Dark Lies (DARC Ops Book 6) Page 3

  “Leave it,” Macy said, whether or not they could understand. She wanted their bike. “Leave the bike.” These punks had stolen the old man’s cab fare. So now she could take their bike. As far as Macy was concerned, it was more than fair. And it was a good lesson, one taught for free. Any other street person here in Luanda would have shot them dead the second they opened the car door.

  Macy waved them away with her other hand while still aiming at the kids. “Go!” she cried. They understood go and the gun, the two kids running off into the night without their bike. They could come back and scoop up the money later if they wanted.

  She looked around in a three-sixty for the first time since leaving the car. She was alone. The car behind her had somehow left.

  Traffic sounds reached her ears again. The sirens. The wail of an ocean freighter. It was time to get moving.

  She jogged up to the scooter, pulled it upright off the ground by the handlebar, and then straddled it. It was an uncomfortable ride. Too small. And the engine was probably just slightly stronger than a lawnmower. But it was better than walking.

  A scooter could also maneuver around in some tight corners, and out of some tight spots. She would leave the hotel on it, taking alleys and back roads away from the city, trying not to stop for anything.

  Ten minutes of continuous travel and Macy no longer checked compulsively at her mirrors. She had weaved through a thinning horde of pedestrians and cars, approaching the first of many highways. She needed to put as much distance between her and Hotel Topenka as possible.

  It was a change of plans, that was all. Nothing to stress about. Instead of trying to make contacts at the shipping docks, she’d pursue one from her past. She’d been avoiding direct contact, not knowing how he’d take it, but it was time. After another few miles, Macy slowed to a stop alongside a gas station to check her phone. She pulled up the Luanda address of Kyle Raleigh, a man who owed her a favor. She’d already exhausted her resources looking for him at his other residence in Soyo. The address in Luanda would be her last chance.

  She was so fucking tired of this.

  Putting the phone back in her pocket, she checked her surroundings. Several cars had pulled into the station after she did. She waited for the occupants to step out of their cars before she drove off into the night.

  6

  Tucker

  A few hours later, the sun was just beginning to crest the mountains beyond a short runway in a mostly vacant airstrip in Zambia. Their re-fueling stop. It was in the middle of the country, tall burnt grass on both sides of the narrow tarmac. And it was a little more than halfway to Luanda, and Macy.

  The flight from Zambia was another three hours in the private Learjet that Jackson had arranged last minute. Despite Jasper’s assumptions, Jackson was all for the excursion. He’d arranged everything from Washington, and Tucker couldn’t help but feel impressed with the speed in which he assembled the plan. Tucker was new to DARC Ops, and it seemed like every day he was surprised by the breadth and scope of their operations—especially extracurricular ones such as this. It was a good gig. If he ever got into trouble, even OUTCONUS, he was sure he’d be looked after carefully. And quickly.

  As they approached Luanda on the second leg of their journey, time began moving much slower. The last several days of South Africa, and of planning the big DARC Ops mission, had kept him busy and stimulated—if not over-stimulated. But now, for better or worse, he had time on his hands. And he had worries and anxieties about what he might find in Luanda. Macy . . . seeing him might be a huge shock to an already disoriented—and probably distrusting—Macy. He was sure of that. What he wasn’t sure about was what that shock would turn into. How pleasant—or not—of a surprise would it be? He could see both scenarios playing out. He could also see himself leaving Luanda without her.

  God, he needed to stop thinking about her. The past was the past. Besides, it might even be her—his Macy. He closed his eyes again and leaned back, wiggling himself comfortable in his seat, this time ear buds stuck into his ears for the soothing sounds of an acoustic guitar. Folk music always made him sleepy. A few hours’ rest wouldn’t be bad.

  Luanda was nothing like he’d expected. Tucker knew about the highrises and the luxurious beachfront promenade. Money flowing straight from the oil wells and into construction cranes for developments at breakneck speed. They called it the Monaco of Africa.

  But ten miles out, it was just another poor African slum. He could still see it, in the distance, the mountains of money and steel. But on the outskirts, it was a different story.

  Kyle had chosen to situate his wife and kids in a wealthy housing development outside the town, where it was borderline rural and a hundred percent safe. It was the place that most expatriates moved to. It was well monitored, guarded by a tall, wrought-iron fence and roaming security personnel in suit jackets. Black suit jackets in the sun. Tucker didn’t envy them. Certain unpleasant memories came to mind, being fully suited up in the heat of an Iraqi summer. Though he assumed these guys saw a little less action. A fair trade-off, maybe.

  “Go ahead,” the guard said through the window of the entrance booth. The main entrance. The only entrance. Beth, Mrs. Raleigh, had called ahead and cleared it with wide-framed, six-foot-four gentleman who would, under no circumstance, smile back at Tucker.

  Tucker’s taxi brought him right to the driveway of the Raleighs, the noon sun shining brightly on the wealthy estate. A two-story craftsman-style home that looked more like New England than anything Tucker had seen on this continent. It was a new home. Freshly wood-paneled, two-car garaged. He’d heard about their old place through Jasper, who used the words “moldy” and “decrepit” in his description of his brother’s trailer in North Dakota. And that wasn’t all Jasper had said about Kyle. Oil work in Angola was a big step up from unemployment and misery-induced substance abuse. Kyle, through his brother’s favor with a Saudi Prince, had finally made a nice, lucrative life for himself across the world.

  Tucker suddenly almost felt bad for disrupting this idyllic life of Beth and her two children. He carried a lot of emotional baggage with him. It seemed to have piled on during his flight from South Africa, and certainly even more from back home in the US. There was a woman, somewhere near Luanda, needing help. A woman whom Kyle had almost gotten killed. Kyle’s home would be the obvious place to start, for both Tucker and Macy. The question now was who would get there first? And if Macy had, would she still be there?

  “I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” Beth said, smiling politely as she held open the large front door. “I’m still having a hard time believing all this, but here you are, so . . .”

  “I apologize,” Tucker said. “I’m sure you have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon.” He walked into the house and suddenly felt like he was back on home soil. He could smell cinnamon and maple syrup from the kitchen. Lazy morning breakfast with the kids.

  “I don’t mind,” she said, bringing him to a large oak table in the kitchen. “We actually don’t get many visitors. Well, some neighbors who live here, Americans, but, there’s not much of a social life outside the compound.”

  “The compound?”

  “That’s what we call it.”

  “It’s nice,” Tucker said, looking around for Macy. Where was she?

  Beth said, “It’s like a fortress, isn’t it?”

  Tucker brought his eyes back to her and smiled.

  She made a face at his politeness and said, “The fences and guards . . . It’ll be a shame when we get back to America and I’ll have nothing really to say when they ask me about Angola.”

  “I’m sure he likes that you’re safe.”

  “And bored to all hell.”

  “It can’t be worse than it was in North Dakota,” Tucker said. “No offense.”

  Beth smiled. “Not many things can be worse than that. Can I get you anything, Tucker?”

  “No, ma’am.” He looked up at the kitchen’s high ceiling, and out the brig
ht bay windows. “Well, the compound is one thing, but this house . . . it’s beautiful.”

  “It’s a nice change,” she said, gripping her coffee mug.

  Jasper was tapping on the table with his fingertips. He caught himself, and stopped.

  “You look anxious,” she said. “You’re wondering if we had an American visitor this morning.”

  “I didn’t want to be so abrupt, but yeah.”

  “She came.”

  “She was here?” His throat was dry. He almost choked when he said, “Macy Chandler?”

  “Macy was here very early. The sun hadn’t even come up yet.”

  “Is she still here?”

  “No.”

  “How did she get past the guards?”

  “I’m not sure. We didn’t actually talk much.”

  “What did she say? Why was she here?”

  “She’s looking for Kyle. She seems to think he can help her.”

  “You know about . . . what happened in Syria, right?”

  Beth nodded. “I know too much about that. For a while it was all Kyle could talk about. It almost ruined him, you know.” She cleared her throat. “And I hear that you might know Macy, too?”

  “We were friends back home.”

  “Are you sure I can’t get you a cup of coffee?”

  “How did she look? I’m sorry.”

  “No, I understand,” Beth said. “She looked tired. I won’t lie to you, she didn’t look well. She looked like someone who’s been on the road for far too long. On the run . . .”

  Tucker remembered the last time he’d seen her—a fresh-faced police recruit. It was hard to imagine what “on the road for too long” looked like. It was hard to imagine her on the road, at all.

  Tucker took a deep breath, Beth smiling and nodding as if to congratulate him for it. She shrugged. “It’s been a strange morning.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll try to relax,” he said, mustering up a laugh. “I’ll shut up for a minute so you can tell me what happened.”

  “She’s been trying to track down Kyle for almost a week now. It started up in Soyo. I don’t know how she found his address there. Kyle thought it all started from a magazine he was in, something about Saudi interest in African oil. They took his picture.” Beth took a sip of coffee, probably relieved to do it in silence. He’d already harangued her enough with questions. She brought the cup down to the table, cradled it in her hands. “She didn’t find him there, obviously. He was on his way home at the time. By home I mean this home. And when she came here this morning . . . well, you saw him in Johannesburg.”

  Tucker nodded.

  “Bad timing I guess.” She paused for moment, and then said, “She was a little evasive with the details. And she definitely seemed . . . troubled. She wouldn’t even stay long enough for breakfast. I guess she thought it would put us at risk. Me and the kids. Since Kyle isn’t around, I sort of agreed with her.” Beth shrugged.

  “That’s reasonable,” Tucker said. “And you don’t even really know her.”

  “Not at all. And Kyle is just a blue-collar type guy. Not an . . . operative, like you. I’m not really used to this kind of thing. It’s been a strange morning.”

  “She didn’t say what she wants from him?”

  “She wants him to help her.”

  “Help her how?”

  “She knows about his connections,” Beth said with a little smile. “Well, Jasper’s connections. She knows about you guys. DARC Ops.”

  That sent a dull buzzing sensation through Tucker’s brain. Macy knew already that he was part of DARC Ops? He’d barely been on board for a month. Was that her reason for tracking down Kyle? It seemed a little unlikely, given how new he was to the team. Maybe Macy had heard about what happened in Tripoli, and then just assumed Jackson would have the motive and resources to help her—with or without an old friend from St. Louis.

  “It’s not like she holds a grudge or anything,” Beth said. “She was very nice. She’s just also very desperate.”

  “I can imagine. Did she say where she was going next?”

  “No. She was very adamant about not saying.” There was a sound in the hallway, a toddler crawling on all fours across a hardwood floor. Beth kept her gaze on Tucker. “And I’m afraid that’s about all there is to say.”

  Tucker thanked her and then left, patting the head of a little girl on his way out the door. When he was back outside in the midday heat, on the blacktop driveway, he was glad to see his cab was still there, idling hot. He stared beyond it, across the road between two houses, and beyond them to the imposing black fence of “the compound.” Macy must have learned a few tricks over the years. It was good for her survival, but disheartening for Tucker’s search. Finding her might be a tougher task than he’d thought.

  7

  Macy

  Another hotel. She had resigned herself to another closet-sized room at the northeastern edge of the city, along the coast and underneath the flaming smokestacks of a busy oil refinery. The air around the refinery smelled like burnt rubber, making her eyes sting. It wasn’t pretty, but it was cheap and within walking distance to the Port of Luanda. In the morning she would try making some contacts there, see about fares for a cross-Atlantic voyage. It could be an official ticket and seat, or an under-the-table arrangement for human smuggling. She preferred the first option, as long as it didn’t attract too much attention. But at the end of the day, she was a beggar and without the luxury of choice.

  She could barely wait for the luxury of a hot shower, her first in three days. Macy stayed under the water for almost an hour, eyes closed, mind drifting off to home. She could be drifting there herself in less than a week, cutting across the Atlantic toward Brazil. The Port of Paranaguá. There she would feel closer to home, and safer—until she’d have to somehow make it North through Central America, and the border . . .

  Fuck it. What about Cuba? Maybe she could be granted asylum there. Fresh Cuban sandwiches and fine cigars. She could forget about the United States. Sure. Fuck America for what it had done to her.

  While Macy rinsed away the last suds of shampoo, a future with unlimited beach-side pineapple mojitos ran through her mind. She turned the water off with a rusty squeal, the water dripping away and leaving her cold. She stood there feeling more naked and alone than ever.

  Shoving the thoughts away, she toweled off and tried to get her mind back to Luanda. Life or death in Luanda. It was the same deal as last night, only this time the decoy room was next door. Not only that, but the two rooms were attached. A side entrance between them with a separate door on each side. Earlier, she’d gone inside the decoy to scope it out, studying the doors on her way back to her actual room. That was when the plan popped in her head.

  Before taking her shower, and before an unauthorized renovation project, she’d broken into a storage closet in the basement of the hotel in search of tools. The power drill she found inside made it easier to poke a hole through the door on the decoy side, and the spray can of lubricant made her door open without even the slightest squeak.

  The trap was set.

  If she heard someone in the decoy room, Macy would turn off her lights, open the connecting door, and then spy through her custom peephole. And if she didn’t like what she saw—and she assumed she wouldn’t—then she’d simply open the door and give the intruder a little surprise. A 124-grain greeting. It was simple. She’d drop him, collect her things, and then climb out her back window and back into the Luandan night.

  It seemed so simple in her mind, but in bed an hour later, when she eventually heard the sound of a chair leg scraping across the decoy room’s linoleum floor, her mind went to mush. She’d never seized up like that before, and she cursed herself in her mind as she finally found her way to the light switch. She flicked it off and stood in the darkness, collecting her wits for a moment before moving by memory to the side entrance. She slid off the safety on her Beretta and then slowly and silently opened the door.

  T
he peephole beyond it was still dark, as was the room beyond that. Macy crept up against the door, her hand moving up and feeling its way to her little custom window. She positioned her eye there and then waited for the first sign of light.

  Another sound, furniture bumping or something skidding across the floor. She could at least be certain that the person in the room didn’t have the advantage of night-vision goggles.

  Then came a loud thud, and someone taking a breath.

  Macy frowned. Did they stub their toe? Whoever was inside was even clumsier than she’d been. They certainly didn’t have the layout memorized. It was almost funny—for a half-second—until she remembered the comedian had arrived not to entertain, but to splatter her brains against the linoleum.

  She pressed the gun up against the wood of the door. If she had to be quick about it, a few surprise shots might save her life. Her rounds would travel through the thin, particleboard door with hardly any change in velocity. The scumbag who broke into her room wouldn’t know the difference. And if she hit him right, he probably wouldn’t even know what happened.

  Macy waited, trying not to keep holding her breath. She needed to go back to inhaling and exhaling slowly and steadily. But the room was still dark, and it was becoming harder to stand still and silent behind the peephole. Energy pinged inside her, her adrenaline building up and needing to explode out.

  For a long while—which was probably only one minute—she heard nothing.

  Was it all in her head again? Another ghost behind the shower curtain?

  The lights flicked on, a set of dim ceiling bulbs illuminating a slender African man with a black bandana over his face. He wore soccer shorts and a black t-shirt, just your typical Luandan kid out for a night of sport. Only it was blood sport and the kid was carrying a gun. It looked like an old revolver, a cop gun almost, not something a trained assassin would mess with. Macy breathed easier when he carried it away from her position, the kid walking with a strange limp toward the bathroom hallway. She watched him disappear around the corner.