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K urt Montana caught the playful smile of a young, pretty, Black woman as she danced nearby.

She crooked her finger, beckoning him to join her and her friends on the dance floor.

He shook his head ruefully. She looked about the same age as his daughter and made him feel every second of his nearly forty-six years.

Even though it was a Monday night, the place was packed.

He’d arrived early and managed to secure a table under the giant outdoor awning.

Red bricks formed a wavy booth around his table—the next best thing to having a wall at his back.

The man he was expecting, an old friend from his Army days, walked in and Kurt climbed to his feet to greet him.

“Bjorn. How was your trip?”

He’d first met Bjorn Anders in Afghanistan where the man had been working for the NGO he now owned, clearing remnants of war—landmines and munitions discarded after conflicts ended.

It was good work, righteous work, but Bjorn didn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart.

There was always money to be made from war .

“Can’t complain, man. Can’t complain.” The guy was originally from Norway and his accent had a decidedly wonky lilt.

“Take a seat. What are you having? My treat.”

They ordered pints of Zambezi beer and stacked burgers accompanied with mounds of fresh french fries. They ate and enjoyed the party atmosphere with the deep throb of African pop intermixed with the iconic sounds of the ’80s playing in the background.

The back of Kurt’s neck itched as if he was being watched, but he’d had that feeling on and off ever since he’d arrived in Africa.

After the server removed their plates, Kurt eased back in his seat and shook his head when Bjorn offered him a cigar. “Did you discover anything of interest for me?”

“Nah, man.” Bjorn shook his head. “Nothing, sorry.”

He’d delayed his return to the US specifically for this meet.

Having spent nearly two months traveling in some of the most dangerous hot spots on the continent, Kurt was ready to go home.

He was tired. Really fucking tired. His bullshit meter was honed to the sharpness of a samurai sword and his patience reduced to a cigarette stub. “Liar.”

Bjorn gave him a rueful look and his mouth curved into an easy smile. “Nothing I can confirm from a reliable source.”

“At this point, I’ll take gossip from your kids’ school friends. Shit, I’ll take gossip from kids they don’t even like.”

Ten days ago, one of his men had died trying to save a young woman who was being tortured by a serial killer, and it had gutted him and his men.

Kurt should be in Quantico helping his team deal with the grief.

He needed something to show for his time here.

Going home without advancing the mission would be the ultimate topping on the shit sandwich this op had become.

He should have been there.

Maybe, if he had, Scotty would still be alive. Which was nonsense, but the guilt was real, and he knew every man—and woman—on the team would be feeling the same way.

Instead, he’d been stuck in Africa chasing leads about an enemy who was proving to be as elusive as the smoke Bjorn drew into his lungs and exhaled in a cloud of toxic vapor. Thankfully, they were far away from any other diners.

“Like I told you at the Falls, it might take a while to hear back from my sources.”

“Where are they that they don’t have cell service?” Kurt crossed his arms as he leaned back against the rough brick.

“Phone numbers change. People move.” Impatience leaked from the other man.

“The man I knew who said he knew… your friend .” Bjorn glanced around without saying the name, as if afraid someone might be listening in.

“He’s been dead for a long time. I reached out to a couple of people I thought hung out with him back in the day, but most of them also seem to be dead.

I have feelers out with a few other buddies but, oddly enough, being a mercenary is not a job where people get to enjoy old age. ”

“No shit.” Kurt smiled, the skin around his mouth and eyes pulling tight. Bjorn wasn’t telling him everything. “Give me the name of this guy who knew my friend . I’ll have him run through the system.”

Bjorn laughed uneasily. “The FBI has fewer resources than my kids have at school when it comes to these sorts of connections. It’s not like what we talk about around campfires turns up in some CIA report.”

You’d be surprised .

Kurt held Bjorn’s gaze. His patience was at an end, and Bjorn was hiding something.

“What harm can it do to tell me his name? At least then I can go home with another lead rather than the bust I’m currently sitting with.

” He softened the demand. “Don’t forget, there’s a hundred thousand US-dollar reward for any information that leads to an arrest… ”

Bjorn’s cynical blue gaze sparked at the size of the not-so-subtle carrot Kurt was dangling.

“On the other hand, concealing information from the FBI won’t endear you or your NGO to the US government.” He was done with pretending to be Mr. Nice Guy. Not about this. “Would hate for any issues to come up in relation to applying for, or renewing, US contracts.”

Bjorn’s jaw tightened at the threat.

“Just give me the name. An address. What can it hurt? You already said most of the people from back then are dead.”

Bjorn scrunched up his face in defeat. “Fine, but it’s probably a waste of time. That’s why I don’t want to tell you. You have to remember, things were different back then, and maybe this fellow was full of bullshit, you know? Most ex-soldiers are.”

As they were both ex-soldiers, Kurt kept his mouth shut. Ironically, something he’d learned from his negotiator counterparts.

Bjorn leaned closer. Cleared his throat.

“The guy I knew was called Dougie Cavanagh. Scottish guy. Said he knew the person you’re looking for from his university days.

Talked about doing some kind of business together—your friend wasn’t a wannabe despot back then, so it wasn’t a big deal or secret.

He was just another guy looking to score some money in a place that didn’t have too many rules. ”

“Dougie Cavanagh?” The name wasn’t familiar to Kurt. The fact he was Scottish reinforced the possibility this story might be legit.

“Correct. A nice guy, Dougie.”

A nice guy who hung around with terrorists.

Kurt’s mission was helping to track down the current whereabouts of a shitball who was #1 on the FBI Most Wanted Fugitive list, a High Value Target named Darmawan Hurek.

Hurek had attended the University of St. Andrews at the tender age of eighteen under the name David Hurek.

He’d studied political science while socializing with the children of the British upper-crust and wealthy elite.

Little was known about Hurek’s friends during that time.

Email had barely been a thing, social media non-existent with Zuck still too young to be thinking about rating the hotness of his fellow students.

Photographs were on film rather than digital.

The FBI and NSA had scoured everything they could get their hands on and found nothing.

Rental contracts were on paper, with few official records being kept beyond a year or two.

The FBI knew what courses Hurek had taken, his classmates, his teachers, and his grades, but little else.

It was as if Hurek’s history from that time had been scrubbed off the face of the earth.

“Thank you. If it leads anywhere, I’ll make sure the authorities know where to send the reward.”

Bjorn waved the offer away and glanced around. “It might be more trouble than it’s worth. I’m not sure I want anyone knowing I’m in league with the FBI.”

“Fair enough.” Kurt would see what they could do about keeping the recipient anonymous. The Dougie Cavanagh name was a thread for analysts to pull—or a carefully constructed lie designed to tie up the FBI for the next few months while Hurek continued to evade authorities.

“What happened to Cavanagh? Do you know?”

Bjorn’s expression turned into a frown. “He disappeared off the scene. It happened a lot back then. People took off traveling or went home. I assumed he’d get in touch eventually. He’d left some of his belongings at my place. Nothing much. A bag of gear and some books and shit.”

“You still have it?”

“Nah.” Bjorn licked his lips before he shook his head. “About a year after he disappeared, I heard from someone that he’d drowned in a river somewhere in the Congo. I got rid of everything then.”

Kurt had no reason to believe Bjorn would deliberately lie to him, but he wasn’t stupid enough to take everything at face value either.

Hopefully, this clue would give the task force another angle to pursue, although how it could lead to where Hurek was now was beyond him.

He sipped his beer, then caught the eye of a white woman, an attractive brunette, who sat alone at the cocktail bar.

Bjorn looked over his shoulder, but the brunette had turned away and the dancers from earlier were once again beckoning Kurt to join them on the dance floor.

Did they want to humiliate the old white guy and laugh at what passed for his attempts at dancing?

Probably.

Not that he blamed them.

If his men could see him now.

“Maybe your last night in Africa holds a little more excitement than dinner with an old fart, huh?” Bjorn’s smile softened.

“I don’t think so.”

The brunette at the bar had also been watching him at The Lookout Lodge in Vic Falls when he’d first tracked down Bjorn, who’d been attending an ethical diamond-mining conference on the Zambia side of the river.