White Hot (Hidden Legacy 2)

“Six years.”

“What were you before?”

“Recces.”

“South African Special Forces,” Rogan said.

No wonder he was strong-willed. He wasn’t that young either, which meant he must’ve done at least a few years in the military and then survived six years as a mercenary.

“Where is Scorpion headquartered?”

“In Johannesburg.”

South Africa. He was a long way from home.

“How big is Scorpion?”

“It has four tactical teams, sixteen to twenty members each.”

“How many teams are involved in this mission?”

“One.”

“Were you hired specifically for this mission?”

“Yes.”

“Who hired you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who would know?”

“My team leader.”

“What is his name?”

“Christopher van Sittert.”

“Do you see him among the dead?”

“Yes.”

Of course. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? “Point to him, Mr. Mulaudzi.”

He pointed to one of the corpses.

“What was the objective of this mission?”

“To eliminate the following targets: Nevada Baylor, Cornelius Harrison, Penelope Baylor, Frida Afram, and Bernard Baylor within twenty-four hours of arrival.”

I’d never been number one on anyone’s hit list before. “What about the minors present in the house?”

“Their lives were left to our discretion. We weren’t paid to kill them.”

“Were you planning on killing the children?”

“I don’t know.”

The question had been too general. “Did you personally plan to kill the children?”

“Nevada,” Rogan said softly.

I raised my hand, warning him off. This was important to me.

“Not unless they presented a threat.”

“Do you bear any personal animosity to the targets you listed?”

“No.”

I glanced at Rogan. “Before we go any further, he is a mercenary; he was hired to do a job and he failed. He is now unarmed and a prisoner.”

Rogan’s eyes were dark. “You don’t want me to kill him.”

“No. I would like you to send him back to Scorpion wrapped up like a Christmas present. If their whole team disappears, they will have to send someone to investigate. I don’t want them coming back. This way, they don’t have to wonder. He’ll tell them that they came here armed and ready to kill, and we let only one of them live. They’re mercenaries. I want them to understand that it isn’t cost effective to continue this fight.”

“Be careful,” Rogan said. “You’re thinking like a Prime.”

I waited.

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll ship him back to his friends.”

“What do you want to know?” I asked.

“Ask him when he was hired.”

“When were you hired?”

“December 14th.”

Cornelius hired me on December 14th. That seemed really fast.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Rivera murmured. “Johannesburg to Houston is at least a twenty-hour flight.”

“Where were you when you received the orders for this mission?” I asked.

“Monterrey, Mexico.”

“What were you doing there?” The pauses between his replies were getting longer and longer. I would have to let him go soon.

“We had an alternative mission in Montemorelos. We were rerouted.”

“Montemorelos to Houston is a two-hour trip. They pulled them off a job,” my mother said. “They needed a team from out of town that couldn’t be traced to any existing House. The Scorpion team was likely the closest.”

“Describe your actions since arriving to Houston, Mr. Mulaudzi.”

“We arrived to Houston airport via Aeromexico Flight 2094. We proceeded to the base of operations.”

Rogan raised his hand. “Was the base set up by them or third party?”

I repeated the question.

“The base was prepared by a third party. We were issued weapons and gear and attended the briefing showing recon of the warehouse and the surrounding area. We formed a battle plan. We waited until the optimal time and executed the plan. The attack failed.”

No kidding.

“What is the address of this base?”

He gave the address in Spring, one of the little towns Houston had gobbled up as it grew, about forty minutes north of us. Rivera took off at a run. Three of Rogan’s people peeled off and followed him.

“Anything else?” I asked Rogan.

He shook his head.

I let the mercenary go. He collapsed on the ground and rolled into a ball, covering his face. His body shook and an unsettling low sound came from him. He was sobbing. I had opened his mind with my magic can opener, scooped out the contents, and displayed them for all to see. It was a deep violation of his person.

People were staring at me, their eyes brimming with fear. A couple of them gripped their weapons in alarm. I had horrified the professional soldiers. I looked at my mother. Sadness softened her face, her mouth slack.

It hit me. I was the monster on the street. Without me, they would’ve questioned and even tortured this veteran mercenary. They would’ve done it with the understanding that he would resist and he wouldn’t have faulted them for it, because in their place he would’ve done the same. There was a twisted kind of professional courtesy about it all. But me, I didn’t torture. I broke his will without even breathing hard. Each one of them could see themselves in the mercenary’s place. I could make them tell me all their secrets and that was more frightening than Rogan stopping a massive tanker truck at full speed.

I’d never felt so alone in my whole life.

Rogan stepped between me and them, his eyes full of something. Whatever it was—pride? Admiration? Love?—I held on to it like it was a lifeline. He understood. At some point in his life he had stood just like that, while people stared at him in horror, and he must’ve felt alone, because now he was here, and he was shielding me from their judgment.

“You’re amazing,” Connor Rogan said and smiled.

For some unfathomable reason Bernard had let Leon operate the remote cameras during the attack. They had an almost 180-degree rotation on their mounts and you could point them with precision, which was exactly what Leon had done during the fight. I was now in the motor pool, watching the recorded feed on Grandma Frida’s computer. Rogan and Cornelius both stood next to me, watching over my shoulder.

Leon had decided that the video needed narration and provided running commentary as it was being recorded. Apparently, he found the whole thing incredibly exciting.

The camera panned to capture two ATVs approaching from the north.

“Oh yeah, we got ourselves a badass killer vehicle,” my cousin’s voice came from the speakers. “We’re so cool, we’re so cool, we’re going to roll up and kill everybody. Wait, what? Oh no, is that a tank? It is a tank. It’s headed straight for us. Run, run, run . . . Too late. Hehehe.”

The front ATV exploded, taking a missile from Romeo straight on. The second vehicle swerved and screeched to a stop on a narrow side street next to the automotive shop, out of Romeo’s sight. People in tactical gear jumped out and ran into the night, looking for cover.

Leon zoomed in on the man in his forties on the right, who’d crouched by the ATV. “I’m a veteran badass. I’ve seen bad shit. I’ve done bad shit. I’ve survived five months in a jungle eating pinecones and killing terrorists with a pair of old chopsticks. I’m one bad motherfucker.”

Behind me Rogan laughed.

“I’ve got two days to retirement. After I kill everyone here, I’ll go to my retirement party. They’ll serve shrimp on crackers and give me a gold watch, and then, I’m going to have my midlife crisis and buy a Porsche and . . . Oh shit, my head just exploded.”

Either my mother or someone on Rivera’s team had found the mercenary’s head. Blood and brains splattered on the ATV.