WAR: Opposition: (WAR Book 3) (2 page)

T
aking
advantage of one of the few places along the road where her cell phone had sufficient signal, Kirra Neilson typed a quick message to her older brother, Dev. Then she scowled at her phone. Dev had never responded to her email notifying him of her upcoming performance at the Shine a Light benefit concert in the United African Republic. If he didn’t respond to her text asking if he’d meet with her at one of the designated stops, well, at least she’d done the responsible thing and contacted him.

She sighed and hit SEND. Most likely, Dev was simply too busy with his secret missions to even check his messages.

Swiping a bead of sweat from her forehead, she took a sip from her water bottle. The ocean peeked between the trees to her left, but instead of offering relief, the late afternoon sea breeze added to the heat and humidity inside the non-air-conditioned bus. Most of the local women wore sleeveless or short-sleeved tops, but Kirra had been wary of drawing more attention to herself by revealing the scars on her arms, so had opted for a seashell pink, gauzy shirt with full-length sleeves. Which was now plastered to her skin by sweat. She fanned herself with her hand and her seat mate, George, gave her a sympathetic smile.

“How much longer until we reach the way station?” Kirra asked. George claimed to be on his way to visit his sister and her children. She’d met him at the airport in the capital of Dahomey. Her plane had been grounded due to mechanical issues and there had been no seats on any flights heading north until next week. With a series of storms threatening the region, she’d wanted to get up to the UAR as soon as possible. The concert to raise money for the victims of the rebels was too important for her to miss, so she’d hired a taxi to take her to the bus station.

Since Dev continued to mistake her childhood irresponsibility for lack of intelligence, he’d be surprised that she’d made it this far.

Frustrated when all the coach buses had either been full or had already left for the day, she’d been relieved when George had befriended her. He’d found her a spot on this repurposed school bus headed west to New Accra in Volta. From there she’d try to get on a coach bus heading north to the UAR.

She had a few days before anyone involved with the concert would miss her.

“Not long now. Perhaps another half an hour.” George gave her his shy smile. She figured him to be in his middle forties, an average looking man with a slight paunch, sad eyes, and medium brown skin. Yet he also seemed tenser than the other passengers, as if expecting trouble. It wasn’t obvious, but Kirra was trained to read subtle body language cues. Although he held himself in an outwardly relaxed pose, his muscles were tensed, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

Why? The rebels weren’t active in this section of West Africa. At least, not according to the research she’d done before leaving home. If George had concerns about attracting the attention of any rebel sympathizers among the passengers, he wouldn’t have offered to help Kirra, a white woman. The rebels were notoriously anti-foreigner.

George’s tension might be due to anticipation of a strained meeting with his family, but he’d appeared relaxed and happy when he spoke of them.

His underlying wariness added a note of discord to his pleasant demeanor as he’d played tour guide, pointing out the occasional wild animal along this coastal road and giving her a history of the people. This was her first trip out of South Africa and she found the differences in culture and environment fascinating. Already the sights and sounds had inspired several ideas for new songs.

She shifted sideways and craned her neck to check that her guitar—her lifeline once she’d emerged from the coma—still rested securely in the luggage rack up front. Yep. She spotted its neck between a bulging bag of yams and two suitcases. Satisfied, she settled back in her seat and rotated her ankles. After sitting for so long, she couldn’t wait for the next stop when she could stretch her legs.

She pulled her backpack onto her lap and replaced the water bottle, then reached for her—

An explosion threw Kirra back into her seat. Her cell went flying down the aisle.

“The rebels have bombed the bus!” a man screamed from the front. “Run!”

Automatic gunfire punctuated his words.

Passengers leapt to their feet and fled down the aisle toward the rear exit. Heart pounding, Kirra glanced toward the front. Flames engulfed the bonnet and poured through the broken window, licking at the items in the luggage rack.

“No!” Her hand reached out as her guitar case caught fire. Her guitar had been her savior. Her reason for holding onto life. She couldn’t lose it. She’d—

“Hurry!” George cried. He shoved Kirra into the aisle and her backpack tumbled to the floor. Trained to never leave anything behind that could identify her, Kirra automatically snatched the pack up before the river of panicked passengers carried her swiftly to the exit.

The people ahead of her either jumped out or fell out the door. “No. Wait!” Kirra cried. But fear fueled the crowd. Someone shoved Kirra and she plummeted into open air.

Kirra tried to land properly as she’d learned in self-defense class, but the weight of her backpack threw off her balance. She landed hard on her right shoulder. Her backpack slammed into her hip. A woman jumped from the bus and landed on Kirra’s foot.

“
Eina
!” Kirra cried out.

The woman didn’t even glance at Kirra. She simply corrected her balance and joined the fleeing crowd.

A man with his back on fire leapt out of the bus. He hit the ground, rolled until the flames were out, then jumped to his feet and fled.

More gunshots. Closer now and accompanied by shouted orders. The people closest to Kirra dropped to the ground. At first she thought they’d done so to protect themselves from the flames shooting from the back of the bus. Then she saw the bloody wound on the back of a nearby woman and realized she’d been shot.

Kirra’s stomach churned at the sight of blood, but another round of gunfire kicked her survival instincts into full gear. Her heartbeat settled. Her mind entered that clear, peaceful space she’d needed during a heist.

Had George been shot? She scanned the area, but didn’t see him.

“Move,” she muttered to herself. She pushed to her hands and feet.

A shadow loomed over her from the left. Before she could roll out of the way, a hand reached down, grabbed her arm, and yanked her to her feet. “Look what we have here!” The dark skinned man wearing black fatigues with a red and green patch shook Kirra hard enough to make her teeth rattle. “I found a white lady.” He leaned in close. “Do you know what we do with white ladies?”

“Go to hell!” Kirra yelled, then butted him in the nose with her forehead. Pain blossomed where she’d hit him, but she ignored it. The man bellowed in rage and his grip lessened. Kirra twisted free and ran.

A rock stabbed into her foot through the thin soles of her plastic beach sandals. She stumbled. Two sets of hands grabbed her. She twisted, kicked, and jabbed with her elbow and fingers. She used every move her self-defense trainer had drilled into her with hours and hours of practice but it did no good. Neither rebel appeared to feel pain.

One of them laughed, then ordered, “Enough!” He slammed his fist into her temple.

Kirra’s head snapped to the side. The world went fuzzy.

W
hen the world
came back into focus, she found herself being dragged toward the dark, gaping doorway of a decrepit building half-covered with vines.

Screams. Darkness. Warm blood coating her arms. Cruel voices taunting. Pain. So much pain she couldn’t think…

A spike of headache cut the memories off as her mental block once again prevented her from fully remembering. Yet her body trembled under the echoes of violence and her spirit tried to curl up in a ball and hide deep inside.

“No!” She wouldn’t be a victim again. She struck out at her captors, but her limbs responded sluggishly. Her blows were pathetically ineffective.

The rebels chuckled. “It is no use fighting us, woman,” the one on her left said. He leaned in so close that she smelled the tobacco on his breath. “There won’t be enough of you to identify when we get through with you. Because you know what we do to women, don’t you?” He gave her a vicious leer.

Everyone knew what the rebels did to women. Rape. Mutilation. Death.

The rebels dragged her through the doorway and across a concrete floor covered with dust. Kirra caught a whiff of urine and animal droppings and the scents took her back to the warehouse.

Her own voice, barely recognizable, screaming for them to stop…The crunch as her cheekbone shattered beneath Franz’s kick…

Panic swamped her, giving her strength. She fought wildly, all training forgotten. She couldn’t stay here. She’d die this time. She had to break free.

But the rebels only laughed. They dragged her into a back room and shoved her to her knees. Kirra screamed and tried to stand up, but one of the rebels yanked on her hair, tilted her head back, and pressed the tip of his AK-47 to her forehead.

“Stay still.”

Kirra froze. Looking up into his hate-filled, dark eyes, she knew he would kill her in a second. She wasn’t a human being to him. Just an object on which to vent his anger.

Shoving her panic far away, she took a careful breath. She had to save her strength if she wanted to make it out of here alive. No more frantic fighting. Next time she fought, it had to matter.

The other rebel grabbed her wrists.

Kirra’s stomach lurched at his touch and the panic pushed forward again.

No. She could do this. She could hold it together. But God, the feel of his fingers around her wrists threatened to shatter her control. She shuddered on a wave of terror and nausea that threatened to bring forward more of her blocked memories.

To hold back the panic, she dredged up anger and glared up at the rebel standing above her.

Cold metal touched her wrists, followed by the familiar snick of handcuffs locking. She flicked her eyes toward her hands and saw that the other rebel had fastened the cuffs to the rusted iron security bars covering the window.

Kirra bit back hysterical laughter. Handcuffs. If they only knew what they’d just done.

The rebel above her pressed his gun harder against her forehead, then stepped back, removing both his gun and the hand holding her hair. She let her head sag forward and shifted her wrists higher so that the cuffs didn’t press so hard against her wrists. She could not afford to become sick in front of these men.

Is this how her parents had died? On their knees in front of the rebels? Or had they died in the initial explosions that rocked the peace summit? Dev had only told her that their parents hadn’t suffered, which everyone knew was code for “you can’t handle the truth.”

“This is yours?” the rebel in charge demanded as he dumped her backpack on the floor next to her.

Kirra nodded.

“Search her,” the leader told the other man. “I will search the bag.”

The rebel was not gentle or respectful as he ran his hands over Kirra. When she flinched, he grinned and groped her even harder. Then his fingers found her money belt.

“Look here.” The rebel fumbled with the fastener, then yanked the belt free.

He unzipped the pouch, revealing her passport, money, and travel documents. “Miss Kirra Neilson from South Africa.” He spat out the name of her country as if it were poison. “You do not have much money. I hope that this credit card has a high limit.”

“Stop wasting time,” the leader snapped. “Finish your job.”

“Yes, sir.” Her searcher shoved the money belt and its contents into his pocket, then ran his hands over her again, a bit rougher this time.

Ignoring him, Kirra focused on the man going through her backpack. He was more professional than his groping friend and didn’t show any reaction at all, even as he unrolled her underwear. The only emotion he showed was when he unearthed her bag of tampons and sanitary napkins. He peeked inside, then grimaced and dropped the bag onto the floor as if it were on fire. Once he’d pulled all her personal items out of her pack, he patted the bag down, peering into every pocket as if he expected to find hidden treasure.

The rebels finished their searches at about the same time. With a disappointed shake of his head, the leader glanced over. “Nothing in her pack.”

“It is not hidden in her clothing or on her body,” her searcher replied.

Kirra fought to keep the surprise off her face. What were they looking for? Why did they think she had it? Or was everyone on the bus being searched? They’d shown no recognition of her name, so they didn’t know her history.

The rebel leader slid his knife out of its sheath.

Kirra inhaled sharply.

The man gave her a sharp smile.

She tensed.

A
s the sun
kissed the horizon, Dev Neilson finished drying off and tossed his towel onto the sand next to his surfboard. Today’s waves hadn’t been as big as he’d hoped for, but after the stress of the past few months, simply being out on the ocean again had taken a weight off his shoulders.

When he returned to headquarters he’d have to thank Obi for the tip on this beach.

Dev flopped down onto his towel and tipped his head back, enjoying the warmth of the breeze against his skin without the barrier of greasy camouflage paint.

He’d never stop having nightmares about coming across the mutilated victims of the Hospital Massacre, but riding the waves had a way of putting life into perspective. The ocean didn’t care what people did to one another. The ocean remained the same no matter how much violence and injustice troubled human civilization. If you weren’t strong enough to survive her swells and storms, well, the ocean didn’t care about that, either.

Which made it dangerous to surf alone, but that danger seemed a hell of a lot tamer than what the rebels did to their victims.

A seagull screeched and dipped toward the water. The birds were his only companions on this narrow strip of beach. He sighed in pleasure. After months of living with his teammates, he relished the privacy. Nothing but the salty ocean air, the crashing of the waves against the shore, and the birds.

It reminded him of home. Before Kyle’s death had ripped apart their family and Kirra had been sucked into the dark side.

No. He wasn’t going there. He was on vacation. This was his time to relax, not to revisit the past.

His satellite phone beeped, indicating a new text message. He froze. His teammates knew he needed this time off, so if they were texting him, there had to be trouble.

He picked the phone up.

Coming through Volta on way to benefit concert in UAR. Would love to meet up if you have the chance. I’m on the VTE local bus from Cotonou to New Accra. Love, Kirra.

Dev stared at the phone. No. His sister couldn’t possibly be that stupid, could she? He read the text again, then barely curbed the impulse to throw it across the beach. Furious, he surged to his feet and quickly gathered up his things. What in the hell had Kirra been thinking, taking a public bus through West Africa? Hadn’t she been paying attention to the news? Didn’t she realize that a white woman on a bus made a perfect target for the anti-foreigner rebels?

No. Of course not. His sister had never shown any interest in the news.

Damn her. She’d been so much more subdued since she awoke from her coma six years ago that he’d assumed she’d become more cautious.

Apparently not. Apparently Kirra still didn’t have any more concern for her own safety than their parents had. What was it with the other members of his family coming to West Africa to be killed?

To hell with that. He was finding Kirra and sending her ass back to South Africa. He would not lose her to the rebels as he’d lost his parents.

He shot off an answering text:

Do not leave the bus unless you are with other people. Do not go anywhere alone. You are in danger. I’m coming.

Hoping Kirra would get the text and, for once in her life, actually listen to him, he slung his pack over his shoulder, snatched up his board, then raced toward his Jeep.

He shouldn’t be surprised by Kirra’s recklessness. She and her twin, Kyle, had aged him at least ten years with all the times he’d had to rescue them from their escapades. Why did he expect that she’d really changed?

He dumped the surfboard into the back seat of his Jeep, tossed his pack into the passenger seat, then jumped behind the wheel. Sand kicked up behind his tires as he sped off the beach and onto the pitted dirt road.

Bureh’s rebels had recently started attacking public buses and taxis. Sometimes they simply robbed the driver and passengers. Other times they captured or killed the passengers. The practice was so random that no one could predict which vehicles would become targets or what the fate of the passengers would be.

And neither WAR, the underground, anti-rebel organization Dev belonged to, nor the local governments had the manpower to put guards on every bus.

Damn, damn, damn.

A sudden gust of wind flung debris against the windows. He flicked a glance out to sea and saw clouds amassing at the horizon. Just what he didn’t need. Now he had to find Kirra before the storm hit.

He’d been trying to be a better brother since Kirra’s attack, yet he never knew what to say to her. Somehow he always ended up putting his foot in his mouth and pissing her off.

If he hadn’t been so harsh with Kirra during their last conversation would she have given him advance notice of her trip? Because he had no doubt that telling him after she’d already arrived in the region was deliberate. It was typical Kirra. A way of avoiding an unpleasant confrontation by contacting him too late for him to forbid her to come.

Once the Jeep reached a section of road without overhanging palm trees blocking the line of sight to the sky, he jammed his phone’s earpiece in and speed-dialed headquarters. Then he tossed the phone onto the console and waited for the call to go through. Their satellite phones were great in that they allowed the team to text or call in areas not covered by regular cell phones or where the rebels had destroyed the cell towers, but sometimes the connection took a while. One of these days, Dev hoped the team would get satellite phones that had web browser capabilities, but for now they had to rely on field laptops or calling HQ.

“Montgomery Enterprises.” The name of the team’s cover company was spoken with a slight Swedish accent, and a bit of Dev’s tension eased. Lars was his team’s communications expert and the one most likely to pull up the info he needed quickly.

“Hey, Lars,” Dev replied.

“What’s wrong?” Lars demanded. “It must be life and death for you to interrupt your vacation.”

“
Ja,
it is.” Dev blew out a breath. “I just learned that my sister is in the area and she’s riding a public bus. I’m afraid the rebels will target it. I need the schedule for the VTE local bus from Cotonou to New Accra and directions to the closest scheduled stop to this location.” Dev stopped the Jeep so he could pull up his phone’s map feature—a compass and map being one of the few features the phone did possess. He rattled off his coordinates from his phone’s GPS.

“Hold on a sec…You want to head to Tokorou.”

Dev studied the map. “Brilliant. I’m perhaps an hour, hour and a half away. Thanks.” He threw the Jeep back into gear and stomped on the accelerator.

“My pleasure. Good luck with your sister. Once she’s safe, try to enjoy the rest of your vacation.” The worry in Lars’s voice made Dev wince. Yeah, he’d been skating a little too close to the edge these past few months. But Jesus, seeing what Natchaba’s men had done to their fellow citizens during the Hospital Massacre had completely thrown his view of war into a different realm.

Dev had witnessed brutality before. But in all of his years in special forces he’d never come across such vicious, dehumanizing violence. Some of the people they’d found alive had been nothing more than faceless torsos without arms or legs. Their eyes, for the ones who still had them, had begged Dev and his teammates for a quick, clean death. Which they’d provided.

Simply remembering it made him feel ill. But it also made him more determined than ever to stop Bureh’s rebels and this mindless campaign of violence. And to make certain that his sister didn’t become their next victim.

Damn his parents. If they’d spent as much time raising their children as they had fighting for political and social justice, then maybe they’d have reined in Kirra’s wildness. Prevented her from becoming the type of woman who would follow their example and ignore the danger inherent in visiting West Africa.

As Dev raced toward the main road, he settled into battle mode. His target was the bus his sister was on. His mission was to get his sister’s butt into his Jeep then onto the next plane home.

God help anyone who stood in his way.

T
he rebel leader
stabbed the tip of his knife into the lining of Kirra’s backpack.

A gunshot sounded from the front of the building, followed by the bark of a command. The rebel leapt to his feet and bolted out of the room with his comrade hot on his heels.

Kirra sagged against the handcuffs. That had been too close.

“You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?” Dev chided.

She winced.

A cacophony of shouts, screams, and pleas in both English and the local languages filled the air, accompanied by more gunshots.

Footsteps pounded outside. Kirra raised her head and looked out the part of the window not blocked by vines. Past the weed-infested dirt that surrounded the building, a wide stretch of head-high grass led up to a grove of coconut trees. A second later, George came tearing around the corner of the building, two rebels on his heels. He’d almost made it to the protection of the grass when one of the rebels fired his AK-47. Bullets tore into George’s legs, creating dark red patches across his trousers.

His cry of pain covered up Kirra’s own scream as George pitched forward onto the ground. He hit the dirt and immediately started crawling toward the tall grass.

The rebels reached George. One of them stomped on George’s legs to hold him in place while his comrade quickly searched him.

What on earth were the rebels looking for?

The rebel who’d been doing the frisking gestured angrily, then bent close to George. He must have asked a question, because George shook his head.

“Where are they?” the rebel shouted, kicking George in the ribs.

Kirra flinched, feeling an echo of pain from when Franz’s kick had broken her own ribs.

George must not have given the rebel the answer he wanted. After a few more questions, the rebel shot George in the head, then kicked his injured legs for good measure. He took George’s wallet and phone, then he and his comrade stomped toward the front of the building.

Kirra’s gorge rose and panic tried to choke her. Her gaze skidded away from George and the bloody hole in his head. Since the attack, she couldn’t bear the sight of fresh blood on skin.

Tears stung her eyes. George had been so nice to her. And now he was…was…

Another shot from the front of the building galvanized her into action.

She twisted her wrists inside the cuffs, shooting a glance toward the door to confirm that from this angle no one could see her from the front. Then she closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the handcuffs tear her skin.

It didn’t take long to manipulate herself free. The gang of thieves she’d belonged to had made a game out of who could escape from handcuffs and other restraints the fastest. They’d also practiced blindfolded, in case they needed to escape in the dark. Kirra had always been one of the top three.

She shook out her hands, then opened her eyes. As expected, the escape had bloodied her wrists. Her stomach lurched.

No! Concentrate.

Averting her gaze, she took a deep breath. Okay, what would Thabo do? Her self-defense trainer was retired from the South African military. He’d drilled into her head that when faced with a dangerous situation there were four things she needed to do. Stop. Assess. Plan. Execute.

In other words, she had to use her brains to get out of here. Brains Dev didn’t think she had. Well, she’d just have to prove him wrong, wouldn’t she?

She studied her surroundings.

A few meters to the right of the window, a door led to the area behind the building. That’s how she’d leave.

Kirra crammed her strewn belongings into her backpack, removed her
plakkies
—the plastic beach sandals would only slow her down—then slipped her arms through the pack’s straps. She dashed over to the back door and yanked on the handle, but the door didn’t budge. Bracing against the wall with one foot, she tugged again. This time the door gave with giant crack, pulling entirely away from the frame.

She jumped back, barely avoiding having her toes pinned as the door crashed to the floor. Dust rose in a cloud and she shoved her arm against her mouth to muffle her coughing.

A quick glance toward the main door showed no approaching rebels. They must not have heard the noise over the screams and gunshots.

Her stomach clenched. The rebels were likely killing people, but if she went out there she’d also die. Once she was safely away she’d find a place with a public phone and call the authorities.

She peeked out the back door and did a quick visual scan. Not spotting any rebels, she raced across the strip of dirt and into the tall grass.

Hoping that the late afternoon shadows would help mask her passage, she burst through the grass and into the grove of coconut trees. She’d only made it a few meters into the trees when one of the rebels raised the alarm. Kirra swore mentally and ran faster, ignoring the pain of stones and sticks under her bare feet. Dammit, the coconut grove was not meant for hiding prey. The trees were spaced too far apart and the underbrush was sparse. She had to make it to the beach and the safety of the rocks.

Just…a little…farther.

Pausing only a millisecond at the edge of the trees where the coconut grove met the road, she checked that she wouldn’t be visible to any oncoming groups of rebels, and that there were no approaching cars. Then she bolted across the road and scrambled down the rocks bordering the strip of beach. Beaches she understood. She and her twin had spent hours hiding from Dev along the beach near their home.

Those years of experience helped her keep her balance against the bulky, uneven drag of her backpack. The wind drove sand in her nose and eyes, and whipped her hair into her face. She shoved her hair behind her ears and picked her way from rock to rock, avoiding the sandy places that would show footprints.

She climbed over a spit of rocks and palm trees that divided the beach. Once the rocks blocked her from the sight of any pursuers, she paused and listened. She heard shouting, but it sounded distant, as if the rebels hadn’t yet made it onto the sand. Good.