Wages of Sin (A James Acton Thriller, #17) (James Acton Thrillers), Page 2

  Laura’s eyes widened as she turned green. “Umm…”

  Everyone roared with laughter at the poor woman’s expense. Acton wrapped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her tight. “He’s joshin’ ya, hon.”

  Laura leaned between the seats so Sipho could see her. “He is joking, isn’t he?”

  The driver shrugged. “I learned long ago not to ask what I’m eating.” He gave a toothy grin in the rearview mirror as he turned onto the road, Acton suddenly not as hungry.

  4

  Maggie Harris Residence

  Lake in the Pines Apartments, Fayetteville, North Carolina

  Maggie Harris hummed the theme song from Titanic as she washed last night’s dishes, a smile on her face, a bounce in her step as she thought of the perfect evening she had enjoyed with her man. He had finally given in and watched the ultimate chick flick—as he had called it—and begrudgingly admitted he did enjoy it, outright laughing when one of the passengers fell down the length of the ship, bouncing off an engine propeller or something. One aghast look with tear-filled eyes had silenced him, and even he seemed subdued with the ending when Jack slipped below the water one last time.

  The lovemaking had been slow and sweet last night, just how she liked it. Sometimes she enjoyed the rough and tumble, especially after he came back from deployment and they hadn’t seen each other in days or weeks, though sometimes it was nice to just hold each other, stare into the eyes of the person you had chosen to spend the rest of your life with, and enjoy the sensations of two bodies melded as one.

  She placed the now clean plate in the dishrack, moving onto a wine glass, hers stained with lipstick, his as if it hadn’t been used. A spasm racked her entire body, every muscle tensing for a moment as pain seared through her extremities. The glass fell to the tile floor, shattering, and she gasped out a cry, the pain subsiding quickly.

  Barely moments later, Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson, the man who had completely satisfied her last night both emotionally and physically, appeared in the kitchen doorway, somehow having made it from the bedroom in what seemed a single bound.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Wait!” She held out a hand, blocking him from entering. “There’s glass everywhere. Get me the broom and dustpan from the hall closet.”

  Dawson disappeared for a moment, returning with the requested items. He quickly swept a path toward her then took her hand in his, she only now noticing she had been rubbing it, there still pain there. “What happened?”

  She shook her head. “Just dropped a glass. Nothing to worry about.”

  Yet it was a lie. Something had happened, something that wasn’t normal, and it wasn’t the first thing she had dropped in the past few days, nor was it the first time she had felt the pain, though this was by far the worst.

  And like before, her head throbbed with a splitting headache.

  Something was wrong, and she had no doubt it was related to the wound she had received in Paris. She had been shot in the head, and there had been brain trauma, though she was fully recovered—or so she had thought. The doctors had said there could be complications, but she had just met with them a few weeks ago and they had said there were no signs of any problems.

  Dawson put his hands on her shoulders. “You sure you’re okay?”

  She didn’t trust herself to look in his eyes, instead laying her head on his chest. “Yes. Just clumsy.”

  He placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head. “Well, it wasn’t the wake-up call I was expecting, but I’ve gotta get ready.”

  “What’s on today’s agenda?”

  He grinned. “Evaluating new recruits. I’ll be gone for a few days.”

  Maggie peered at him sideways. “Why’s that got you so happy?”

  His grin expanded. “I get to torture people. Legally.”

  She chuckled, her pain forgotten. “I’m glad you’re on our side.”

  She turned to sweep the rest of the floor when he wrapped his arms around her from behind.

  “I’m on this side.” He spun her around, grabbing her ass and pulling her tight against him. “And this side.”

  She felt his need. “Ooh, is that for me?”

  “Who else?”

  “Maybe I’ll sweep up this glass later. I wouldn’t want you going to work distracted.”

  He lifted her off the floor and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he kissed her with an urgency that told her she was in for a bout of hard sex, not love making.

  Her heart fluttered in anticipation as he put her on the counter. “Let’s take this to the bedroom.”

  He smiled. “Is that an order?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Yes, sir!” He hoisted her over his shoulder, fireman style, and carried her out of the kitchen as she giggled with delight.

  It’s going to be so good.

  5

  Outside Belfast, South Africa

  Acton leaned back from the picnic table, moaning in pleasure as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, his napkin having blown away in the sometimes-gusting breeze. “My God, that was fantastic.” He looked at Sipho. “Do I want to know what it was?”

  Sipho shrugged. “Probably not.”

  Laura pushed away her metal plate, daintily sucking her fingers clean. “That was good. Impala, wasn’t it?”

  Sipho’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “This isn’t my first time around the Cape.”

  Acton shoulder-bumped her. “That’s my girl!” He turned to Sipho, who they had insisted join them for lunch, they never ones to treat the hired help as hired help. “So, where to now?”

  “Back to the lodge. If we leave now, we’ll reach there before nightfall, and there’re some things to see along the way. You don’t want to miss their braai dinner. Tomorrow we’ll be out all day, so you’ll want to get plenty of rest tonight.”

  Laura finished her finger cleaning ritual. “Sounds good.” She rose, triggering the others, and they all bussed the table to the pleased grin of their chef, a pleasant, slightly rotund man who had tried to feed his cousin’s friends for free, something Laura would have none of.

  She tugged on his sleeve, pointing to a woman who had a table set up, various crafts on display. “Let’s take a look.”

  They walked over, Laura leading the way. Gorman and his wife took a quick peek then returned to the Toyota, the two proud of their Zulu heritage, Laura shown items on prominent display in their home when arriving two days ago far finer than these local crafts. Laura smiled at the shy young woman manning the table. “These are beautiful.”

  The woman smiled awkwardly, turning her head slightly and staring at the ground.

  Laura held an elaborate scarf up to her neck, showing it to Acton. “What do you think?”

  “Very colorful.”

  “Does that mean it looks good on me?”

  Acton went for the safe answer. “Babe, anything looks good on you.” His eyebrows bobbed up and down. “Or off you.”

  She elbowed him. “Save it for tonight.”

  “Sorry, babe, you heard the man. We need to get our rest. No time to satisfy your primal needs.”

  Laura folded the scarf back up, tossing him a glance. “Careful, I can be a camel.”

  Acton’s eyes narrowed. “One hump or two?”

  Another elbow. “You’re incorrigible. I meant—”

  “Oh, I know what you meant. Don’t make threats you can’t keep.” He winked. “You know you can’t resist me.”

  Laura gave him a look. “You’re mighty confident in your abilities.”

  “Well, I was there last night, and I like to think I had something to do with what happened.”

  She gave him a smile, patting him on the cheek. “I’m sure you had some small part to play.”

  Acton groaned. “Oh, babe, don’t ever use the word ‘small’ when we’re talking about that.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Oh, whatever do you mean?”


  He frowned. “Uh-huh, so that’s the way it’s going to be, huh? Let’s just see how you’re feeling tonight when you’re all randied up and the candy store is closed.”

  Laura’s eyes narrowed. “I thought I was the candy store.”

  “No, that’s the treasure chest.”

  “I thought these—”

  Acton cut her off, raising his voice slightly as he stepped toward the table. He pointed at the scarf. “So, how much for this?”

  “Eight rand.”

  “We’ll take it.” He gestured toward Laura. “She’s going to need something to keep her warm tonight.” His eyes narrowed as he noticed a necklace around the woman’s neck, a silver dollar sized medallion partially visible under her shirt. He pointed at it. “That’s an interesting piece. Did you make it?”

  She shook her head, pulling it out so he could see it. “No, my father make. You like? I give you good price!”

  Acton felt sorry for her, the woman clearly poor and desperate for money, excited at the sale she had just made. Acton decided to bite. “Sure, how much?”

  She removed it from her neck and held it out in her palm, small scars all over her hands and forearms, evidence of a hard, honest life. “Fifteen rand?” she asked, hopefully.

  Acton smiled, knowing he was being gouged. He pulled out a bill, handing it over. “Keep the change.”

  The woman beamed, passing him the necklace. Acton placed it around Laura’s neck.

  She smiled, holding the medallion then looking up at him. “So now you resort to bribes?”

  “Is it working?”

  She hugged the scarf. “It could.”

  Sipho walked over, nodding to the young woman. “Come, we must leave now if we’re to make it before nightfall.”

  Laura turned toward the vendor and smiled. “Thank you so much.”

  The young woman bowed. “No, thank you. Have a nice trip.”

  Acton helped Laura into the Toyota, watching as two small children rushed up, hugging the young woman’s legs, as excited as she was at the bills she clutched in her hands.

  There but for the grace of God, go I…

  6

  Swart Farm

  Outside Belfast, South African Republic

  May 3rd, 1900

  “No one can know.”

  Boet Swart nodded at Veldkornet Voorneveld, his balled fists pressed against his hips. “I’ll die before I tell anyone.”

  And Voorneveld believed him. Swart was a loyal Boer, though not a soldier, instead the sole provider for his wife and three girls. But Voorneveld knew, if push came to shove, this man wouldn’t hesitate to die for his beliefs. “You’re a good man, Oom.”

  Swart grunted, refusing the compliment. “I’m a good Christian.” He pointed at the hole now being filled in by Voorneveld’s men, the gold safely hidden from the rampaging British. “That is our gold, not theirs. I’ll guard it with my life, like any man here would.”

  “I have no doubt you will, which is why you have been entrusted with this duty.”

  “All done, Veldkornet,” reported a breathless korporaal.

  “Very well. Clean yourselves up and prepare to depart.”

  “Ja, Veldkornet!”

  Swart looked at him and the others. “What will you do now?”

  Voorneveld pursed his lips, staring back along the road they had arrived upon a few hours ago. “Join the fight, if there’s still a fight to join.” He sighed. “I fear the worst.” He turned to Swart as his men washed themselves off with pails of water provided by the young Swart women. “If they had been victorious, they would have come this way.”

  Swart agreed. “Is there any point then? Why not go back to Pretoria?”

  Voorneveld shook his head, this man, though brave, clearly never a soldier. “Because they are my comrades, and my friends. If there’s any chance they are alive, even just one of them, it is our duty to save them.” He swung into his saddle and Swart extended a hand. Voorneveld shook it, the man’s grip strong.

  “I wish you luck.”

  “Thank you, Oom.”

  But I fear we’ll need more than that.

  7

  1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta HQ

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  A.k.a. “The Unit”

  Present Day

  Dawson cracked the cap of the bottle of water handed him by his best friend and second-in-command, Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme, already taking a swig before the door to the interrogation room closed, silencing the sobs from the other side.

  “What do you think?” asked Red, staring through the two-way mirror at the soldier on the other side of the glass, someone who had made the mistake of applying to be a member of the Unit, also known as 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta, or simply Delta Force to the civilian community. They were America’s elite, their existence classified though now well known, their identities closely guarded secrets.

  Joining Delta was the dream of any soldier who wanted to see more intense action, who wanted to be trained harder, driven harder, than any other.

  It was a privilege.

  An honor.

  And to prove you were worthy, you had to pass the psychological torture test, for being Delta didn’t just mean you were a marksman, an expert at hand-to-hand combat, or a wizard at hacking computer networks, it also meant you were mentally tough, excelling under conditions no average person could fathom.

  In the thick of the jungle, or the desolation of the desert, if you were captured and tortured, would you betray your comrades and your country, or would you spit in your captor’s face and invite death?

  Dawson twisted the cap back in place, regarding the man inside. “He’s pretty damned vocal, but he hasn’t cracked. If this were real, what with all the tears and begging, they might just believe he knows nothing.”

  “Do you think it’s a tactic?”

  Dawson smiled slightly. “Probably, and if it is, he’s damned good.”

  “How much longer are you going to toy with him?”

  Dawson shrugged. “Book says three more hours, but I had the clock reset, so he thinks he’s only got one more.”

  Red chuckled. “You’re a bastard.”

  Dawson grinned. “I know.”

  “How long did you last?”

  “Long enough, apparently.” Dawson eyed his friend. “You’re the bastard who did it to me, you tell me.”

  Red laughed. “I know. You’re the first one that didn’t say a word the entire time.”

  “I think I had a few choice ones for you when it was over.”

  Red’s head bobbed. “Yeah, I can’t believe you kiss your mother with that mouth.”

  “You’re one to talk. I watched your video. You’re lucky Jethro didn’t file charges against you.”

  Red shrugged. “He shouldn’t have got that close. Besides, it was just a nose.”

  “Yeah, but he never looked the same.”

  Red laughed. “And the noise it made when he slept. It was like one of those Oscar Mayer Wiener Whistles. I remember the first op we were on together after, I offered to break it again, to see if I could fix it.” He sighed, his face turning from fond remembrance to gloom. “He was a good man.”

  Dawson agreed. “The best. When this is over, let’s hoist a few in his honor.”

  “You bet.”

  Dawson finally keyed in on something, turning to his friend. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you on medical leave?”

  “You’ve got an op.”

  Dawson’s eyebrows popped. “What, you can’t handle it?” he mocked.

  Red grinned. “You’re on deck, I’ve got a sprained ankle, and besides, somebody happened to be finishing a debrief when he heard you were being called away and insisted on being your replacement.”

  “Hey, old man!”

  Dawson spun, grinning as two old comrades in arms entered the room. “Jesus, they let anyone in here now.”

&nbs
p; Fist bumps were exchanged with Rook and Temple, two men he hadn’t worked with since the incident in Mecca involving a missing nuke, Rook having left to command his own team, Temple having developed a rare form of macular degeneration that had kept him from the field.

  “So you’re my relief?”

  Rook nodded. “Yup. When I heard what you were up to, I couldn’t resist. Not every day you get to psychologically torture new recruits.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Temple. “This sad sack was doing the debrief so asked if he could come.”

  Dawson looked at Temple. “Payback?”

  “Damn right. As a matter of fact, weren’t you the guy who waterboarded me?”

  Dawson grinned. “I did it out of love.”

  “You were enjoying it.”

  “Yes, yes I was.” He gestured toward the door to the interrogation chamber. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Temple stepped up to the glass, squinting. “Do you think he had any idea that SERE training was the easy part?”

  Red chuckled. “I know I thought so.”

  Temple frowned. “Knowing is one thing, experiencing it is a totally different thing.”

  Dawson glanced at the broken man inside. “True. But if ISIS or the North Koreans get their hands on him, he’ll be in for a lot worse than what he’s getting here.”

  “Yup.” Rook slapped his hands together then eagerly rubbed his palms vigorously back and forth. “Can I take over?”

  Dawson presented the door with a grand gesture. “Be my guest.” Rook reached for the handle, Temple following. Dawson stuck his arm out, blocking him. “Dude, you can’t go in there.”

  Temple stared at him in shock. “Why the hell not?”

  “If you can’t see the guy, how the hell are you going to torture him?”

  Dawson felt something press against his asshole. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted Temple’s hand gripping the hilt of an M9 bayonet, the tip ready for a violent prostate exam.

  “Found your sweet spot no problem, didn’t I?”

  Rook and Red roared with laughter, Dawson joining them though only once the knife blade was removed. “Okay, okay, you can play.”