the man—Didier, as he’d introduced himself—in Roger’s underground office, and they’d been locked in a standoff ever since, both holding guns on each other, both keenly aware of the trigger mechanism clutched in Didier’s fist and the long wire that ran behind it into a closet full of explosives.

“Clearly.” Didier leaned against the wall at his back. Warren shifted his weight. In all his years in the Special Task Force, he’d never once met an offender who had so much to say. Didier had basically given him his life story—son of Latadian surgeons who moved to France when he was a child, sent to boarding school in the US, engineering degree in Canada, followed by years spent amassing enough capital to return to Latadi and galvanize a Matsulu rebellion despite not having lived in the country since the age of five. Within minutes Didier was quoting Noam Chomsky and Karl Marx, but Warren forced himself to remain attentive, hoping this was a sign that Didier intended for him to survive this encounter and bear testimony of Didier’s grand political plan.

“Tell me, Sergeant. What do you remember of apartheid?”

Oh, for Christ’s sake.
“Not much. I was six when Nelson Mandela was released from prison, and I was sent to boarding school in England about five years later.”

That didn’t seem to be the answer Didier wanted. “But even as a child, you must’ve felt the oppression that surrounded you.”

“The inequality, maybe. But that hasn’t changed. The racial lines are blurred but there’s still a huge gulf between rich and poor.”

“That’s it,” Didier exclaimed, snapping the fingers of the trigger hand in a way that spiked Warren’s heart rate. He had to shut this down before Didier’s thumb hit the button by accident.

“That’s the legacy I’m trying to destroy,” he continued, gesticulating with his gun but never lowering it. “Mandela reconciled the races, but he was never able to close the gap between those who own and those who beg. Latadi has been a servant of foreign interests for so long, it’s lost all sight of itself. A little conflict and another change in the ruling parties won’t make a difference—in six months all the revolutionary promises will be forgotten and it’ll be business as usual, convincing the world Latadi is a safe place to invest and lowering wages to attract multinationals away from our central-African neighbors. This country has been asleep for decades. I’ve just set the alarm.”

“Look, I’m not going to argue for the economic merits of mining, and I could care less whether the Hambani gold vein is lost under two miles of rubble. But if you detonate the stockpile in this room, you’ll take out Namaza as well, and everyone who lives there.”

“They’re dead already,” he sneered. “Uranium poisoning from the mine tailings, laborer deaths from faulty equipment and poor safety standards, not to mention the short life expectancy for anyone living so far below the poverty line. Their lives were over anyway, but today they’ll become martyrs.”

“Without the opportunity to make the choice they’ll just be victims, not martyrs. And either way—”

Movement registered just beyond the open door. He glanced over in time to see a wobbling headlamp beam before it disappeared, the toe of a shoe, part of a small hand.

Nicola.

His head spun with equal measures of elation and panic. She’d come back for him—she really did care about him. But what the hell was she thinking? He hoped Dassie and Bronnik were with her, but given her stubborn tendencies he couldn’t count on it. Regardless, his was apparently the only level head in this damn mine, and the situation had taken on a new gravity. He had to shut it down before she or Didier did something stupid.

He snapped his gaze back to Didier’s, hoping he hadn’t given away Nicola’s presence outside the door. He’d completely lost his train of thought. What had he been saying?

“Either way,” he repeated hesitantly. “I don’t think, uh—don’t you want to get yourself out of this, too? So you can, you know, spread the message or whatever?”

“Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant.” Didier shook his head, clucking his tongue. “I gave you so many chances to remove yourself from a situation where you never belonged. I even left your racist countryman Roger alive long after he fulfilled his usefulness and stopped stockpiling weapons. Did you think my generosity was limitless? And did you expect me to entrust the future of this country to the rabble outside? Give me some credit.”

He spread his fingers and used his thumb to roll the trigger mechanism across his palm. It wasn’t just button-activated—there was a digital timer, and the seconds ticked down before Warren’s eyes.

Fifteen minutes.

Didier nodded to the tangle of plastic and wire. “It’s my best yet. I’m sure a fellow engineer like yourself can appreciate its complexity.”

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

Didier arched a brow. “I think it’s clear that I do.”

“That’s not enough time to clear the blast radius. Stop the countdown, or you’ll be as dead as your so-called martyrs.”

“It’s the aftershocks that will take out Namaza, not the initial explosion. I’ll be well away by then.”

Warren shook his head. “There are tons of industrial explosives in that closet, and tons more scattered throughout the tunnels that will ignite, too. Blow up Hambani and miles and miles of Latadi countryside will go down with it.”

A flash of doubt flickered across Didier’s eyes, then his face hardened with resolve. “Really, Sergeant, I thought better of you. A stupid attempt to manipulate me? Not a chance. Anyway, it’s time for me to go.” He raised his gun. “The question is, do I shoot you in the head? Or somewhere that will take a little longer? With the pressure down here you’ll bleed to death in no time, but you’ll still have time to get a closer look at my little device.”

They agreed on one point—the time for discussion was over. With the awareness of Nicola out in the corridor never far from his mind, he hoisted the Glock, casting a quick glance at the timer.

Thirteen minutes.

He sized up his opponent, waiting for his opportunity. As he focused he saw Didier’s hand tremble—he was clearly unfamiliar with his weapon, whereas Warren was a trained sharpshooter. He exhaled. He could drop or pivot to avoid Didier’s shot, then hit him on the rebound.

“The accuracy range on that old pistol is awfully narrow, and the potential for ricochet is very high. I hope you’ve been practicing.”

Didier’s face tightened in anger. “Let’s find out.”

Suddenly an almighty screech rang out in the tunnel and Nicola charged through the open door, wielding a length of rebar over her head. Didier spun at the commotion and she brought it down hard on his shoulder, the blow landing with a sickening
crack
as metal met bone. He cried out in pain and surprise, and as the hand on his injured side slackened the trigger dropped to the floor and rolled under the desk.

Twelve minutes
, it promised, the numbers luminous in the shadowed space.

“Nicola, get back,” Warren barked, keenly aware of the gun still clutched in Didier’s other hand. It only took seconds for Didier to recover, dragging himself upright, his expression practically demonic in the strange flickering fluorescent light.

Time seemed to slow as Didier redirected the barrel of the gun to point at Nicola. Warren’s pulse pounded in his ears until it blocked out every other sound. He tightened his grip on the Glock, his old friend, until it seemed to be as much a part of him as his flesh and bone.

Didier’s upper lip drew back to reveal pristine teeth, and his eyes were bright with hunger as his finger tensed on the trigger.

Warren exhaled. He had no choice.

He shoved in front of Nicola, forcibly pushing her back into the doorway. The shot rang out, deafening in the extreme acoustics of the tunnel, and then it was joined by her feminine shriek.

He jolted backward, as though he’d been punched in the stomach. Then came the pain, like someone had stuck a red-hot poker just below his ribs, followed by a wave of agony that blurred his vision and nearly sent him to his knees.

He looked at the stain spreading on his shirt, then back at the countdown.

Ten minutes.

All these years in the police, in the Special Task Force, running around the worst neighborhoods in South Africa and he’d never been shot. Tricky explosives disposals, high-speed car chases on difficult terrain, even that psychopath on the farm who’d somehow gotten hold of an antitank gun—he’d always survived. He’d always walked away in one piece.

Now I’m going to die at the bottom of a fucking gold mine.

He thought of Nicola. He thought of his sister.

Then he got angry.

Didier was staring at him incredulously, the pistol dangling loosely from his hand. As he met Warren’s gaze he seemed to shake himself back to reality and hefted the gun.

Harnessing every last shred of his rapidly diminishing strength, Warren gritted his teeth against the nauseating hurt and raised the Glock.

“What’s the matter, fearless leader, never shot anyone before? That makes one of us.”

Then he squinted, aimed and shot Didier right between the eyes.

The mastermind of the Matsulu rebellion crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Warren swayed on his feet and re-holstered the Glock.

Then he was out.

Nicola shrieked Warren’s name as his legs buckled and he fell to his knees, catching himself with his palms against the floor.

Her heart raced as she knelt beside him, yanked off her sweatshirt, balled it up and pressed it against the wound in his stomach.

“We have to get you out of here,” she told him frantically, her voice high-pitched as it bordered on hysteria.

He replaced her hand on the sweatshirt with his own, applying pressure to his side. “Get back to the elevator. I have to stop the timer.”

She glanced at the electronic device. Nine minutes.

She shook her head resolutely. “I’m not leaving you.”

He winced as he rose unsteadily to his feet. She reached for his arm to support him, but he shook her off.

“You’re wasting time,” he growled. “Just do what I say, for once, and go.”

She followed him as he staggered to where the device had rolled under the table, then sat down hard on the ground in front of it. As he reached into his jeans pocket and withdrew what looked like a tiny bolt cutter, she crouched beside him and touched his shoulder.

“Tell me how I can help. If there’s anything—”

“Dammit, Nicola, I told you to leave,” he snapped, and shoved her so hard she had to flatten her palms on the exposed rock wall behind her to keep from toppling over.

For a moment she remained, frozen, watching him study the mechanism. His hand shook violently as he traced a length of wire.

He’d taken her bullet, and now he wanted her to run to safety while he bled to death two miles underground. Her heart swelled to the point of bursting with love she’d never imagined she could experience, love so intense and consuming that it left her short of breath.

This man was willing to die for her.

And if she didn’t act quickly, he would.

She knelt beside him and took his chin in her hand, forcing him to look at her. Sweat streamed down his face and his eyes were glassy. He didn’t have much time.

“Listen to me, you stubborn, stupid man,” she commanded. “I’ve waited my whole life to meet someone like you. I love you, and I’m not leaving here without you. Now tell me how to turn this damn thing off.”

For several seconds they didn’t have to spare he simply stared at her, slack-jawed and blinking. Then he slumped against the table leg and closed his eyes.

“Didier gave himself too much credit. It’s not that sophisticated. Take these wire cutters. I’ll talk you through it.”

She took the tool from his loose grasp and repositioned herself closer to the trigger, steeling herself against the wave of panic that bubbled in her throat as her hand almost brushed the outstretched fingers of Didier’s corpse.

She swallowed hard. “Ready.”

“Do you see the thick black wire in the middle, the one that sticks up higher than the rest?”

Gingerly she picked up the clump of black plastic and wire. “I see it.”

“Cut it.”

She obeyed quickly, trying not to give herself enough time to think about what exactly she was doing, in case the incoherent terror that lurked at the fringes of her composure leapt out and overcame her.

“Now what?”

“The blue one. Behind the timer.” He sounded drowsy and out of breath.

Briskly she clipped the blue wire, and suddenly the clock began ticking down at more than twice its previous speed. Seven minutes became six in a matter of seconds.

“The countdown sped up—what do I do?”

He didn’t reply. His face was pale and still.

She shouted his name again, sharply, and his dark lashes fluttered. He opened his eyes to look at her from beneath heavy, sleepy lids.

“The countdown.” She gestured to the clock. “How do I stop it?”

“Small black wire all the way on the bottom left,” he murmured.

She dug around the contraption with clumsy, trembling fingers until she located the one he meant. She put the blades of the wire cutter against it, held her breath, squeezed her eyes shut—and snipped.

Silence.

Cautiously she opened one eye, then the other.

The digital screen was blank. The bomb was disabled.

“We did it!” she exclaimed, tossing the wire cutter in the air. “We did it, the countdown stopped!”

The smile slid from her face as she looked over. He was unconscious, and the black hair emerging from beneath his hard hat was in startling contrast to his ashen complexion.

She scooted over to him and took his hands in hers. They were clammy and limp, and she fought back tears as she spoke, determined to keep her tone strong and determined.

“Wake up now, Warren, we have to get you up to the surface.” She squeezed his hands. “The bomb is deactivated. It’s time to get you help.”