The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(89)

If the bastard wanted more, he’d give it to him.

A sharp kick under the chin snapped the giant into a seated position. The big man wavered, stunned by the blow. Nikos grabbed the tire and thrust it onto the man’s enormous shoulders. He wiped his hand off on his shirt, reached into his pocket, and fingered the lighter. A quick flick, and he tossed the Zippo at the General. Flames ignited in a blaze of orange.

An animal cry, deep and primal, erupted from General Ita Jemwa as fire scorched his skin. Blood soaked his lower extremities, smoke engulfed his tribal scars, flames singed his eyebrows. The stench of charred flesh filled Nikos’s nostrils. He inhaled deeply. There wasn’t a horrible enough death for the man who’d stolen his innocence. This one would have to do.

His cell phone beeped.

Nikos read the text.

Time for his father’s retribution.





Chapter Seventy



Thea crabbed forward in the air-conditioning shaft. A quick right turn, and she paused, hopeful. She turned off the cell’s flashlight to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. Light beckoned at the end of the tunnel. She scrambled toward the vent and fingered the slats, making sure it was real.

They’d been holed up inside the ventilation system for almost an hour, their progress painstakingly slow. She felt like a prisoner seeing daylight for the first time in years.

Ten feet below, an open field and the nearby forest beckoned to her. They’d reached the west side of the hotel, as planned.

Rain splattered on the pavement below. Fresh, moist air piped through the slats, which was a relief, but what she craved most was her true elixir: insulin. She checked her blood sugar on her smartphone: 421 mg/dL. Not good. Her temples throbbed, and she was beginning to feel nauseated.

Mamadou squeezed her ankle. He’d been a trouper, crawling through the narrow shafts without a whisper of complaint. She wiggled her foot in response to his touch and concentrated on opening the vent. The upper-left corner was loose. She pushed her head against the grille and scanned right and left. No one around.

Time for a little yoga. Lying on her belly in the cramped space, she lifted herself into a plank position, then brought her legs forward underneath her while arching her back. Her feet ultimately faced the vent.

Drawing her knees to her chest, she uncoiled her legs and pummeled the upper left of the grille with both feet. The metal fought to stay attached. She coiled her legs again and hammered once more at the grille. It finally slid down, hanging by only one screw.

Good enough.

She peered out the opening. A few dead soldiers were sprawled near the building, but otherwise no one was around. She would’ve thought the place would be crawling with sentries.

But the danger wasn’t over. Gunshots rang out on the east side of the hotel. She dropped her bag and rifle, then eased her legs out of the vent, perched bent over in a sitting position. She dropped ten feet to the ground and rolled to absorb the impact. She grabbed the AK and scanned for the enemy.

All clear.

Mamadou Kimweri’s head poked out of the shaft. She waved for him to come down. His eyebrows raised a fraction. He didn’t have the flexibility to turn his long body inside the vent. Instead, he snaked his right arm up, grabbing the lip of the terrace above and pulling himself out of the shaft, shimmying his lower body and feet out of the air duct. He hung there for a few seconds, then fell to the earth.

She held her breath. The man had to be pushing seventy-five. Would his bones be able to handle the fall?

His feet connected with the ground. He dropped and rolled onto his right shoulder, tumbling over before coming to rest. She hurried across to check on him.

A smile greeted her. “Help this old man up, would you?”

“Well done.” She offered him a hand.

The familiar crackle of automatic weapons fire spurred her into action. The relative safety of the jungle rested on the other side of a hundred-foot clearing. It’d be risky, but they had to chance it.

They crouched beside the hotel wall. “Run in a zigzag pattern to the trees. I’ll be right behind you. If I’m shot, hide in the forest and call for help.” She handed him her satphone. “Got it?”

His wizened face wrinkled. “Your father was right.”

“How’s that?”

“He told me that you were the bravest person he knew.”

She grinned. “Well, let’s go before I have a chance to prove him wrong.” She gripped the assault rifle tightly, hoping for a little luck.

As she’d instructed, Mamadou loped across the clearing like a drunken gazelle. She followed, turned slightly so she could scan for soldiers. An overwhelming fatigue was beginning to weigh her down. She could almost feel her blood sugar rising now. Just a little farther.

Commotion sounded nearby. A loud yell. Two of the general’s soldiers had rounded the corner. She’d been spotted. Bullets whizzed past her ear. She fired a volley of shots to provide cover. A muzzle flashed. Mamadou had almost made it to the jungle. She kept firing until she ran out of ammo. The prime minister disappeared into the foliage.

She sprinted straight into a tangled mass of bushes. Branches scratched at her face, and thorns clawed at her arms. Gasping, she slowed her pace, searching for Mamadou.

She stopped cold. A soldier in full camo and face paint had his hand clamped on the prime minister’s mouth, an arm coiled around his body.