Rockhounds 2: Diamond in the Rough Read online

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  Torquere Press

  www.torquerepress.com

  Copyright ©2007 by CB Potts

  First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Chapter One

  I know. You're used to Matt telling you these stories. No surprise there. Boy's a good storyteller. He's got a fine vocabulary—and he's smart as the day is long, and twice as good looking. Likes to gab, too. Give him the opportunity to tell a tale, he'll take it.

  Not that I mind. As much as he enjoys the sound of his own voice, I like it more.

  I flat out love to listen to Matt talk. He's got a voice—well, let's just say it works for me. It's soft and smooth, like the cool side of the pillow. Easy on the ears. I'll tell you a secret: half the time he gets to gabbing, I don't hear a word he says. I'm tuned in to the pure sound of him, that New England twang dulled down by too many years on the road, fifteen-dollar words dropping off his tongue like persimmons in the summertime. It's music, plain and simple.

  You're better off having him tell this tale. If he were here, that'd be my choice. I'd keep my big old yap shut, and have me the pleasure of listening.

  But there's a problem. Matt ain't here. And I don't know where he is.

  I do, however, aim to find out.

  * * * *

  So here's the situation. The operational parameters, as it were. I realize you lot may not be up with modern military lingo. Don't sweat it. Little common sense, little logic, you'll figure it out. Remember, this is language created to be used by people who aren't smart enough to realize that getting shot at is a dumb idea.

  That's why I understand it.

  Anyway, the operational parameters. My Rockhound and I got ourselves into a little bit of a situation here. Due to some previous interactions with Matt's sorry ass ratfucker of an ex-boyfriend, Sean, we were currently in debt to some fairly nasty mob bosses.

  If we didn't come up with a sizeable chunk of change—preferably in the form of a rare yellow diamond—Sean was going to have an unpleasant time at the hands of Big Dom's henchmen. He might even wind up what we in the trade call neutralized.

  Normally, I would not have a problem with this. Neutralizing Sean had occurred to me on more than one occasion. I don't know if Matt told you that or not, but I really don't like that cocky Irish bastard. But that little prick's untimely demise would rest heavy on Matt's conscience, and so we're on the hunt.

  If you want to find diamonds, you've got to come to Africa. That's what Matt said, and I've got no reason not to believe him. Apparently the whole dang continent is shot through with stones, the most valuable stones on the planet.

  Not that you'd know it from looking around the place. Sure, the cities are alright: drop me in Nairobi, and it'll take a bit to convince me I'm not in Atlanta or Charlotte or some other decent sized Southern city. But once you get out of there, man, away from the city streets and out into the bush, straight into the trouble zones, it's a whole different story.

  There are four horsemen of the apocalypse. Famine, War, Pestilence, and Death. They ride pretty freely over this great land. Sierra Leone—where Matt and I were headed to find this yellow diamond? It's where the four horsemen keep their stable.

  * * * *

  We'd come into the country four days ago, landing at an unmarked airport just outside of Freetown. Right from the start, I didn't have a good feeling about this trip.

  The airport wasn't what you'd call primitive. If it was primitive, you'd imagine that there'd be a rough attempt at making a landing strip. Some kind of orderly approach path. Basic little things like that.

  Instead, we landed in a field. A field that had apparently recently served as a firing range. There were craters on this thing large enough to lose buildings in, much less the souped-up Beechcraft we were flying.

  It was bumpy, but we walked away: right into the gaze of some really bad guys.

  I'm kicking myself now, ‘cause I didn't pick up on it. Sure, the gang of guys who stood on a nearby corner watching while Matt sweet talked a local into selling us a Jeep for only three times what it was worth looked like they were bad news—but they were only kids, sixteen, seventeen years old. I was hostile like that when I was that age, staring at everybody like I was ready for a tussle. That's what you do when you're getting growed and your life's been for shit.

  But I should have known. Should have known that here, where life and death are separated only by a quick glance and a ready trigger finger, chances are easier to take. Rewards are far and few between in this part—and the risks people are willing to endure to win them? Beyond imagining.

  Beyond my imagination, anyway.

  At least until this morning.

  * * * *

  Matt had been sleeping. That boy can sleep anywhere, good idea or not. Sometimes I envy him that. When the corners of your eyes get to aching from the weight of your paranoia, the biological imperative to sleep warring with the need to keep alert, it's easy to think how nice it would be, just to lie down for half an hour, catch a quick twenty winks. But this wasn't one of those times.

  It was 0630 hours and I was watching the sun rise over Africa.

  Now, I've been a lot of places, and I've seen a lot of things. That don't mean I'm not still a sucker for the sunrise. It's different every time—from the pop up cheeriness of the dawn back home to the slow crimson sprawl of an Afghani sunrise, the cold stoic way Nordic gray skies gradually fade to icy blue way up north and now, the sheer brilliant whiteness of the African sun.

  Back to the door, attention anywhere but where it should have been. I could list the mistakes I made here, from somehow not hearing eight thugs moving down a hallway in a hotel where the so-called walls were paper-thin to being more than ten feet away from my sidearm when they kicked in the door.

  They were fast. Three of them launched themselves at me, like insane acrobats, while a pair wrestled a half-dreaming Matt out and into the hallway. They'd cleared when the leader and his two personal guards walked into the room.

  The three who'd gone after me were good. They knew all the tricks—nerve clusters, air passage compression—and had managed to bring me down to my knees. I might have been down, but believe you me, I was about to get up and there was gonna be hell to pay.

  That's when the leader spoke. “If you be giving me the trouble now,” he said, the menace clear despite the sing-song rhythm of his words, “then I will tell my friends, and they will kill your moffie."

  "What do you want?” I growled.

  "What does anyone in Freetown want, my friend? Money. Lots of money."

  Chapter Two

  An ice maker at the North Pole. A lighter in Hell. Tits on a walrus. It is really hard to think of something more useless than the US Embassy in Sierra Leone. Believe me. I tried.

  "I am sorry, Mr. Donovan.” The receptionist—I never made it past the front desk, despite nearly three hours of non-stop talking—said. “There's nothing that can be done for your ... friend. We simply do not have the resources, and besides,” she continued, her eyes flat, nearly dead, in her skull, “we have a clear policy of not negotiating with terrorists."

  "Then what do you suggest I do?” My arms were crossed, fists buried deep in my elbows. I really didn't want to alienate this chick—after all, she was my only ti
e to Uncle Sam—but it was starting to get a little difficult.

  A shrug prefaced her words, a gesture that spoke volumes about the hopelessness and despair of her everyday reality. “I would pay the ransom. Or I would notify his family. Probably both. Even if you get them the money, that doesn't always mean..."

  I'd left the building before she finished her sentence.

  * * * *

  I would notify his family...

  Christ. All the time Matt and I had been together, and I don't know jack shit about his people. I mean, I assume he has parents—most people do—but who were they? Did he talk with them? Brothers? Sisters?

  I racked my brain, thinking about when we packed up the few possessions he'd kept from his apartment. Mostly books—freaking heavy books, geological guides, atlases twice as old as the Earth itself. I didn't remember any pictures, no framed tribute to Mom or Dad or Grandma.

  How can you say you love somebody and not know this?

  Who was I going to call if this all went bad? If it all went worse, really. Finding Matt's family was going to be more than difficult—it'd probably be impossible. How many Browne families are there in America? Shit. How many just in New York?

  "Hello, Mrs. Browne? You have a boy named Matt? You do? Then I'm afraid I have to tell you some terrible news..."

  The sun is bright over there, brighter than a thousand-watt lightbulb shoved up in your face. And the dust—it's everywhere, blowing sideways like a fine film of sandpaper, rasping the moisture from your eyes.

  I was blinking my way through that when I felt a soft hand on my elbow.

  "Hey, GI."

  That's the second time I never heard them coming. This time, though, they weren't gonna put one over on me. I whirled, all my weight up on three twitchy toes, sidearm already secure in my hand, to find a tiny old woman staring up at me.

  She had to be one hundred if she was twenty, all bent and gnarled the way only truly old women are. Thinner than one would like to see an old woman, but that's how it was over here. They're all skinny as hell, or bloated with swallowed bubbles of impending death.

  "Grandmother.” I nodded my head, kept my hand on my sidearm. Lately my ability to judge situations was less than perfect, and I didn't want to be caught unawares in case this all went bad. “What can I do for you?"

  She smiled at me, and for one half-crazed second I thought I was facing the world's oldest participant in the world's oldest profession.

  Her first words dispelled that notion. “My daughter, she work at the embassy, GI. She tell me you have a problem big."

  "That I do, Grandmother.” I shrugged, that careful Middle Eastern shrug you use when you're about to buy something. “What can be done? No one knows."

  She snorted. “No one knows? I know ... and I will tell you."

  "You will?"

  "I will.” She jerked her head toward my sidearm. “Once you let your hand take leave of your gun, that is. I've lived a good many years, and hopes to live a good many more."

  Chagrined, I let my fingers slide away, although my arm still hung heavy at my side.

  "Good enough.” She gave a slow nod, the concession enough. “Them that took your boy aren't bad boys, but they're dangerous. You've choices two."

  "Your daughter told me.” I couldn't keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Pay the ransom, or give Matt up for dead."

  "A correction.” She held up one wizened finger and cackled. “A correction. You have three choices. Those two ... and one more."

  "And what is this third choice, Grandmother?"

  Her eyes dropped to my gun again. I edged my hand away a fraction, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

  "It is not that I doubt your skills, GI.” She smiled and brazenly ran her eyes over my form. “My daughter assured me that you were most ... formidable, and I have to agree with her assessment. But I think that you might want some assistance for to implement the third option."

  "Which is?"

  "To recover your boy with a show of force.” Her voice dropped, despite the fact no one was paying her any mind. “You might appreciate the collection—and the associates—of Crazy John."

  The idea was appealing. There are always at least two solutions to any problem, and honestly, nine times out of ten, the one that included direct action was the one I'd favor. But this time, Matt's life was on the line. This time, I had to be careful.

  "And what would be in this for you, Grandmother?” I bowed my head. “And for your daughter?"

  "It may be,” she replied, rooting deep in a pocket, “that the boy of my daughter is among those who are involved in this unfortunate incident. You will promise not to kill him."

  I looked at the picture she procured. The boy pictured, arm wrapped round the embassy receptionist, was no more than twelve years old. If he grew up the way I pictured, he now had a hell of a right hook.

  "I promise, Grandmother. For him—and him only.” I shook my head. “I cannot promise that for the whole lot."

  "The whole lot,” she replied, calm as calm can be, “are not my concern."

  She started to walk away, but I stopped her.

  "Grandmother,” I asked. “How do you know all this? I did not leave the embassy but five minutes ago."

  "Ten minutes,” she corrected. “And how is most simple.” She rooted in her pocket again. “My daughter, she call me on my cell phone."

  Chapter Three

  John's boys maintained a twenty-yard perimeter around his shanty. Security was tight, not perfect, but very tight. I saw them before they saw me, but only barely. Two were positioned at the very edge of the street, marking the point where packed dust faded away into just plain old dust. Another pair were on the back line, arms crossed, eyes scanning the horizon. They hadn't made eye contact with me, but I'm damn sure they knew I was there.

  Challenge came from a little guy, no more than eight, with knowing eyes and a wise guy smile.

  "What you want, GI?” He puffed up, looking for all the world like a banty rooster from back home. I swallowed a quick smile. It wouldn't be wise to injure his dignity. “No one told us you were coming to visit."

  "I'm here to see Crazy John."

  "And why do you want to see him?"

  I crouched down on my heels so I was eye to eye with the little man, leaning in close to catch his ear. He met me halfway—Junior might be packing, but kids are still kids, and there's not a one on the planet that can resist having a secret all their own. “Maybe I want to hire him. Some of his boys. Maybe you, if you're tough enough."

  His eyes opened wide, but he didn't move. Instead, he stood there for a minute, staring at me, assessing. If it weren't for the little muscle on the side of his nose, twitching like a rabbit on a hot wire, I wouldn't have known how excited he was.

  Of course, he kind of gave that way when he turned on his heel and ran yelling for the shanty door.

  "Boss! Boss! Big man's here with a job, boss!"

  * * * *

  The first sight I got of Crazy John was him backhanding the cocky little sentry into silence. Can't say that made me like him much.

  But I wasn't here to make friends. I was here to get my Matt back.

  "What can I do for you, friend?” Crazy John wasn't subtle about checking me out. Two eyes, one brown, one a golden yellow, took their sweet time traversing the distance from my boots to my eyebrows—and this wasn't just professional interest.

  Don't get me wrong. I'm sure he knew I was packing, besides my sidearm. Trained eyes would have picked up on the shoulder holster, and you don't grow up into being a man like me without learning to always wear a knife in your boot. Did he get the blade tucked into the small of my back? Maybe yes—maybe no. I'd say he was equally interested in what was concealed in the front of my pants.

  That really didn't make me like him much either.

  "I've got a situation,” I began, “and I've been told you might be the man who can help me out."

  "You're American."

 
"Yes."

  "American dollars?” His eyes were bright. It was pretty clear that if I didn't answer this next question right, our conversation was pretty well over before it started. Luckily, I knew what the answer was supposed to be.

  "Of course."

  "Come on inside."

  * * * *

  I just made the doorway, but the sharp pitch of the roof meant I was stooping three steps into Crazy John's place. That little bastard, who could stand straight without any difficulty, sank into the only available chair and looked up at me. The wall behind him was hung with enough firepower to level Freetown—and that's not even taking into account the open crate of AK's next to his ratty armchair.

  "So, tell me what you want, boy.” Crazy John crossed his fingers on his belly, nicotine yellow tobacco-stained index fingers pointing directly at me. “And I'll tell you how many of those American dollars it'll take to make it possible."

  I laid out the story, from the early morning raid in our hotel room to the conversation in the dusty streets outside the embassy. I described the gang of boys who had snatched Matt and the promise I'd made not to kill the receptionist's son.

  All the while he sat there, staring at me like a dog who'd gone hungry way too long. Half starved and with more than a touch of meanness to him, shining in those mismatched eyes, trapped behind almost trembling fingers.

  After the tale was told, he cocked his head, looked at me, and said, “I don't get it."

  "What's to get?” I asked. “I hire your boys to go with me, bust up their little party, get Matt back, and blow this taco stand."

  "That's just it.” His smile was sly, thinned out around the edges. It's a smile I've seen before—the type your CO wears as he denies your leave request and tells you you're the lucky winner who gets to spend the weekend guarding the latrines instead. “If you can't afford to pay that piddlin’ little bit of ransom, there's no way you can afford the services of a top notch crew like mine."

  God damn these little bush country pricks and their delusions of grandeur. I counted to ten, and tried to think of what Matt would say.