Read Online Play It Safe (The Safe House Series Book 2) by Leslie North - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Leslie North
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laugh. “You’re delusional. Patriots don’t allow innocents to die.”
“ Don’t talk to me about innocents.” Julian’s words erupted from his dour mouth with a hushed, psychotic sibilance. His nostrils bloomed wide and red. “I was down the road when the rebels ambush the embassy. I ran when I heard her screams, like an animal at slaughter. They bound my hands and feet and did the same to the others—a translator, a secretary, some coward the State Department sent in for training purposes that cried the entire time. But not Marianne. Her goddamned blond hair. They obsessed over it.”
Samson’s throat swelled. He wanted Julian to shut up. He couldn’t bear to hear the details he knew were coming. Riley loved Marianne like a sister. They had met when Riley was a missionary and Marianne was a conversationalist with a degree in political science. Marianne was butchered because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Still, Samson tracked Angela’s movements.
Julian shot to his feet, unable to navigate the delicate tightrope he had established of a wealthy, political vigilante under complete control. He paced, stopping to brace himself and take a shaky drag every so often.
“They made me watch as they raped and sodomized and took turns pissing on my wife, and when her spirit broke and no sounds came from her open lips, they doused her with lighter fluid and set her hair on fire.”
Samson tried to block the onslaught of words. He didn’t want Julian’s dark memories any more than he wanted his. But the images ambushed him, others in Marianne’s place, first Riley then Angela, and his throat burned like he had swallowed accelerant.
“Five American sub-level diplomats died that day and our government did nothing out of fear it would imbalance the region. After I’m finished with them, those who killed Marianne will know imbalance and justice.”
Samson tried to speak, failed. He cleared his throat. “At the cost of more innocent lives.”
“This is war, Caine, backed by a secret alliance of nations with political and economic interests in the region. In war, natives are nothing. With nothing. These villagers grow up in pestilence and poverty and see no hope but the meager survival these rebels promise. I’m doing them a favor. All of them.”
Julian withdrew a photo from his pocket—the same photo his thugs had lifted on a shake-down of Samson’s possessions—and dropped it on the table beside Samson. The same photo Riley had carried on her every day after they had come across the young African boy selling bags of ice on the road to his village to make money for his family. The same photo Samson carried on him since the day Riley died, as a reminder of what emotional attachment gets you in this life.
Pain. Crippling, debilitating, soul-shattering pain.
Samson reared up, gripped Julian’s fancy blue lapels and shoved him, bodily, against the pristine walls of his office. Julian’s bodyguard, stationed at the door, stormed the tangle of two men until Julian plucked himself free and Samson corralled his mind back from the verge of wanting to choke the same prick who once called Riley a whore while on a bender in Cape Town.
Julian brushed his palms down his wrinkled suit and fished his half-length cigarette from the Armenian rug where it landed. “I thought that might get your attention.”
“Leave Manny out of this.”
“Emmanuel, as well as the others, will be given a choice. Leave when warned or die with the rebels.”
“The people in Mthatha and the surrounding villages don’t have the resources to leave. You know that. They have no more choice than you gave Angela’s brother. Had there been doctors in the region that day--”
“Marianne still would have died.”
Samson watched Angela load a vial containing a mossy liquid into a centrifuge and close the lid. Her wild-eyed expression was gone, replaced by confidence and an unyielding concentration he had only ever seen when
“ Don’t talk to me about innocents.” Julian’s words erupted from his dour mouth with a hushed, psychotic sibilance. His nostrils bloomed wide and red. “I was down the road when the rebels ambush the embassy. I ran when I heard her screams, like an animal at slaughter. They bound my hands and feet and did the same to the others—a translator, a secretary, some coward the State Department sent in for training purposes that cried the entire time. But not Marianne. Her goddamned blond hair. They obsessed over it.”
Samson’s throat swelled. He wanted Julian to shut up. He couldn’t bear to hear the details he knew were coming. Riley loved Marianne like a sister. They had met when Riley was a missionary and Marianne was a conversationalist with a degree in political science. Marianne was butchered because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Still, Samson tracked Angela’s movements.
Julian shot to his feet, unable to navigate the delicate tightrope he had established of a wealthy, political vigilante under complete control. He paced, stopping to brace himself and take a shaky drag every so often.
“They made me watch as they raped and sodomized and took turns pissing on my wife, and when her spirit broke and no sounds came from her open lips, they doused her with lighter fluid and set her hair on fire.”
Samson tried to block the onslaught of words. He didn’t want Julian’s dark memories any more than he wanted his. But the images ambushed him, others in Marianne’s place, first Riley then Angela, and his throat burned like he had swallowed accelerant.
“Five American sub-level diplomats died that day and our government did nothing out of fear it would imbalance the region. After I’m finished with them, those who killed Marianne will know imbalance and justice.”
Samson tried to speak, failed. He cleared his throat. “At the cost of more innocent lives.”
“This is war, Caine, backed by a secret alliance of nations with political and economic interests in the region. In war, natives are nothing. With nothing. These villagers grow up in pestilence and poverty and see no hope but the meager survival these rebels promise. I’m doing them a favor. All of them.”
Julian withdrew a photo from his pocket—the same photo his thugs had lifted on a shake-down of Samson’s possessions—and dropped it on the table beside Samson. The same photo Riley had carried on her every day after they had come across the young African boy selling bags of ice on the road to his village to make money for his family. The same photo Samson carried on him since the day Riley died, as a reminder of what emotional attachment gets you in this life.
Pain. Crippling, debilitating, soul-shattering pain.
Samson reared up, gripped Julian’s fancy blue lapels and shoved him, bodily, against the pristine walls of his office. Julian’s bodyguard, stationed at the door, stormed the tangle of two men until Julian plucked himself free and Samson corralled his mind back from the verge of wanting to choke the same prick who once called Riley a whore while on a bender in Cape Town.
Julian brushed his palms down his wrinkled suit and fished his half-length cigarette from the Armenian rug where it landed. “I thought that might get your attention.”
“Leave Manny out of this.”
“Emmanuel, as well as the others, will be given a choice. Leave when warned or die with the rebels.”
“The people in Mthatha and the surrounding villages don’t have the resources to leave. You know that. They have no more choice than you gave Angela’s brother. Had there been doctors in the region that day--”
“Marianne still would have died.”
Samson watched Angela load a vial containing a mossy liquid into a centrifuge and close the lid. Her wild-eyed expression was gone, replaced by confidence and an unyielding concentration he had only ever seen when
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