WAR: Disruption Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Fifteen Years Ago

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dear Reader

  Excerpt from Vengeance

  Book List

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  WAR: Disruption

  (WAR: Book 1)

  by Vanessa Kier

  *****

  WAR: Disruption Copyright © 2014 by Vanessa Kier

  Fifteen Years Ago

  AS THE CLOCK moved from 1999 to 2000, many of the democratic countries of West Africa started a period of internal dissent. People rose up against corrupt, inefficient politicians. Civil wars broke out and spread throughout the region. In the aftermath, a new geopolitical structure emerged. In the east of the region Nigeria merged with Niger to form the Greater Niger Republic. Burkina Faso and the northern-most regions of Ghana, Togo, and Benin formed the United African Republic (UAR). The remainder of Benin and a bit of Togo became the Republic of Dahomey. The rest of Ghana and Togo became the Republic of the Volta. Côte d’Ivoire separated into the Ivory Republic (north) and the Democratic Republic of the Ivory Coast (south). Mali, Senegal, and Gambia became the New Mali Federation. Guinea-Bissau, Guinea, Liberia, and Sierra Leone became the Republic of West Guinea.

  Now, however, the democratic societies have once again become overrun with corruption. The people are dissatisfied with their governments and with seeing multi-national corporations get rich off West African resources while the people remain in poverty. The African Freedom Army (AFA) promises to give power back to the West African people and offers hope for a better life. Yet their brutal tactics against both foreigners and any Africans who disagree with their strict doctrine and animist religion has begun to turn public opinion against them.

  That’s where the West African Rangers come in. An underground military and political group, WAR is dedicated to stopping AFA and returning true and honest democracy to the people.

  This is the environment in which our story begins…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Day One

  The United African Republic

  West Africa

  PEERING BENEATH HIS blindfold, Max Lansing saw Ansgar Ziegler’s hand moving toward him holding a long, thin needle. Max braced himself against the wooden chair and tried once again to break his rawhide bonds. But he was trussed too tightly.

  Sweat trickled down his spine as the needle touched the skin at the base of his neck. Max clenched his teeth and vowed not to scream this time, no matter how much pain the acupuncture needle inflicted as it triggered his nerves. He—

  The door slammed open. Ziegler dropped his hand and spun toward the sound.

  “Herr Ziegler, the scout reports that the boss’s helicopter is fast approaching,” one of the guards said in African accented English.

  Ziegler cursed in German. “Rest up, Max,” he muttered. “We shall finish this later.”

  “Can’t…wait,” Max said.

  “Remove him,” Ziegler ordered as he braced his case of needles with his deformed, scarred left hand and zipped it closed with his undamaged right hand.

  Max felt a spurt of satisfaction knowing Ziegler had received those burns in a fight against him and his team. Of course, if Ziegler hadn’t been injured, he wouldn’t be torturing Max out of revenge. Instead, Max would have been turned over to Ziegler’s boss, Dietrich, who had his own axe to grind with Max.

  One of the guards untied Max from the chair, then two sets of hands captured his arms and dragged him into the hallway. A moment later they threw him into the tiny room that served as his cell. Pain rocketed through him as he hit the packed dirt floor and he almost blacked out. In addition to using needles, Ziegler had viciously kicked Max’s torso and legs with the steel-reinforced toes on his loafers, damaging one of Max’s ribs and leaving his whole body aching.

  By the time Max’s senses stopped swimming, the guards had tied his feet to a stake in the ground and left.

  Max spat a hunk of his long blond hair out of his mouth and took a shallow breath, trying not to jar his ribs. Then he waited for the sound of footsteps in the hallway to disappear. This was the first moment in two…three… Hell, he’d lost track. The first time since he’d been captured that he didn’t feel groggy from drugs.

  He had to escape. Now.

  He rubbed his cheek on the small piece of wood sticking up out of the dirt floor until his blindfold slid down his face. Not that he could see much more without the filthy rag covering his eyes. A trickle of light slipped through a crack up by the ceiling to reveal a room approximately six feet by six feet. The walls were standard for this part of West Africa, plastered concrete with a corrugated metal roof.

  The most important detail? He was alone.

  He exhaled in relief.

  His hands were bound behind him, but not staked. He raised them to his waist and fumbled with his belt until he was able to slip the buckle around to the back. Then he pressed the mechanism to release the spring-activated knife. Sloppy of Ziegler’s men not to do a thorough body search. Just because Max had quit Unit 3 and gone off on his own didn’t mean that he hadn’t brought some of the team’s toys with him to Africa.

  The blade sprung free. He rubbed his bindings across the blade’s edge, keeping an ear out for approaching footsteps.

  But all he heard was the approach of a helicopter.

  Good. It would keep Ziegler and company distracted.

  The rawhide gave slightly and Max increased the pressure until the bindings snapped. He made quick work of the bonds at his ankles, then gingerly moved his body—yeah, definitely at least one cracked or severely bruised rib—biting back groans of pain. Once he made it to his feet, he stepped around the congealed pool of vomit that marked the spot where he’d been sick the first night they brought him here and walked a few times along the exterior of the room to get circulation back in his arms and legs. Then he removed his belt and knelt down. Using the buckle as a trowel, he traced the outline of the trap door underneath the dirt.

  If Ziegler had checked with the locals before choosing this building as a holding cell, he would have learned that this was a smuggler’s storeroom. Max had figured it out the first time they threw him into the room. He’d hit the dirt and the corner of the trap door had poked into his cheek. Lucky for him, the trap door was on the far side of the room. The guards had tossed Max in, then advanced only far enough to tie his feet to the stake. They’d never stepped far enough in to feel the trap door beneath their feet.

  Max’s hands hurt from being stomped on and slashed at, but nothing was broken, so he kept scraping the dirt away with the belt buckle. It took him several more agonizing minutes to completely uncover the door.

  “Herr Ziegler, you were not supposed to damage the prisoner. He is mine to hurt. To kill. Mine alone. Do you understand?”

  Max froze at the angry voice speaking German with a faint Austrian accent. So familiar. So hated that his pain vanished under a wash of sheer fury.

  Dietrich was aliv
e.

  Every instinct in Max urged him to race to the door. Break out and confront the man who’d been responsible for the attack that took his brother’s lower legs and killed dozens.

  His heart pounded. His hands shook with the need to bring Dietrich to justice.

  So. Close.

  This was the first time in a year that he’d been in the same location as the international arms dealer. His superiors back at Unit 3 had continued to insist that Dietrich died two years ago during a crash en route to a holding facility after being captured in a raid by Max and his team. None of the evidence Max and his teammates had gathered to prove that Dietrich had survived the crash had convinced their superiors otherwise. In fact, they’d ordered his team to drop the matter, then assigned them to other missions.

  But Max and his teammates had known the truth. Although his co-leader Kris and many of the others had eventually quit Unit 3, Max had stayed. And he’d never given up searching for Dietrich.

  He strained to hear more of the conversation, but they moved out of earshot. All he could tell was that Ziegler’s response sounded defensive, never a good choice given Dietrich’s insistence on absolute loyalty. Then another voice interrupted, sounding urgent and worried. Dietrich cursed. Their footsteps hurried away.

  Good. Whatever emergency had come up, it had distracted Dietrich from paying Max an immediate visit.

  He stared blindly at the trap door. God, he wanted Dietrich’s head with such ferocity that he could barely think over the pounding of his blood through his veins. He wanted to make Dietrich pay for all the lives he’d destroyed. Wanted to discover the name of whoever in the U.S. military had been protecting Dietrich.

  Max’s vision pulsed in and out. Shit. He was in no shape to tackle Dietrich now. He’d come across the border chasing rumors that Dietrich had a major arms deal going down in just over two weeks. Less than that now, depending on how long he’d been held here.

  The deal supposedly would result in an attack on American military or diplomatic facilities in the region. An attack that might impact Wil, who was stationed at the U.S. compound in the capital of the Greater Niger Republic. His younger brother had already lost his lower legs due to weapons Dietrich had supplied to terrorists in Afghanistan. Max wasn’t going to let Wil be hurt again.

  Christ. It killed him to leave, but what choice did he have? If he stuck around, he’d end up at the receiving end of Ziegler’s needles again. Or Dietrich’s knife. It was damn sure they weren’t going to hold an entire conversation about the upcoming deal where Max could hear it.

  He squared his shoulders then continued digging. He had to stick to his original plan. Find a safe place to hole up and recover. Then figure out where the deal was going down and stop it.

  Piece of cake.

  Yeah, right.

  He slipped his battered, bloody fingers under the edge of the trap door and lifted. Because it was too dangerous to use his hidden flashlight to show him how deep the smuggler’s hole was, he lay down on his belly, reached his arm into the hole, and dropped the buckle end of the belt down. When it brushed dirt, he knew he didn’t have a very long drop. Good, because the fall might cause him to black out.

  Knowing he wouldn’t have much of a head start once someone entered the room and saw the hole, he took the dirt he’d removed from the hatch and piled it against the base of the door, hoping it would block Ziegler’s men from entering long enough to give him a few extra minutes of lead time. Then he lowered himself into the hole, pulled the trap door closed, and used the small flashlight hidden in the sole of his boot to guide him through the rough, crawling-room-only tunnel to freedom.

  Day Two

  The Republic of the Volta

  West Africa

  THE TRO-TRO JERKED to a stop, yanking Emily Iwasaki out of a light doze. Blinking sleepily against the overhead light, she saw that the mate—the teenage boy who collected the money and announced the stops—had opened his door and hopped out. Lifting her head from the window of the battered minivan that served as a public bus, she peered outside, trying to figure out why they’d stopped. But she saw only her own reflection wavering against the darkness. Her hand rose reflexively to cover the scars on her neck and she deliberately let it drop. Part of her reason for coming to Africa was to learn how to be less self-conscious about the acid burn scars that stretched from the edge of her jaw down to the top of her right shoulder. For a moment she stared at the reflection of the shiny patches of damaged and grafted skin. After their initial curiosity, the people in her homestay village had quickly ignored her imperfection. Yet Emily found it impossible to forget that she was no longer the elegant, beautiful dancer fit to play queens on stage. That she was now unemployed. Adrift in a world that no longer revolved around ballet.

  The woman next to Emily let out a loud, coughing snort and jolted awake. As she rearranged her position, she jabbed Emily in the side several times with her elbow. Emily accepted the woman’s murmured apology and shifted sideways on the cracked vinyl seat to give the woman more room. Pressed closer to the window, Emily focused past her reflection to the night beyond, trying to understand why they’d stopped. The road was too far from major population centers to have streetlights. No light shone from the jungle. No irrigation canals lined the dirt road. There were no nearby buildings or intersecting roads or other signs of nearby habitation. So this wasn’t the way station where she was supposed to get off and meet the rest of her tour group. Not even a regularly scheduled stop.

  Unease slithered through her. Her heart gave a few flutters, a warning that she needed to be careful or she’d end up with one of the panic attacks she now occasionally suffered from. She glanced across the aisle at Masaud, the tour company’s guard who’d been sent to fetch her from the village. He met her eyes and gave a little shrug and a head shake. Still, he didn’t seem alarmed, so some of her tension eased.

  Okay. So maybe they weren’t in danger. Most of the other passengers remained asleep. The few who were awake didn’t seem concerned by their unexpected stop. Probably the teenager had simply gone to relieve himself. Or there was something blocking the road. After taking several deep breaths, Emily slowly moved her neck through a series of rolls to loosen muscles stiff from dozing with the side of her head against the window.

  Yet she kept her attention on the open passenger door, unable to completely shake her unease. As far as she knew, the rebels who’d been slowly taking over West Africa hadn’t entered this country yet, but then, she’d spent the last week on a homestay in a village with no electricity and so hadn’t heard any recent news reports.

  Outside, the teenager raised his voice in a sharp question. Emily leaned forward, straining to hear. A deep male voice with an American accent answered, “Yes, I can pay.”

  All vestiges of sleep gone, Emily straightened in her seat. This section of the country wasn’t popular with foreign tourists. In fact, some of the children in her homestay village had never met a white person before. Of the six women in the dance tour group, Emily and two others had been placed with homestay families scattered across this upper east region. The other three had been sent to villages in the southeast region. According to the local grapevine, Emily was the only foreigner for miles.

  So what was an American doing on a deserted road in the middle of the night?

  The side door to the tro-tro slid open and a white guy climbed inside. She couldn’t see much of him as the people nearest the door shifted to give him room, but he appeared to be a fit man not that much older than her. Maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore a light-colored, sweat-stained t-shirt underneath an unbuttoned, untucked khaki shirt over khaki pants. The road’s thick red dust clung to his body and clothes in a fine film and dulled the long, blond ponytail that snaked out from underneath his baseball cap. Several days’ worth of stubble covered his jaw.

  As he ducked inside he surveyed the passengers. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes beneath the shadow of his ball cap, but his atte
ntion sharpened when it reached Masaud. A moment later, his gaze moved on to her. She sensed that her presence startled him, and that he was assessing her. As what? A threat? A potential ally? An unimportant freak because of the ruined skin on her neck? Keeping her shoulders back and her chin up, she waited while he finished his scrutiny, fighting the urge to once again put her hand over her scars. Aware that since local custom had the other female passengers fashionably dressed in traditional blouses and skirts, her own t-shirt and cargo pants made her appear grubby in comparison. Finally, the stranger dipped his chin in a nod and turned away.

  Emily let out a breath. Who was this man? Even the ballet company’s assistant director, known for intimidating dancers with his critical gaze during performance reviews, hadn’t watched her with such intensity. And how had he picked Masaud out as being dangerous? Out of courtesy to the driver, the guard’s pistol wasn’t visible.

  As the door slammed shut, the stranger placed his worn backpack on the floor and settled into the one available seat without giving her a second glance. His shoulders jerked toward his ears as he sat, and he held his elbows close to his body, carefully avoiding contact with his neighbors. Quite a feat in these cramped quarters, but Emily recognized the protective action. One of her dance partners had cracked a rib in an auto accident and he’d held himself in just such a way for days afterward. Wondering how the stranger been injured, Emily’s unease returned.

  Several of the passengers whispered amongst themselves. She heard the word obruni, which meant foreigner. A few eyes glanced her way.

  Emily dropped her gaze, twisting her hands together on a sudden burst of fear. Were some of the passengers rebel sympathizers? Was she in danger? So far, she’d received only a warm welcome from the locals. She’d seen no evidence that the people here subscribed to the vicious, nationalistic rhetoric of the African Freedom Army that had resulted in many foreigners being kidnapped or killed in neighboring countries. Emily would never have joined this tour if the rebels had been active here.