Seichan must have read the suspicion in his face. Her eyes bore into his. She plainly knew more but was unable to speak freely in front of the others. Something big was happening. The realization set his heart to beating harder.
“The matter is time sensitive,” she added. “If you’re coming, there’s a jet already fueling, and Kowalski is on his way to pick us up. We can swing by your apartment on the way out. Otherwise, we’ll be briefed en route.”
Gray glanced at the chair by the cold hearth. His father overheard their talk, his gaze fixed to his son’s face.
“Go,” his father said. “Do your job. I’ve got enough help here.”
Gray took comfort in that gruff permission, praying it represented some small measure of forgiveness by his father. But his next words, spoken with a harsh bitterness, dashed such hope.
“Besides, the less I see of your face right now . . . the better.”
Gray backed a step. Seichan took his elbow, as if ready to catch him. But it was the heat of her palm, more than anything, that steadied him, the reassurance of human contact—like that kiss weeks ago.
Mary had stepped into the room, drying her hands on a towel. She’d also heard those harsh words and gave Gray a sympathetic look. “I’ve got things covered here. You take some time for yourself.”
He silently thanked her and allowed Seichan to guide him toward the door. Gray felt the need to share some parting farewell with his father. The desire burned painfully in his chest, but he had no words to voice it.
Before he knew it, he found himself out on the front porch. He halted at the top step and took in a deep, shuddering breath.
“Are you okay?” Seichan asked.
He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ll have to be.”
Still, she continued to search his face, as if seeking a truer answer.
Before she could find it, the squeal of rubber on the pavement announced the arrival of his transportation. They both turned as a black SUV came to a hard stop. The window rolled down, allowing a pall of cigar smoke to waft out. The shaved head of a gorilla followed, chewing on a stump of a stogie.
“You coming or what?” Kowalski called hoarsely.
As much as the man aggravated him, Gray had never been happier to see his brutish teammate. He headed down the steps, only to have Kenny come rushing out after him, blocking his way.
“You can’t leave now. What am I supposed to do?”
Gray pointed back at the house. “It’s your turn. What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?”
He shoved past his sputtering brother and crossed toward the waiting SUV and Seichan’s parked motorcycle.
She kept beside him, slipping on her helmet.
“Who else has been assigned to us?” he asked.
“We’ve been ordered to pick up another two teammates, local assets already in the region, with unique skills to help us on this mission.”
“Who are they?”
She offered a ghost of a smile as she snapped down her helmet’s visor. Her words echoed out from inside, darkly amused.
“I hope you’ve had your rabies shots.”
2
July 1, 6:32 P.M. East Africa Time
Republic of Tanzania
The low growl warned him.
Already on edge, Tucker Wayne flattened against the brick wall of the narrow street and slid into the deeper shadows of a doorway. An hour ago, he noticed someone following him, watching from afar. He had managed to lose the tail quickly in the labyrinth of alleyways and crooked streets that made up this crumbling section of Zanzibar.
Who had found him?
He pressed his back against a carved wooden door. He intended to stay lost, undiscoverable. He had been adrift in the world for the past three years, now one year shy of his thirtieth birthday. Two weeks ago, he had reached the archipelago of Zanzibar, a string of sun-baked islands off the eastern coast of Africa. The name alone—Zanzibar—conjured up another time, a land of mystery and mythology. It was a place to disappear, to live unseen, and where few questions were asked.
People knew better than to be curious.
Still, he often drew second glances here, not because he was white. The ancient port of Zanzibar remained the crossroads for people of every race and color. And after a full year traveling through Africa, his skin was burned as dark as that of any of the local merchants hawking wares in the spice markets of old Stone Town. And he certainly struck a tall figure, muscular—more quarterback than linebacker—though there remained a hardness to his eyes that made any curious glance toward him skirt quickly away.
Instead, what attracted the most attention to him was something else, someone else. Kane brushed up against his thigh—silent now, with hackles still raised. Tucker rested a hand on his dog’s side, not to calm him but ready to signal his partner if necessary. And that’s what they were. Partners. Kane was an extension of himself, a disembodied limb.
While the dog looked like a hard-bodied, compact German shepherd, he was actually a Belgian shepherd dog, called a Malinois. His fur was black and tan, but mostly black, a match to his dark eyes. Under his palm, Tucker felt Kane’s muscles tense.
Half a block away, a thin shape burst around the next corner, careening in a panic. In his haste, he collided off the far wall and rebounded down the street, glancing frequently over his shoulder. Tucker sized him up in a breath and weighed any danger.
Early twenties, maybe late teens, a mix of Asian and Indian, his eyes wide with terror, his limbs and face sickly gaunt—from addiction, from malnourishment?
The runner clutched his right side, failing to stanch a crimson bloom from seeping through his white shift. The scent of fresh blood must have alerted Kane, along with the panicked tread of those bare feet.
Tucker prepared to step out of the shadowed doorway, to go to the young man’s aid—but the pressure against his legs increased, pinning him in place.
A heartbeat later, the reason became clear. Around the same corner stalked a trio of large men, African, with tribal tattoos across their faces. They carried machetes and spread to either side of the empty street with the clear skill of experienced hunters.
Their target also noted their arrival—igniting his already frightened flight into a full rout—but blood loss and exhaustion had taken their toll. Within a few steps, the victim tripped and sprawled headlong across the street. Though he struck the cobbles hard, he didn’t make a sound, not a whimper or a cry, simply defeated.
That, more than anything, drew Tucker out of hiding.
That, and something his grandfather had drilled into him: In the face of inhumanity, a good man reacts—but a great one acts.