Hit Hard. Amy J. Fetzer

HIT HARD

      HIT HARD

      AMY J. FETZER

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      For my Castellana nieces:

      Catherine Castellana-Mentillo

      Cara Castellana

      Alison Castellana

      Mia Grace Wilson

      And the newest, Emme Sophia Henkel

      Beautiful, smart, and independent, true heroines.

      I love you all,

      Auntie Amy

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Author’s Note

      One

      Kalawana, Sri Lanka

       2000 hours

      He looked like Genghis Khan in a Corona T-shirt and khaki shorts.

      Dark hair tied back and a stringy gray Manchu beard, Tashfin Rohki was as ugly as he was lethal.

      But then, you couldn’t tell the black hats from the white, anyway.

      The fact that Sam Wyatt held a stolen Israeli Galil and smoked a thin Cuban cigar was just for openers. In the small clearing near the river basin about twenty yards ahead of him, Riley and Max were the ones in the hot seat, working a deal to retrieve rough-cut conflict diamonds that had found their way into the hands of the Tigers.

      The feline kind would have been easier to deal with, Sam thought, but the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam had been waging a terrorist campaign in Sri Lanka. The bastards wanted to create a separate state.

      Damn selfish of them.

      And downriver, Sri Lankan Army troops waited for some payback. But not till Dragon One commandeered the stones.

      From under his cowboy hat, Sam squinted through the soft curl of smoke as Riley bartered like a vender in a souk. He had to hand it to the man, his Irish blarney was in full throttle tonight. The moonlit, prehistoric look of the jungle and a half dozen grungy men surrounded by torches were a stark contrast to Riley and Max, the well-dressed diamond smugglers.

      Sam swatted at a mosquito buzzing at his head. The motion drew the attention of the men circling the group. Weapons lifted a little higher, eyes narrowed. Sam smirked and gave his back-the-fuck-off stare. Paranoid pigs. Anyone who’d kill innocent farmers to make a point that no one got wasn’t worth spit to him. A bullet, sure. He had a full clip. Hot and ready.

      He didn’t mind being the hired muscle tonight, well aware of his short fuse, mostly galvanized by stupid people. Ground level made Sam nervous. It took away control. In a jet, a chopper, he steered, attacked. Laid down cover fire. The enemy was a blip on radar, a target to take out.

      Now the targets surrounded his buddies dealing diamonds in the dark.

      He listened, tried to translate, but his Hindi sucked and the distance distorted the rapid chatter. All Sam got out of the bits and pieces was that there was a better price to be had somewhere else. Someone always had deeper pockets than the last guy, and the Tigers’ intentions were simple: sell the stones, get cash, buy some nasty-ass weapons, and hurt their own people.

      Riley poured the stones back into the leather pouch and doubled his offer. Client wasn’t going to like that. Their assignment was twofold: get back the stones before they were faceted cut and flooded the diamond market, and second, find out what those rough diamonds were going to buy and stop it. Considering the company they were keeping, weapons were a definite. The proceeds could buy anything from explosives to shoulder-mounted rocket launchers.

      It’d taken weeks to track this cache of stones from the Congo. They’d changed hands so many times it was hard to keep up with this new crop of black hats. Sam’s idea of shoot first, ask questions later was nixed by the team, but then, they still hadn’t gotten a lead on the weapons and who had them to sell.

      Insects hummed beneath the brim of his hat, annoying him. I must need a shower, he thought, sick of the jungle. All he’d done in the past weeks was inhale the little critters with every breath. He adjusted the shoulder strap of the assault rifle, less for comfort and more for checking his aim.

      The conversation grew suddenly animated, and Sam could tell Riley was pissed. He and Rohki were in each other’s face. Not good. Yet Sam kept a watch on the men behind their leader. Specifically, when a short fellow with an old AK-47 took a step back. His expression didn’t change, that’s what alerted Sam. When you went backwards, you looked where you were going. This guy didn’t.

      Sam eased back, then rolled around the tree to his right, intent on canvassing the area and coming up behind the guy. Something was up. He cleared his throat, the sound, he knew, vibrating in Max’s earpiece. Max touched his shirt collar, indicating he’d heard. Riley caught the gesture and mimicked it.

      No one paid attention to him, all focus on Riley, the rebel leader, and how much money they’d get for the rocks. Sam didn’t give a crap. It wasn’t his cash, but letting this whole thing go belly-up because of one chicken shit wasn’t in the cards.

      “Outlaw,” came through his earpiece. “What the hell are you doing?” said Logan.

      Sam touched the throat mike under the bandana. “Hunting.”

      Logan was downwind near the river with a Sri Lankan Army commander who was no more than twenty-two. The Tigers kept killing the more experienced officers, hoping to create havoc in the ranks for a coup. Bad move. Loyal and righteous, it just made them all the more determined.

      Sam continued through the Sinharaja rain forest, the air so heavy it soddened his shirt, producing rivulets of sweat down his spine. His boots sunk into the decaying underbrush, the musty odor rising up like fog. It was an island, for crissake, where was the breeze?

      He paused, and through the trees and vines, barely made out the little man. He wouldn’t be so interested if this wasn’t the guy they’d used to set up this meeting. Where are you going, little traitor, he thought, taking several more steps, his gaze flicking to keep a bead on his buddies, then to catch movement, progression. The little guy was almost out of sight.

      The diamond discussion grew heated and Sam turned sharply, taking aim. It faltered when beneath his feet, the ground vibrated, a humming that climbed through his body and shook his teeth. Earthquake? The ground wasn’t rolling, but the vibration grew with intensity, like a pot about to boil over. His gaze jerked to the little guy, then back to his team. They felt it too. The runt was moving faster. Sam made a decision and followed.

      He’d taken three steps when the explosion ripped through the