Edge Of Truth. Brynn Kelly

us to make a living, right?” She stretched her legs out, angling them awkwardly to avoid his. “If the US and its allies invade Somalia tomorrow, to crush the supposed threat from al-Thawra, who benefits?”

      “Supposed threat? That’s a whacked comment coming from a woman sitting on jihadist death row—or whatever kind of death row you think this is. Who benefits? How about the people who don’t get blown up in the next terrorist attack?”

      “Oh, come on—you don’t believe the PR about war making us safer?”

      “Ah, crap, really? I’m stuck in a hole in I-don’t-know-the-hell-where, about to have my head sliced off, having some philosophical debate with...” With a woman who was getting more attractive—and formidable—by the second. He swallowed. “With some lefto greenie...tinfoil-hat-wearing conspiracy-theory crusader.”

      “Power and money, right?” She bulldozed on, but with a hint of a smile. “That’s what it’s about—what it’s always about.”

      “Not from where I’m looking. You missed survival and the fact that some of us actually like defending innocent people.” God, now he sounded like he was on 60 Minutes, or whatever self-righteous program she worked for.

      “Yeah, but you’re looking at the foot soldiers, right? And the victims—the poor people just trying to keep their goats and children alive. Who benefits from a war in Somalia?”

      “Ah. That would be no one.”

      “No one in Somalia, sure. But how about in America? In the UK, in France, in Australia, in every other country al-Thawra’s trying to provoke?”

      “Sunshine, my brain’s too fuzzy to decode your conspiracy theory. And I’m guessing you’ve had no one to lecture for an entire week, so how about you lay it all out for me?” At least she wasn’t interrogating him about his yo-yoing Australian-French accent.

      She smiled again, the pale light catching her eyes. He could get used to looking at a face like that. Pity he wouldn’t get a chance. “What about the good old-fashioned war profiteers? In the Civil War they were the carpetbaggers. In World War II, the industrialists. Now they’re the contractors and suppliers.”

      “Bloody hell, I’m gonna need more painkillers—you’re saying al-Thawra’s a military contractor?”

      “Not directly, but I have—I had—a paper trail proving that al-Thawra is controlled by the biggest military contractor and supplier in the world—Denniston Corp.”

      “Seriously?” Half the legion’s supplies were stamped with that logo. “Okay, that could be interesting, if it’s true.”

      “Oh, it’s true. It was the story I was chasing before I was captured. Denniston’s about to go bankrupt, and when they do, a whole lot of dirt will wash up. Not just the ties to al-Thawra, but money laundering, terrorist links, political corruption... Kickbacks have been bouncing around the world for years, and a lot of people have got very rich and very powerful—senators, members of Congress, business leaders, at least one prime minister. Jail terms all round.”

      “Wasn’t Denniston the company set up by—”

      “Senator Hyland, yes. When he left the marines, that’s where he made his money. Officially he’s sold out of it, but unofficially he still calls the shots—in Denniston and al-Thawra.”

      “Isn’t he the guy running for—”

      “President. Yep. If Denniston goes bust, he loses everything—including his liberty. The one thing that’ll save them is a lucrative multigovernment contract, and soon.”

      Whoa. It was like having his own live news service. “And they’ll get this contract if there’s another war?”

      “Bingo. Things aren’t profitable right now, with troops withdrawing from Iraq and Afghanistan, and the US and its allies wary about getting mired in another conflict. So Denniston and Hyland and his buddy Sara invented al-Thawra and Hamid, and she masterminded the LA attacks—using foot soldiers who genuinely thought they were martyring themselves in a jihad—and made it look like Somalia was sheltering the terrorists. This invasion would not only get Hyland out of the crap—it’d make him look good.”

      “The presidential candidate was behind an attack on his own country? Bullshit.”

      “You think al-Thawra kidnapped me just because of my profile?”

      “Hey, I was kidnapped and I don’t know about any of this.”

      “I’d just verified enough evidence to run with the story and, bam.” She gestured at the room.

      Okay, the fact she was in an al-Thawra dungeon might back up her story. “Does anyone else know?”

      “My producer knew I was chasing the story, and my crew, but I had to keep it contained—many people would do anything to prevent this getting out, or find a way to discredit it.” She chewed the corner of a fingernail. “I don’t know what happened to my translator—we were separated when al-Thawra sprang. The cameraman was killed.”

      “The translator—Somali guy?”

      “Do you know what happened to him?”

      The woman was in her last days—did she need the details?

      She swore, and rubbed her eyes with the fingers of one hand. “Oh God. Really?”

      “I didn’t say anything.”

      “I could see it in your face. Dead?”

      Very. “Afraid so.”

      She tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling, her shiny eyes reflecting the light. His gut twisted—he knew the pain and guilt of losing buddies. Hell, he might have just lost all the friends he had.

      “So all this stuff about them kidnapping you because you offended Islam...?”

      “As you so eloquently put it? ‘Bullshit.’” She lowered her head and stared at a stain on the mattress. “Hamid will play the publicity for all it’s worth, then kill me, live—so to speak. She’ll want to generate more anger in the States, so Hyland can stir up the political will to get over the line in Somalia.” She lifted her gaze. Strength had returned to her eyes, cut in with new anger. “She’s also eager to pull France into her game. Your execu—your capture could tip them.”

      Subtle she wasn’t. “Hamid will assume you’ve told me all this, that I know her secret.”

      She winced.

      “Guess I was dead anyway,” he said.

      “Didn’t want to say it.”

      A clink and a squeal—the door upstairs. Footsteps crossed the floor above. Dirt drifted down between the boards, lit by slits of weak light. One soldier, by the sound of it.

      “I’m just pissed I’m going to die before I get this story out,” she added.

      A grin tugged at his mouth. Smart, gutsy and hot. If he could have chosen one person to share his last days, it might well have been someone like her. As the room lightened she was looking paler and more fragile—but there was fire in her, for sure. He twitched with competing urges—to fold her into him and hide her from all this, and to tease that flame out of her in a far less honorable way. He stayed rigidly still.

      Above, one bolt shot across, then another. She gripped the mattress, knuckles blanching.

      “Tess, look...” he whispered, ignoring the burn in his ribs as he leaned closer. He stopped short of making it Tess Newell, as he’d heard hundreds of times on TV. Tess seemed incomplete. “Them kidnapping me buys you more time. Sounds like they plan to kill us together, and if your theory is true—”

      “It is true.”

      “—they’ll want to drum up anger about me in France first, right? That’s got to give us a few days.”

      “You’re