and in the crowd surrounding the blown-out equipment shed. He was slight but muscular, two inches shorter than Warren, his posture poised, promising menace.
If he was armed, his weapon was concealed. Warren thought of the Glock holstered at the small of his back and kept his hands relaxed at his sides, trying to broadcast that he wasn’t in the market for a high-noon duel. He didn’t want conflict of any kind, if he could avoid it—the intermittent giggling of small children was a constant reminder of their proximity.
The man regarded him in steady silence. Unflinching, Warren let him.
For several minutes they sized each other up, aware they were at odds but neither yet willing to make the first move. Warren kept part of his senses attuned to the sound of Nicola’s voice, ensuring there wasn’t a plan to distract him while she was attacked, but the intrigued, almost sympathetic expression on his opponent’s face suggested this was a chance meeting.
Finally the man tilted his head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The base notes of his accent were pure Latadi, but they’d been smoothed and polished by an overseas education. Warren knew that foreign buffing well—it was audible in his own speech.
“Where?”
“This country.”
“Why not?”
“This is not your quarrel.”
Warren shoved his hands in his pockets, demonstrating his trust. “I’m paid to protect the Hambani mine. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The man opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He looked over Warren’s shoulder, in the direction of Nicola and the gathered residents.
“She wants to help, but it’s time for us to help ourselves.” His gaze returned to Warren’s. “Take her away. Keep her safe.”
Warren squinted at the man before him, weighing the man’s words. Normally he would chafe at any intimation of unearned authority, at anyone’s attempt to tell him what to do.
But there was something different about the way this man spoke, the gentle urging in his tone, the flash of respect that crossed his face. Almost like he was offering an escape route, the chance to disembark from a doomed ship before it left the harbor.
He thought again of the bullet-scarred shop facades on Namaza’s main street, of Roger’s description of a mine under siege in the middle of a civil war. The ground beneath his feet practically reverberated with recent violence.
Maybe this man was right. Maybe they shouldn’t be here.
A baby’s indignant squeal cut the atmosphere between them, and Warren glanced behind him to see Nicola passing the child back to its mother. When he turned around the man had retreated several steps, into the space between two shacks. They exchanged nods, and he was gone.
It couldn’t have been more than five minutes since he left Nicola’s side, but when he rejoined her it seemed the attentive crowd had turned clamorous, as people shouted over each other, jostled to reach the front, gesticulated insistently as they rambled in indecipherable rural dialects. She seemed unruffled, murmuring and smiling with the same ease she had when they arrived, but he didn’t like the tenor the group was taking. Gone was the wary curiosity and hopeful disbelief, replaced by aggression and demand. The community was becoming a mob.
Evidently dissatisfied with what Nicola was managing to communicate with her limited grasp of French, an older woman with several missing teeth latched onto Nicola’s forearm to tug her off the path.
“Okay, hang on,” Nicola objected smoothly, but her reversion to English betrayed her alarm as she tried to disengage from the woman’s grip. “I’ll be back another day and we can look at all the problem areas you’ve mentioned, but right now—”
“ Allons-y ,” the woman demanded, tightening her hold.
Warren was in motion before Nicola could even turn to look at him, wrapping his arm around her waist and inserting himself between her and the crowd. “Enough. We’re
If he was armed, his weapon was concealed. Warren thought of the Glock holstered at the small of his back and kept his hands relaxed at his sides, trying to broadcast that he wasn’t in the market for a high-noon duel. He didn’t want conflict of any kind, if he could avoid it—the intermittent giggling of small children was a constant reminder of their proximity.
The man regarded him in steady silence. Unflinching, Warren let him.
For several minutes they sized each other up, aware they were at odds but neither yet willing to make the first move. Warren kept part of his senses attuned to the sound of Nicola’s voice, ensuring there wasn’t a plan to distract him while she was attacked, but the intrigued, almost sympathetic expression on his opponent’s face suggested this was a chance meeting.
Finally the man tilted his head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The base notes of his accent were pure Latadi, but they’d been smoothed and polished by an overseas education. Warren knew that foreign buffing well—it was audible in his own speech.
“Where?”
“This country.”
“Why not?”
“This is not your quarrel.”
Warren shoved his hands in his pockets, demonstrating his trust. “I’m paid to protect the Hambani mine. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The man opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He looked over Warren’s shoulder, in the direction of Nicola and the gathered residents.
“She wants to help, but it’s time for us to help ourselves.” His gaze returned to Warren’s. “Take her away. Keep her safe.”
Warren squinted at the man before him, weighing the man’s words. Normally he would chafe at any intimation of unearned authority, at anyone’s attempt to tell him what to do.
But there was something different about the way this man spoke, the gentle urging in his tone, the flash of respect that crossed his face. Almost like he was offering an escape route, the chance to disembark from a doomed ship before it left the harbor.
He thought again of the bullet-scarred shop facades on Namaza’s main street, of Roger’s description of a mine under siege in the middle of a civil war. The ground beneath his feet practically reverberated with recent violence.
Maybe this man was right. Maybe they shouldn’t be here.
A baby’s indignant squeal cut the atmosphere between them, and Warren glanced behind him to see Nicola passing the child back to its mother. When he turned around the man had retreated several steps, into the space between two shacks. They exchanged nods, and he was gone.
It couldn’t have been more than five minutes since he left Nicola’s side, but when he rejoined her it seemed the attentive crowd had turned clamorous, as people shouted over each other, jostled to reach the front, gesticulated insistently as they rambled in indecipherable rural dialects. She seemed unruffled, murmuring and smiling with the same ease she had when they arrived, but he didn’t like the tenor the group was taking. Gone was the wary curiosity and hopeful disbelief, replaced by aggression and demand. The community was becoming a mob.
Evidently dissatisfied with what Nicola was managing to communicate with her limited grasp of French, an older woman with several missing teeth latched onto Nicola’s forearm to tug her off the path.
“Okay, hang on,” Nicola objected smoothly, but her reversion to English betrayed her alarm as she tried to disengage from the woman’s grip. “I’ll be back another day and we can look at all the problem areas you’ve mentioned, but right now—”
“ Allons-y ,” the woman demanded, tightening her hold.
Warren was in motion before Nicola could even turn to look at him, wrapping his arm around her waist and inserting himself between her and the crowd. “Enough. We’re
Similar Books
