WAR: Disruption (34 page)

The wound in his thigh had been reopened by a well-placed kick from the toe of Ziegler’s loafer, but the doctor had done a good job of stitching it closed. He’d even applied a topical analgesic so Max didn’t feel too much pain.

He took another hesitant step. Then another.

By his internal clock, he estimated that it took him ten minutes to walk one complete circuit of the tent’s interior. Okay. He wasn’t going to run any marathons, but if necessary, he might be able to walk out of here.

He plopped onto the chair behind Dietrich’s desk with a sigh of relief. While he felt one hundred percent more human now that he was clean and hydrated, what he really needed was a week of sleep and a couple of steak dinners.

Max studied his surroundings. The carpets on the floor displayed a repeating pattern of Dietrich’s black-and-white logo. Two sturdy chairs and a desk took up the center of the tent, all made from intricately carved ebony that would make them heavy bastards to carry.

A narrow bed in a matching base sat to the right, piled high with batik pillows in a variety of rainbow colors.

Huh. Not what he would have expected from the grim, ever-so-proper Dietrich.

Max examined the desk, hoping to find some details about the upcoming deal. Such as the exact location. Or the name of the buyer. But not a single sheet of paper littered the surface. The only adornments were an ornate silver lantern on one corner and a wooden pencil cup on the other. Dietrich obviously didn’t expect any resistance from Max, because he’d left pens and pencils in the cup. Hell, Max could even use the lantern as a weapon.

He searched the desk, but found nothing but a few empty file folders and two metal paper clips. Okay, so he hadn’t really expected Dietrich to leave incriminating evidence lying around. The man was too intelligent. With a mental shrug, Max took the paperclips, one pen, and one pencil and stuck them in the pocket of his tunic.

He hobbled over to a large steamer trunk, but it contained nothing but clothing.

Figured.

“Find anything interesting?”

Max startled and would have fallen if he hadn’t been gripping the raised lid of the heavy trunk. Taking a steadying breath, he turned to find Dietrich smiling at him from the entrance.

Max straightened. He studied the man he’d only observed from a distance. The life of an international arms dealer agreed with Dietrich. He’d removed his trademark fedora and his thick gray hair, slightly on the long side for a man of his generation, paired with his slight tan gave him the appearance of a movie tycoon. Faint age lines spread out from his thundercloud gray eyes. But for the most part, Dietrich’s face, neck, and throat were unlined. No doubt due to cosmetic surgery.

His sixty-plus years showed only in the liver spots on his hands.

Dietrich walked into the tent and placed a map on his desk. He sat down and indicated for Max to take the visitor’s chair.

It took all of Max’s will to walk over to the chair without limping or swaying, but he managed it.

Determined not to be the first to break the silence, Max waited for Dietrich to speak.

The man studied him for a long while. “How are you feeling? I apologize for your mistreatment at Herr Ziegler’s hands.”

“Yeah, I know you wanted to keep that little honor for yourself.”

Max had the satisfaction of watching Dietrich’s mouth tighten. But the man quickly got his emotions under control. “Max, Max,” he chided. “You have been nothing but a thorn in my side since that day outside of Fallujah all those years ago. Of course I wish to settle our score. Not only have you and your teammates cost me much money, but you nearly destroyed my career.”

“Your tough luck for selling weapons to people who kill thousands of innocents.”

Dietrich gave a delicate shrug. “But all thoughts of retribution must wait. You know what information I need from you.”

“Why don’t you spell it out for me? Just to make certain there’s no misunderstanding.”

Dietrich shook his head in disappointment. “Where is the briefcase you retrieved from my downed plane?”

“What makes you think I have this briefcase?”

“My men found the crash site. They located the courier’s arm. Someone had cut the man’s tendons with a knife and removed the security bracelet connecting him to the briefcase he had been bringing to me. My men are quite convinced that the locals had no knowledge of the briefcase.” Dietrich spread his hands. “So that leaves you and the white girl the locals claim was with you when you killed one of their men.”

Max’s pulse spiked. No way did Dietrich have Emily as prisoner. If he did, he’d have the briefcase. Which meant she was safe. For now. “To be honest, yes, we did retrieve your briefcase.”

Dietrich’s eyes flared with triumph.

“But the girl and I split a while back.” He shrugged nonchalantly, as if he didn’t care about Emily. “She took the briefcase and headed into the jungle. I have no clue where she is or what she’s done with the case.”

Dietrich gave him a lengthy, probing look. He tilted his head back, steepled his fingers under his chin, and stared at the ceiling of the tent. Several minutes later, he returned his cold gaze to Max. “I find that I believe you. That is most unfortunate. It means that you are no longer of use to me.” He stood, so Max did the same.

“You’re going to kill me?”

“Oh, no. That would be far too easy.” Dietrich gave him a faint smile. “I want you to suffer not just pain but humiliation, Maximilian Lansing. I want you to feel despair. Therefore, I believe that I shall offer you to my buyer as compensation for providing him with the original prototype, rather than the improved one that you have so inconveniently stolen from me.”

Max’s heart sank. Great. All that effort, all that risk to Emily’s life, had been for nothing. The deal was still going to happen. The buyer would get a powerful weapon to test against a target of his choice. Dietrich would get his money.

No. There had to be a way to stop the deal. And his best chance of escaping was if Dietrich thought Max was too weak to leave. With that in mind, he let his body sag. “Our little chat has been great,” he wheezed, “but the room’s kinda spinning.” To emphasize his point, he listed to the right.

“Yes, of course. I apologize. For a man who was so close to dying, you have shown incredible strength by sitting up for so long. I will have you escorted back to your tent.”

Max flinched at the thought of returning to that dark, filthy prison.

“No, no,” Dietrich reassured him. “Not the place where I found you. I have had a more pleasant tent prepared for you. My buyer will want you in good condition.”

No way in hell would Max let them turn him over to the buyer and send him to the labor or slave markets.

Dietrich called out in German and Johann stepped into the tent.

“Please escort—” Dietrich began, then he glanced over at Max. “Are you able to walk? Or would you prefer a stretcher?”

Max barely held back his growl. “I might…” Dammit, he hated showing weakness. But he truly needed to conserve his strength and playing the invalid worked in his favor. He dropped his gaze to the floor and cleared his throat. “A stretcher, please.”

MAX’S NEW PRISON tent barely had room for his cot. The guards had carried him in, laid him down, and manacled his right wrist to the cot’s metal frame before leaving him alone. That had been several hours ago. No one had been by to check on him since or even to bring him food or water. From the sounds of the camp, Dietrich had called his men together for a meal. Or maybe an inspirational speech.

Whatever. The absence of more guards worked in his favor.

Max twisted the lock pick he’d formed using the paperclips. The tumblers of the manacle’s lock finally clicked and the cuff fell open. Stupid of them not to have searched him, but then he supposed they figured he was too weak to walk out of here.

He circled his wrist to restore full circulation. Then—careful to make as little noise as possible—he broke off two of the cot’s wooden cross supports that ran underneath the mattress. Using strips torn from the blanket, he bound the supports together to form a makeshift cane. It wouldn’t hold up for long once he hit the rough floor of the jungle, but all he needed was to get out of camp. He’d make a new cane once he was out of immediate danger.

Satisfied that the cane was the right height, he took a series of practice walks. From the cot to the door. Back. Again.

He had to rest frequently, being careful to only sit on the edge of the cot where there was still horizontal support. About an hour later, he heard retching from the guard outside the door, then a thump.

Max rose and hobbled over to the door. He peeked out the tent flap.

The setting sun speared through heavy clouds to cast deep shadows across the dirt lanes between the tents. In front of the tent, the guard lay in a heap next to a steaming pile of vomit. Several tents away, two men slumped to the ground, retching and clutching their stomachs. A black plastic plate full of stew and rice tumbled to the dirt beside them. Water slipped from a fallen cup and pooled on the moist earth. On the other side of camp, a man called out an alarm.

All right. Either the food or the water was contaminated. Good thing he hadn’t eaten recently.

Max stepped out of the tent and paused. While the loose pants he wore were dark enough to fool a casual glance, his purple and white batik shirt marked him as different. So, supporting himself on his good leg and leaning heavily on his cane, he knelt down and removed the guard’s uniform shirt. After switching shirts, he stuck the man’s cap on his head and slung the man’s HK417 assault rifle over his shoulder. Then he eyed the guard’s feet and compared the size to his own. Close enough.

Max put the man’s boots on. They were slightly loose, so he’d probably end up with blisters, but better that than tear up the soles of his feet walking through the jungle. Satisfied, he stood up.

Now. Which way to go? He couldn’t see the jungle, only more tents.

Hmm… Right sounded good.

He started walking.

A figure rounded the corner of the tent behind him. Max ducked his head and kept hobbling, but dammit, his cane was a dead giveaway.

“Max, stop! You’re going the wrong way.” The whispered command had him spinning around so fast he overbalanced.

Emily, wearing the uniform of one of Dietrich’s soldiers, rushed in to support him. “Quickly. This way.”

“Wha— How?”

“Later.”

Emily led him through the maze of tents. The scent of vomit permeated the camp. Men lay bonelessly where they’d fallen. Plates and cups littered the ground. A couple of men raised their heads and glared at him and Emily, but none managed to get to their feet to stop them. “What the hell did you do?”

“Put the powder of some poisonous seeds in the water,” Emily explained, tugging on his waist to steer him down a narrow alley between two tents. The alley ended at a clearing with several parked Jeeps and Land Rovers. “It took me an hour to grind enough seeds to get a sufficient amount of powder that I felt confident it would take out the whole camp.”

“Where’d you put it?”

“In the water containers they left by the river. I slipped the powder into the containers just before dinner.”

Smart, but dangerous. “You didn’t get any of the powder on your skin, did you? Or breathe it in?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, Max. I’m not a complete idiot. Wil talked me through what precautions to take. I—”

“What? You talked to my
brother
?”

“Yes. I’ll explain later. The important part is that I used a pair of surgical gloves to protect my hands and covered my nose and mouth with a bandana, then disposed of everything properly.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Still, he didn’t want to think about the danger she’d been in. Not only while adding the powder, but also while stealing the uniform.

Just as they reached the edge of the parking area, Max heard the roar of several vehicles approaching. “Cars coming!”

Emily must have heard the vehicles too, because she peeked into the nearest tent, then pulled him inside. Along two of the walls, empty boxes and crates were stacked neatly inside one another. A couple of automotive toolkits sat to their right.

Balancing on his cane, Max slid back the flap to the tent just far enough to let him and Emily watch what was happening.

A convoy of six Toyota Land Cruisers and two Hummers drove into the car park. They stopped and disgorged about two dozen security men, all dark skinned Africans. The men took one look at Dietrich’s unconscious guards and the pools of vomit next to them and immediately retreated to stand by their vehicles. After conferring with someone in the lead Hummer, four men broke away and headed into the camp.

Emily tugged on Max’s sleeve.
Buyer
, she mouthed, lifting her eyebrows in question.

He nodded. By his calculations, the deal was supposed to take place tomorrow. Either his info was wrong, or the buyer was early. Or he’d lost a day being unconscious.

Several minutes later, the buyer’s men reappeared, holding a limp, pale Dietrich between them. As they approached the buyer’s vehicles, Dietrich heaved. The men dropped him and backpedaled as he threw up.

Max grinned. Ah. Finally, a measure of justice.

When Dietrich had recovered, the men hauled him to his feet and dragged him over to the main Hummer. Once again they spoke with someone inside, then Dietrich was transferred to the cargo compartment of one of the Land Cruisers. The buyer’s men climbed back into their respective vehicles and the convoy left.

“We have to follow them,” Max said. “There’s a second prototype.”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Emily snarled as she led him into the car park and toward a Land Rover on the far side.

“Trust me, I wish I wasn’t. Dietrich wanted the briefcase we found because it contains the plans and prototype for a more recent, improved weapon. But he has an earlier prototype ready to pass on to the buyer as a backup plan. We still have to make sure that the deal doesn’t go through.”

Emily growled in frustration and indicated for him to get into the Land Rover’s passenger seat. As he complied, he noticed that her rucksack already sat on the back seat. So. She’d really planned this out. Smart.