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Authors: Lisa Marie Rice
Tags: Contemporary
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willing to massacre an entire village of women and children for them.
No wonder they called them blood diamonds.
It was a miracle that no blood oozed from the stones. But no—they were as neutral as they were inert—just rocks, for fuck’s sake. Just rocks.
Jack looked down at the mound people were willing to killand to die for and made a small noise of disgust before putting them back in the bag. Twenty million dollars of pain and suffering and misery. Murder, rape, dismemberment—that’s what the diamonds represented.
He’d taken them simply because there was no one left in the village alive to give them to, and he’d have died himself rather than let Deaver have them.
Jack put the bag behind the money, the Glock and the ammo, then carefully screwed the grate back onto its plate, thinking how crazy people were to be willing to kill and die for a bag full of rocks.
He rose and made his way swiftly down two flights of stairs toward something warm and living and beautiful. Something definitely worth killing or dying for.
Encampment of the United Nations Observer Mission in Sierra Leone near Obuja, Sierra Leone
Christmas Eve
4:58 P.M .
His name was Axel and he was Vince Deaver’s new best friend.
Axel was Finnish, loved computers, American jazz, missed his fiancée Maja back in Helsinki and hated Africa and everything connected to it. Best of all, he was blond, five-ten, weighed about 170 pounds, just like me , Deaver thought in satisfaction.
Axel always stopped by to see him in the small detentioncenter of the UNOMSIL when he got off guard duty at 1700 hours. At 1703, Deaver could count on good old Axel stopping by, regular as clockwork.
The detention center itself was a joke. Deaver could have escaped at any time over the past three days. His grandmother could have escaped using her dentures and a hairpin. The UN peacekeeping force was not in the prisoner business, and it showed.
Deaver needed more than a way to break out of the detention center—he needed to get out of the encampment and out of Sierra Leone if he wanted his diamonds back. Good old Axel was his ticket out.
It was dark inside the detention center. Electricity was intermittent, the air-conditioning worked sporadically, so the shutters and the door were kept closed against the blistering heat of the tropical sun, intense even in December.
Deaver made sure the lights were turned off during the day, even when the shutters kept the room in semidarkness. Axel had to be used to a darkened room.
Deaver checked his watch. The luminescent dial showed 1700 hours, on the dot.
Axel would be punctual. Deaver had studied him the way an entomologist studied bugs. He knew how Axel reacted to stimuli, and he had his plan worked out down to the finest detail. The Army had trained him well.
17:01.
Deaver jumped up and down to make sure nothing rattled or clinked and patted himself down. There would be a moment when he would have to move fast and silently. Morethan one soldier had died because a knife clinked against a belt buckle and gave away a position.
He checked his pockets, his boots and flexed his arms. He’d been cooped up for three days now and his muscles were stiff. He was used to hard workouts, and confinement didn’t suit him.
Neither did the thought of being extradited back home for a trial for mass murder.
When Deaver finally caught up with Jack Prescott, he was not only going to get his diamonds back but he’d make the fucker very very sorry he’d interfered, before blasting his fucking head off. Deaver had spent a couple of pleasant hours last night imagining Jack tied to a chair while he used his knife.
Deaver was very good with his knife.
17:02.
He checked his plan again, ran through it for the thousandth time. About 90 percent of good soldiering was planning and preparation. The plan was good, and he was prepared.
He turned his back to the door.
17:03.
The door opened wide, and Axel walked in, good Finnish soldier
No wonder they called them blood diamonds.
It was a miracle that no blood oozed from the stones. But no—they were as neutral as they were inert—just rocks, for fuck’s sake. Just rocks.
Jack looked down at the mound people were willing to killand to die for and made a small noise of disgust before putting them back in the bag. Twenty million dollars of pain and suffering and misery. Murder, rape, dismemberment—that’s what the diamonds represented.
He’d taken them simply because there was no one left in the village alive to give them to, and he’d have died himself rather than let Deaver have them.
Jack put the bag behind the money, the Glock and the ammo, then carefully screwed the grate back onto its plate, thinking how crazy people were to be willing to kill and die for a bag full of rocks.
He rose and made his way swiftly down two flights of stairs toward something warm and living and beautiful. Something definitely worth killing or dying for.
Encampment of the United Nations Observer Mission in Sierra Leone near Obuja, Sierra Leone
Christmas Eve
4:58 P.M .
His name was Axel and he was Vince Deaver’s new best friend.
Axel was Finnish, loved computers, American jazz, missed his fiancée Maja back in Helsinki and hated Africa and everything connected to it. Best of all, he was blond, five-ten, weighed about 170 pounds, just like me , Deaver thought in satisfaction.
Axel always stopped by to see him in the small detentioncenter of the UNOMSIL when he got off guard duty at 1700 hours. At 1703, Deaver could count on good old Axel stopping by, regular as clockwork.
The detention center itself was a joke. Deaver could have escaped at any time over the past three days. His grandmother could have escaped using her dentures and a hairpin. The UN peacekeeping force was not in the prisoner business, and it showed.
Deaver needed more than a way to break out of the detention center—he needed to get out of the encampment and out of Sierra Leone if he wanted his diamonds back. Good old Axel was his ticket out.
It was dark inside the detention center. Electricity was intermittent, the air-conditioning worked sporadically, so the shutters and the door were kept closed against the blistering heat of the tropical sun, intense even in December.
Deaver made sure the lights were turned off during the day, even when the shutters kept the room in semidarkness. Axel had to be used to a darkened room.
Deaver checked his watch. The luminescent dial showed 1700 hours, on the dot.
Axel would be punctual. Deaver had studied him the way an entomologist studied bugs. He knew how Axel reacted to stimuli, and he had his plan worked out down to the finest detail. The Army had trained him well.
17:01.
Deaver jumped up and down to make sure nothing rattled or clinked and patted himself down. There would be a moment when he would have to move fast and silently. Morethan one soldier had died because a knife clinked against a belt buckle and gave away a position.
He checked his pockets, his boots and flexed his arms. He’d been cooped up for three days now and his muscles were stiff. He was used to hard workouts, and confinement didn’t suit him.
Neither did the thought of being extradited back home for a trial for mass murder.
When Deaver finally caught up with Jack Prescott, he was not only going to get his diamonds back but he’d make the fucker very very sorry he’d interfered, before blasting his fucking head off. Deaver had spent a couple of pleasant hours last night imagining Jack tied to a chair while he used his knife.
Deaver was very good with his knife.
17:02.
He checked his plan again, ran through it for the thousandth time. About 90 percent of good soldiering was planning and preparation. The plan was good, and he was prepared.
He turned his back to the door.
17:03.
The door opened wide, and Axel walked in, good Finnish soldier
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