Page 32 of Hotter than Wildfire

“Bad. I’ll send a company jet for you. Are you near Lungi?” The Freetown airport was the staging area for most of western and central Africa. Busy and corrupt, one more corporate jet wasn’t going to be noticed.

“Yiah.”

“Can you be there by 1400 hours local time tomorrow?”

“Yiah.”

“Good. The corporate jet will be in the name of⁠—“

“I know the name.” And he hung up.

Montez stared at his screen for a moment, then powered down the laptop, knowing that he’d just done the only possible thing to correct a really bad situation.

Yiah.

SEVEN

Prineville, Georgia

April 10

Piet Van der Boeke hadn’t aged in the past eight years, Montez thought. His face had been deeply tanned and weatherbeaten eight years ago and still was. He was still wiry and lithe, moving swiftly down the steps that had been rolled up to the Gulfstream at the private airfield as if he hadn’t just spent the past ten hours sitting down in a pressurized compartment.

“Thanks for coming.” Montez clasped his hand at the bottom of the stairs. Piet’s grip was strong and dry.

“No problem.”

A car and a driver were waiting. Two minutes after Piet stepped onto the tarmac, they were driving away. The flight had been registered as a cargo flight. No one knew Piet was in America.

They both understood that the chauffered limo was no place for a briefing, so they didn’t talk. Montez opened a small fridge and silently handed Piet a bottle of spring water. Unlike most mercs, Piet was a teetotaller.

Montez had the driver go straight into the detached, six-car garage, which was connected to the main house via an underground passageway. Piet made no comments, just observed everything with his sharp gaze.

For the first time, Montez wondered what someone would think of his home. It was over 30,000 square feet and as luxuriously appointed as the crazy fag decorator in Atlanta could make it. Piet was an observer. He carefully studied his prey, both in and out of their natural habitats. Montez wondered uncomfortably just what Piet made of his own habitat, what he thought it said about him.

He shook that thought off irritably. He was going to offer Piet over half a million bucks for this job, who cared what the fuck he thought?

Finally, they were in Montez’s study. Montez had his study swept for bugs twice a day. The windows were specially treated to break up laser beams, there was a 30 foot perimeter around the entire house with motion sensors. No one was going to thread in a snake camera and mike.

They were secure.

Montez indicated a big, comfortable leather armchair and watched as Piet sank into it. After pouring himself a generous portion of a 20 year old Talisker he sank down into another one.

Piet might be a teetotaller, but that was no reason for Montez to deprive himself.

He studied the South African for a moment. Piet sat quietly, accepting the scrutiny. “I’m offering half a million,” Montez began, and Piet held up a big, callused hand.

Montez didn’t even let an eyelash flicker but inside he was groaning with dismay. Had Piet’s prices gone way up? Half a million was a real stretch for him at this particular moment, with no government contracts in sight. Fuck, what would happen if Piet’s price had gone up to a million? He didn’t even know if he had that kind of spare cash.

“I don’t want any money,” Piet said and Montez’s mouth fell open before he was able to school his face back to blankness. “You saved my life and I owe you. I always pay my debts. But I do this one job for you and that’s it. You never call me again. Is that agreed?”

The bank account in Montez’s head went ping! He shifted the half mil back onto the assets side and tried not to nod too enthusiastically his agreement. “Fine by me. And thanks.”

Piet waved that away. “So…who am I after?”

“A woman.” Montez watched him carefully. For some reason, some mercs had problems with women and kids, which made no sense to him. A gig was a gig.

But Piet merely nodded. “Who is she?”