CHAPTER 49
Immari Operations Base at Ceuta
Northern Morocco
Major Rukin poured himself a tall glass of whiskey, drank it down, and collapsed into a chair at the round table just beyond his bed. Slowly, he unbuttoned his tunic, and when it fell free, he poured himself another drink, just as high as the last. It had been a long day, but hopefully it would be his last dealing with those wretched barbarian tribesmen beyond the walls. Good riddance. Killing them all was ideal; killing a few and capturing the rest, just as good. The base was always woefully short of servant staff. And for that matter… where was she? It had been a very long, very stressful day.
He peeled his sweat-soaked tunic off and shimmied his arms out, letting the tunic fall back to wrap around the chair. He poured a third drink with less care this time, splashing brown liquid onto the table, drank it down, and bent to untie his boots. His feet throbbed, but the sensation had faded as the drinks had taken effect.
A loud knock echoed from the door.
“What?”
“It’s Kamau.”
“Come.”
Kamau swung the door open, but he didn’t enter. Beside him stood a tall slender woman Rukin hadn’t seen before. Good. A new girl. Kamau had done well—the woman was older than Rukin’s typical taste, but he was in the mood for something different. Variety was the spice of life. There was something else about her. Her posture. The eyes—strength, not quite defiance. Confidence. No fear. She will learn.
Rukin stood. “She’ll do.”
Kamau nodded slightly, pushed the girl at her lower back to usher her in, and closed the door with a click.
The woman stared at the major, not bothering to take in his vast chamber.
“You speak English?”
She furled her brow and shook her head slightly.
“No, your lot never does, do they? No matter. We’ll do this caveman style.” He held a hand up, indicating for her to stay, then stepped behind her, pulled the garment off her shoulders, and untied it at her waist. Christmas comes every day here, he thought, musing at his double entendre.
The garment dropped silently to the floor and he spun her around to inspect—
She was nothing like he expected. She was muscular. Too muscular, and her legs and lower torso were dotted with scars—knife wounds, some bullet wounds, others… arrows maybe? Unacceptable. He didn’t want reminders of combat here. He shook his head, and paced to the table, making for his radio. Back to the stables with her.
He felt a strong hand on his arm, and he looked back in shock. Her eyes met his. Feisty. Her confidence had turned to fire. Did she know he had rejected her? Rukin turned, reassessing her now.
As a smile spread across his face, her other arm flew to him, and her fist crashed into his gut, just below his diaphragm, knocking the wind out of him instantly. He fell to his knees and gasped. As he sucked desperately, she kicked his left side, just below his ribcage, rolling him over and sending waves of whiskey up his throat and out his nose and mouth. He gagged and gasped as the liquor burned with each desperate cough. He was drowning in fire. His abs burned and ached from the impacts and his violent heaving.
She stepped around him carefully, deliberately, never taking her eyes off him. A small smile played at the ends of her mouth and her eyes narrowed.
She’s enjoying this. She’s going to watch me die, Rukin thought. He turned over and crawled to the door. If he could get his breath back, he could cry out. Maybe if he reached the door—
Her foot came down hard on his back, slamming him into the hard floor, breaking his nose. He almost lost consciousness.
He felt her hands wrap around his wrists and pull his arms back, her foot still planted in the center of his back. She was ripping him in half. He wanted to scream, but no sound came from his lungs, only an animalistic grunt. His right shoulder snapped and the wave of pain hit him like a slap, almost taking him under. He would have passed out, but the liquor had numbed some of the pain, keeping him conscious. His left shoulder snapped, and the woman pulled both arms back unnaturally.
Rukin heard her pace away from him, and he hoped she was going for the gun. Death would be welcome. But he heard the rip of tape instead. She wrapped his wrists together behind him. Every touch sent a new shock of pain.
He almost had his breath back now and he pushed, trying to call, but she brought the tape to his mouth and covered it, winding the roll around his head several times. She tied his legs from his ankles to his knees, then lifted him and practically threw him against the wall, face out. Pain then hyperventilation came as he tried to breathe through his nose and endure the waves of pain that came from his shoulders pressing against the wall.
She stared at him for a moment, then casually strode to the table. Her naked, muscled body flexed only slightly with each leisurely step. She looked at the liquor bottle, then took the handgun from Rukin’s belt.
Do it, he thought.
She ejected the magazine, then pulled the slide back. No round ejected. Rukin never chambered his first round. She inserted the magazine again and chambered a round.
Do it.
She set the gun on the table, crossed her legs, and gazed at him.
Rukin screamed through the tape at his mouth, but she ignored him.
She grabbed the radio, twisted the dial on top to change the channel, then said quietly, “Fire purges everything.”
A few minutes passed. In the distance, Rukin heard a loud explosion, then another, and another, like rolling thunder. They were attacking the walls.