The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(58)

Their host finally made an appearance, dressed in full uniform, the numerous medals pinned to his jacket covering only a small portion of his massive chest. He swaggered around the campfire, slapping backs with his bearlike paws, a cigar hanging from the left side of his mouth. The heady tobacco scent infused the air. Thea was right—it was Christos’s favorite brand.

The drumming intensified, the earth thumping to the beat. Roasted goat, a hundred men who hadn’t showered in days, the threat of scorpions and snakes. Best party he’d been to in a long time. Right. The last time he’d been in the desert, it had ended disastrously.

It had been a perfect night for a raid. A sandstorm shrouded the UN food depot in an ominous brown cloud. Rif continued patrolling the perimeter, a gust of wind blasting sand into his eyes. His lips were caked with dirt, so he spat out the gritty bits, then tramped past the spindly security gate in search of rebels. Standing orders were to shoot on sight. Everyone knew about the curfew, and they had to protect the refugees’ food stores. The emaciated evacuees were already down to eight hundred calories a day. If they lost any more food, the gravediggers wouldn’t be able to keep up with the bodies.

He’d spent the day hanging around the communications hut listening to reports of rebels moving in the night, defying the curfew. His unit was on high alert, protecting thousands of grain bags in the middle of the barren Chad desert. Sure, the rebel army also needed food, but he’d be damned if he’d let the bastards steal the supplies he was guarding.

The storm intensified, the gritty residue battering his exposed cheeks as he strained to see through his night-vision goggles. Damn things were useless in these conditions. He ripped them off and replaced them with clear-lens shooting glasses. They weren’t much better.

What he wouldn’t do for an ice-cold Coke. He thought of the local boy Kinshasa, an eight-year-old whose family lived in a neighboring village. The little guy was entrepreneurial, always showing up with cold drinks to trade for cash or food. This time of night, he’d be curled up inside his simple home, safe and sound.

Rif had spent his off-duty hours teaching the scrawny boy English. He’d broken his usual rule about not getting involved with the locals, but he had no regrets. Wasn’t much else to do in the desert besides getting blotto on local beer, and he wasn’t much for that. The kid’s spunk inspired him, reminding him of Thea, who bounced back no matter what happened to her—witness how she’d pursued K&R work in response to her brother’s kidnapping.

The glowing numbers of his Stocker & Yale P650 read 0200, four hours before the punishing sun would rise and Brown would relieve him. The crappy weather meant shorter night watches. A man could swallow only so much sand.

Sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyes, burning, impairing his vision. He removed one hand from his M4 and turned his back to the wind. Raising his glasses, he wiped off the sweat, but the gesture was useless. Gritty particles cut into his eyes like tiny blades.

Concerned about his weapon malfunctioning in the harsh conditions, he checked the firing mechanism. It still worked, but a layer of sand had accumulated on the barrel. He brushed it off in several quick strokes. His rifle had better not jam.

Bleary-eyed, he continued the patrol. The rebels’ khakis would be camouflaged by the sandstorm, so he scanned the area for their signature red kerchiefs instead.

Movement to his right caught his attention. He held his breath, spun around, and caressed the trigger of his rifle, stopping just in time. A jerboa hopped past him. Damn rodent almost got its furry tan ass blown to bits. Weirdest-looking animal he’d ever seen, like a kangaroo mated with a mouse. His pulse thundered at the false alarm. He removed his finger from the trigger.

Time slowed to an agonizing grind. He tried not to think about the Coke. A week’s wages for a sip—okay, maybe even a month’s. In the middle of the African desert, he had nothing else to spend his money on.

A sound, like that of boots swishing through sand. Damn. The intel had been right. He caught a glimpse of red to his left. Another blast of grit kicked up and blinded him. Instinctively he pointed his rifle in the direction where he’d seen the red and squeezed the trigger. Bullets spewed from the barrel, the recoil hammering his shoulder.

A sharp cry filled the night, followed by silence. He waited, moving his rifle back and forth, ready for the second wave of soldiers. Nothing happened. Strange. The rebels always traveled in groups. He lowered his rifle and stepped toward the flash of red. Still nothing. Where the hell was Brown? Hadn’t he heard the shots? Slowly moving forward, he raised his rifle. Another step, and the red fabric stopped him cold.

Kinshasa lay spread-eagled on his back, decked out in a red Coke T-shirt with what looked to be a twelve-pack of soda beside him in a threadbare canvas sack.

His heart jammed. Kinshasa moaned. A bullet had ripped through his tiny body. Oh, God. What the hell was he doing here in the middle of the sandstorm? He knew not to be out past curfew. Rif wiped at his cheeks. The little boy had probably snuck out, hoping to make a buck from the thirsty men.

Slinging the rifle over his left shoulder, he scooped up the weightless body in his arms. Kinshasa’s eyelids fluttered, then closed. The boy’s stillness was Rif’s unraveling. He used his jacket to slow the blood loss.

What could he do? The nearby refugee camp—they had doctors. He cradled the boy in his arms and raced through the sandstorm, desperate for help.