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  “There it is!” Miranda pointed up a narrow alley where Graham’s dark Lexus completely blocked the passage.

  Matt braked and quickly gauged the possibilities. One side of the alley was a darkened storefront, the other a small bar. A rusted half dome light hung above the door, dimly highlighting a sign that read Half Jacks.

  He rounded to the next block and pulled over just shy of the alley, close enough to spot the chrome grill of Graham’s Lexus. He killed the lights and the engine, and they waited.

  “It would be a stretch to call this Glory Hill.” Matt checked his watch. Nine o’clock. “An hour ’til rendezvous time. I wager he won’t be here long.”

  “Aren’t you going inside?”

  “And risk Graham seeing me? Not on your life.”

  “Don’t you want to know what he’s doing or who he’s meeting?”

  “Definitely. But I’ll run a check on the place, see what crops up first.”

  She nodded and glanced back toward the darkened alley. “I bet you meet some interesting characters in your job.”

  Interesting wasn’t what he’d call it. He’d made a lot of enemies slogging around undercover and planned on making more. There was almost no reward, other than personal satisfaction, and the only thanks he got came from Nik. And yet, he wouldn’t do anything else.

  Just like Miranda. He couldn’t imagine her as anything but a veterinarian. She fit her job, wore it like a second skin, and nothing seemed to faze her. Not cramped confinement in a closet, not native bonfire dancing, nor it seemed, a run into the seedier side of Gaborone.

  “Some folks are more interesting than others,” he replied. “But relationships never last long. It’s hard to make friends when you wind up putting them behind bars.”

  A motor fired up, and the lights of Graham’s car kicked on. He began easing out of the alley.

  “Duck!” Matt whispered.

  They slid down in their seats as headlights from the Lexus swept over them. Seconds later, Matt turned the key and followed. They aimed northward, and the cityscape steadily improved the farther they drove. When they reached the affluent neighborhoods, a suspicion began to form.

  Apparently Miranda shared his thinking. “Isn’t this the way to that mansion we followed him to the other night?”

  “Yep.”

  The lights of Phakalane Golf Resort came into view. Gateway to the hills of Gaborone. And not a single one named Glory. Graham was headed for Weston’s mansion, he’d bet lunch on it. The Under Secretary took a huge risk. Either that or he was so confident in his own power that he flaunted authority and indulged openly in illicit business. Foolish, either choice.

  The now familiar road stretched out in front of them and, minutes later, Matt drove past the mansion as Graham pulled up to the gates.

  “So now will you tell me who lives there?”

  No sense keeping it secret at this point. “A local politician named Weston,” Matt answered.

  “Pretty high up the food chain based on the dollar value of that house.”

  “Afraid so.” Matt pulled far enough away and turned around in the road. He killed the lights and backed the Rover deep into a stand of trees.

  “It’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think?” she continued. “Naming your home Glory Hill?”

  “I should’ve figured it out.” Matt shook his head as he turned off the engine. “Weston is known for his enormous ego.”

  He unbuckled his seatbelt, then reached beneath the seat to pull out his 9mm. He snapped in a clip and lifted his pant leg to slide it inside his sock. All while wondering how to convince Miranda to stay put.

  She’d unbuckled, too, and twisted to face him in the seat with a look of concern. “What’s the plan?” she asked.

  “You will stay with the get-away car, and I’m going to scale the wall, get to a window, and see what I can see.”

  “I want to go with you.”

  “Absolutely not. There are security cameras, possibly dogs, and undoubtedly men with guns. And I don’t need the extra worry you’d cause.”

  “Swell.” She sounded disgruntled. “So I’m to stay put like a good little girl while you go play James Bond.”

  Yep, definitely unhappy.

  “No, Miranda. You’re manning the get-away car. I’m going to risk my neck to try to discover what’s going on. And I need to know you’re safe so I can focus on the job.”

  Her brow dipped in a frown, and he braced for an argument. Instead, she slid across the seat and grabbed his face between her hands, pressing soft, warm lips against his. “Be careful,” she whispered.

  For a stunned second, he couldn’t move. Every part of him wanted to explore her impulse further. With a colossal sense of regret, he reached for the door handle. “Whatever you do, don’t leave the vehicle. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

  Chapter 18

  Matt jogged deep into the woods, aiming to approach the mansion from an obscure corner, one that might be less closely watched. A six-foot high adobe wall surrounded the land, and he traced it until he found a promising spot to scale.

  A sprawling acacia tree extended its branches invitingly over the wall and, with an agility honed during his years of tribal village life, he scampered up the tree and stretched out flat on a smooth, thick branch. Motionless, he surveyed the grounds.

  Thick, lush landscaping and well-manicured lawns spelled good news for him, bad for Weston’s security. One lone camera sat atop a birdfeeder on a wooden pole and appeared to be all that monitored this remote corner of property. Mr. Egomaniac Politician didn’t lay out much cash for superior security.

  Mighty arrogant for someone dabbling in conflict diamonds. Why would he be such a fool? There had to be more than what lay in plain sight. Hidden cameras, motion sensors, the possibilities made him nervous as hell.

  Only one way to find out. As the camera swept the perimeter, Matt waited a cycle length to time its speed, then rolled off the branch and dropped to the ground. He aimed straight for the mansion and kept low, hiding behind every bush, shrub, and tree in his path. Senses attuned for the slightest irregularity, he made the outskirts of a patio garden with little difficulty.

  Which only made him edgy. He dashed to a scantily clad statue of a tall Greek goddess and peered through her bent elbow at the house. Weston’s security team either toyed with him or were incredibly sloppy. Which was it?

  Soft amber light glowed around a patio of Mediterranean tile and stucco, and he visually followed a long bank of windows stretching to the left. A few lights were on, but he saw no one within. He scoped to the right, down a dark and elongated wing that stuck out from the main body of the mansion. He opted right, dashing along a hedgerow and around to a small courtyard fountain.

  There he hit pay dirt. Another exterior wall stretched fifty feet or so, broken only by a huge stone chimney nestled between tall stately windows. And plenty of light spilled out, revealing a meeting in progress. He needed to get closer.

  From behind the cover of the fountain, Matt searched for another camera and found one mounted on the rooftop. He waited until the lens passed over his position, then made a beeline for the darker chimney and pressed flat against the chiseled stones.

  He swung to the left window first and peered inside. An elegant library spread out, masculine and old world in style. It exuded wealth and refinement, if one didn’t count the rough wooden crates stacked in the center of the floor and the two burly goons guarding them. They stood stoic, armed and dangerous, defenders of illicit trade.

  It wasn’t diamonds in those crates. A rush of adrenaline coursed through Matt’s veins, the kind that always fired when he hit his mark. He knew the level of diamonds running through Kanye would lead to big weapons. He just hadn’t counted on the pipeline shooting through the office of Botswana’s Under Secretary of Trade and Industry.

  Matt rounded the massive fireplace to peer into the opposite window.

  The
re stood Weston, Under Secretary soon to be jailbird. He kept well away from everyone and didn’t look happy. Graham, however, wore a smirk of satisfaction. The reason appeared to be the contents of a briefcase he was inspecting. He held a viewing loupe to his eye and used a pair of long tweezers to stir inside the case. He lifted a semi-cut raw diamond up to the loupe and turned it several directions before dropping the gem back into the case and pulling another, repeating the process.

  Did Victor Keyes know the diamonds he smuggled out of the country were payment for weapons? Or was Graham double dipping by brokering the arms deal and using Katanga to secret out the blood money?

  Matt counted five men in all. No, wait, six. A khaki-clad arm caught his eye. This guy swirled brandy in a fine crystal snifter while a square-cut diamond the size of the Kalahari glittered on his middle finger. Something nagged at Matt’s subconscious, and he strained for a better glimpse, but the man leaned back against the fireplace and only his arm was visible.

  Graham straightened, a nod of approval toward Weston. That set the crate-guarding goons into action. One pried open the top crate with a crowbar and lowered the lid to the floor. The other reached inside to pull out a semi-automatic rifle, expertly released the curved bullet magazine, checked the chamber, and delivered the empty weapon to the man with the square diamond ring.

  Matt really, really hated gunrunners, and an old fury sparked like a hot stone in his belly. These men didn’t care that they fed civil war. They didn’t care if soldiers died, innocent villagers died, and visiting missionaries were murdered.

  Every last man in that room was going down. He’d make damn sure of it.

  The mystery man set his snifter of brandy on a side table and accepted the rifle. He bounced the gun in his hand to test its weight and stepped away from the fireplace to lift it to his shoulder.

  Matt broke out in a sudden cold sweat. The stance, the dark hair now grayed at the temples, the swift aim of the weapon at the window where Matt stood, was all ghostly familiar. Ice crystallized down Matt’s spine as the man pulled the trigger at his own reflection in the glass and laughed.

  The past hit so viciously that Matt stumbled backward in shock, the numbness consuming him. It was the same elongated and deeply lined face he had stared at fifteen years ago, the same face he watched fire the shots that murdered his parents and destroyed his life.

  His hands began to shake as he fought for control. A red haze clouded his vision. He desperately wanted to bust through the glass windows, to lock his hands around the murdering bastard’s throat and squeeze.

  “See something interesting, mate?”

  The gravelly voice behind him cut a sense of inevitability through Matt. His jaw clenched, along with his fists, and he turned to face the threat. Two security guards stared back, one with an oily grin and the other, bigger one slapping a club into his palm with anticipation.

  “I think we scared him senseless, Pete,” said the larger of the two.

  “Easy pickings,” Pete replied. “A shame, too, looked forward to a bit of a tussle.”

  The odds were definitely not in his favor. Matt didn’t care. In a fury-induced need to strike back, he charged.

  * * * *

  What was taking Matt so long?

  Miranda glanced at her watch for the hundredth time. He’d been gone well over half an hour. Plenty long enough to take a peek and get back.

  Something was wrong.

  Antsy, she climbed out of the Land Rover and walked the short distance to the road. There were no street lights to break the darkness, just a meager moon and outdoor lighting from the mansion below. She stood perfectly still at the road’s edge, listening and watching. No alarms going off, no blaring lights to flush out an intruder. Everything quiet and normal. Still, a nagging feeling persisted.

  Should she go after him? Leaving was risky. What if Matt returned on the run and found her gone? On the other hand, what if he’d been caught and didn’t come back at all? She chewed a fingernail with indecision for all of ten seconds, then marched to the Rover and opened the back hatch.

  If she was going to race to the rescue, she needed a weapon. The usual collection of junk covered the floorboard. Jumper cables, tire iron, spare wiper blades. She grabbed the tire iron and tested its swing, but decided it too awkward and tossed it aside. A backpack sat in a corner and she grabbed it, dug around inside, but turned up nothing.

  Then a gleam caught her eye. She reached under the edge of the back seat and wrapped her fingers around a length of lead pipe. The two-foot piece felt unnaturally heavy, and she eyed the center. Concrete filled. She smiled and gave it a few swings. A gun would be her first choice, but this would do.

  Closing the back of the Rover, she took one long, deep, calming breath and headed off in the direction Matt had disappeared.

  * * * *

  Stars danced around the edge of Matt’s vision from that last blow, and he shook his head to clear it. That’s when he acknowledged the first stab of alarm. These two meant business. Nasty, mean, do-a-lot-of-damage kind of business. Not the kind of chaps one blindly charged and expected to overpower.

  From the look of these two, punishment was their specialty. But pain and agony wasn’t on his agenda tonight. He wanted inside that house, but getting captured to accomplish it wasn’t exactly to his advantage.

  He faced his opponents, knowing full well time was running out. The indoor goons no doubt heard the commotion. Reinforcements would be along fast.

  Another swing of the club came at him. He feigned right, dodging the worst of the blow, but it clipped him on the shoulder and needles of pain shot down his arm.

  “You two fight like pansies,” Matt baited as he shook feeling back into his arm.

  “You know, Pete,” said the big guy. “Can’t say I know what pansies be, but somehow I don’t think it’s a good thing.”

  “Our friend here’s none too smart.” Pete’s grin was far from friendly. “Insults don’t help his case much.”

  Before he’d finished his sentence, the big guy had charged. Matt twisted at the last second and spun his best roundhouse kick against his attacker’s solar plexus. Down he went, but rolled with an agility that belied his size. He jumped back on his feet within seconds. Barely long enough for Matt to deliver a backhand slam against the side of Pete’s head.

  With Pete down, Matt pivoted to face a very angry bull, one wielding the club of punishment. Matt dove for the gun hidden at his ankle and cursed. Gone. Lost in the struggle. In a desperate attempt at self-preservation, Matt threw himself against the bull’s legs, sending them both crashing into a neatly planted row of flowering bushes that circled the base of the fireplace.

  Matt broke free first and jumped up, intending to run like hell. But before he had a chance to land firmly on his feet, he was nabbed from behind and his arms yanked backward into a vise. Matt kicked, twisted, and tried dropping to the ground to break Pete’s hold. Nothing worked.

  Dread settled into his bones. A growling bull clambered out of the bushes, and when he snatched up his club, Matt cursed the fact that he hadn’t pulled his gun earlier. This was going to hurt.

  “You’re gonna pay for that one, doffie.”

  Instead of the club, the guy’s beefy fist connected with Matt’s jaw. His head rocked sideways and prisms of light pierced his vision. He blinked and kicked out, hoping to strike the bastard’s shin if nothing else.

  “Still looking for a fight, smartass?” The guy took a menacing step closer. “I got more for you.”

  “Not tonight you filthy creep!”

  For a stunned second, Matt thought he was hallucinating. Miranda, like an avenging angel, swung a pipe with criminal intent against the bull’s head. The sound of a sickening thud filled the air, and the guy’s eyes rolled back in his head. He dropped to the ground, unconscious and incapacitated.

  “What the shit?” Pete’s hold loosened.

  Seizing the opportunity, Matt kicke
d backward and nailed his captor’s kneecap. Pete yowled in pain, and Matt twisted free, then slammed a fist into the guy’s gut and followed with an upper cut to the jaw that landed him next to his bleeding friend, out cold.

  “A fine piece of work.” Miranda smiled at him. “You okay?”

  Okay? No, he was definitely not okay. His parent’s murderer stood within his grasp, along with enough firepower to take out an entire village, and he could do nothing about it. Not with her safety at risk.

  “What are you doing here?” he yelled. No point being quiet at this point. “I told you to stay in the Rover!”

  She still gripped the pipe in her fist, his concrete one if he wasn’t mistaken, and she shook it at him. “I just saved your miserable life!”

  “Not now!” They needed to get out of here. Fast. He grabbed her hand, intending to make a run for it.

  “Wait!” She yanked back and pointed up at the camera panning their location.

  What the hell happened to his brain? He wasn’t reckless, not the kind to lose common sense in a crisis. Anger at his lack of control ate at his already bruised gut.

  The skinny goon groaned, starting to come around, and Matt used the force of his frustration to level a kick to the man’s side, knocking him out again. That was when he spotted his gun, half-buried in mulch, and snatched it up.

  He glanced again at the camera, the seconds ticking away like hours. The lens moved past their escape route, but suddenly changed direction and began to pan back their way.

  Time was up.

  He propelled Miranda into motion, flew past the fountain and around the wing to the Greek goddess, and aimed straight into the heavily landscaped gardens.

  Lights kicked on all over the grounds. Alarms began shrieking, spurring them to greater speed.

  They ran, dodging shrubs and rounding trees.

  “This way!” Miranda veered off without even looking to see if he followed.

  With little choice, he changed course, determined to rattle sense into her when he caught her. She led them straight to a section of the boundary wall under repair. Half the plaster was gone, revealing a six-foot high section of crisscrossed steel rebar, perfect for climbing. How’d he miss that coming in?