1. 
   Doctor Rikki Kinn is a virus hunter - one of the best - working in the Congo for the CDC.  But when mercenaries attempt to kidnap her in order to prevent an investigation into a new and deadly plague, her boss calls in a favor from the men at Dirk & Steele...
   

Africa is Amiri's home, where he was raised to race as a cheetah, to wake with the sun.  It is also a land of lingering nightmare, where he was kidnapped and experimented upon.  Now, against his better judgment, Amiri has been asked to return to his homeland by his colleagues in Dirk & Steele - men who are friends and brothers, who like himself are more than human. 

He must protect a woman who is the target of murderers, who has unwittingly involved herself in a conflict that threatens not only the lives of millions, but Amiri's own soul...and his heart.

Excerpt

The monkeys began dying at dawn. Only the children noticed. They were playing a game of soccer, just within sight of the refugee camp. The river was nearby, the jungle wall thick and hoarse with crying shadows. Birds jammed the air.

The soccer ball was made of cowhide, rough-stitched and brown and stuffed with grass and dried elephant dung. No proper bounce, but it was good enough to kick. The children had been playing since the first hint of light in the sky—at least an hour—and they were hungry and sweaty. So hungry, for such a long time, they hardly noticed anymore.

The children were playing on the road. It was flat and dusty. No traffic, though the boys took turns standing on a rock to keep watch. Not for other refugees, but for men carrying guns, or trucks with an unfamiliar shape or growl. Between the five of them, they owned a whistle, a gift from one of the doctors in the camp. The boy on the rock had it now, held tight in his fist. He was ready to blow the whistle, just in case.

The soccer game got rough. One hard kick, and the ball flew into the jungle. The boys threw up their hands, shouting, pointing fingers. The littlest one was responsible; he was shoved, unwilling, toward the thick brush and towering trees. He protested loudly, tripping over knotted vines, falling on his knees. Smaller than the ferns, or the twisting roots angling out of the ground; swallowed by shadows that radiated a thick wet heat that buzzed with stinging mosquitoes.

You are easy food for a snake, laughed his friends. Watch out.

The child watched. He glanced over his shoulder as the leaves closed behind him, shutting out the dawn light. It would be hours before the sun rose high enough to pierce the upper canopy. Until then, a constant twilight, fit only for leopards and spirits; cries of birds, echoing.

He heard a thud, off to his left. Heavy, like a melon falling. Or a body. He turned to run and his bare foot touched something hard and leathery. The ball. He had been standing beside it the entire time. He scooped it up, still ready to flee, but before he could take a step something fell from the trees in front of him. He screamed.

The other boys crashed through the bush, calling his name. He did not answer them. His attention was on the ground. He pointed as his friends arrived, and all of them fell silent, staring at the twisted body of a monkey sprawled in the dried leaves. A white stripe cut across its brindled forehead, and its tufted ears were yellow. Blood dotted its nose and the corners of its eyes.

The monkey was not alone. Other bodies lay on the ground; little lumps of dark fur that blended well with the shadows. The eldest boy whistled, rubbing his palms against his stomach as he stepped close and touched a limp haunch with his bare toe.

“Still warm,” he whispered.

“This one fell,” said the smallest, still clutching the ball. Another crashing thud, out of sight on their left, made them jump; they looked up and saw shadows swaying unsteadily in the branches, eyes blinking in the forest twilight.

“They are so quiet,” someone said.

“We should go,” murmured another, backing away.

The eldest stooped and picked up the dead monkey by its tail. The boys hissed at him, but he straightened his shoulders and flashed his teeth. “Aren’t you hungry?”

The smallest shook his head. “We are not allowed to take bush meat.”

“It was already dead.” The boy started walking, slinging the monkey over his shoulder. “Come on. If the mondele give us trouble, we will show them this place and prove we are innocent.” His grin widened, and he patted his flat stomach. “We will do that anyway, I think.”

The other boys looked at each other. Another monkey swayed and fell from the tree. It almost landed on top of them. Dead, with blood in its eyes. Like it was weeping.

The children ran from the jungle, calling after their friend who was already racing down the road toward the white tents of the refugee camp. The monkey bounced against his back. Blood dripped from its eyes into the dust, against his calves.

The boy was fast and his legs were long. He had a strong heart, the promise of meat in his belly; the sweet anticipation of seeing his mother smile. For that, anything.

He was dead by sunset.

Chapter One

Rikki Kinn was in Brazzaville, stuck in an arm-wrestling match with a drunk Congolese soldier, when the CDC in Atlanta called her cell phone. She knew who it was without looking at the screen; they had a special ring tone: ABBA’s “S.O.S.”

“You give up now, you buy us all beers, eh?” said the man across the table. His navy beret sat askew on his head, and sweat dribbled down his ebony face. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he swayed, just slightly.

His grip was strong but not painful. Rikki smiled through gritted teeth. “Maybe you want to give up, Jean-Claude. Before I beat you again.” She puckered her lips and kissed the air. The men gathered around the table laughed and slapped Jean-Claude’s shoulder. The cell phone kept ringing.

Muscles burned; her arm quivered. Rikki glanced at one of the soldiers and he plucked her cell from its clip and placed it in her left hand. Congo pop music, full of sharp beats, threaded through the open door of the stifling corrugated shack she was sitting in.

She flipped open the cell. “Doctor Kinn speaking.”

“Rikki, it’s Larry. Get ready to move. We’ve got a Hot Zone. Level Four.”

Jean-Claude slammed her hand into the table. Rikki did not notice. She closed her eyes, dizzy and breathless. “Where?”

“Between Bumba and Lisala. Mack is already there. He’ll fill you in when you arrive.”

“Fill me in now.”

“Not on this line.” Larry’s voice was cold, hard. Rikki knew that tone. She clamped her mouth shut and glanced at the soldiers. Only Jean-Claude met her gaze, and he no longer appeared quite so drunk. Rikki pushed back her chair, dug into her pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. She tossed it on the table and moved to the door.

“Transport?” she asked, staring out at the gates of the dock, which was crowded with yet more soldiers, all of whom were trying to control the endless bottleneck traffic of bodies: bare backs bent under loads of burlap sacks and bushels of sugar cane; uniformed porters stumbling beneath the immense luggage and wares of Zairean businessmen in loud suits and gold jewelry. Wheelbarrows pushed by gaunt men passed Rikki, along with scooters and creaking carts piled with clothing; castoffs from America, no doubt. Shouts slammed the air, as did fists; everyone wanted to be on that ferry idling on the river’s edge, and the only way to get there was to push and shove and fight for every step.

Rikki heard an odd clinking sound on the other end of the phone. Like glass. “Mack said you were in Brazzaville. Can you make it to Kinshasa by the evening?”

“Sooner. I’m already at the ferry.”

“Good. Colonel Bakker will meet you on the other side, and he’ll put you on one of the UN planes headed for the affected area. Questions?”

Rikki snorted, scuffing her shoes against the dirt floor, kicking debris into a stagnant puddle outside the door. “You just told me I can’t ask any.”

“Rules of the game,” Larry said, and then, softer: “Be careful, kid. This one’s trouble.”

“Story of my life,” she replied, and flipped her cell phone shut. Tried to imagine, for a moment, what she was headed for, but her mind stayed blank, and all she could do was watch as sunlight cut skeins through the dust and blue exhaust, the air thick and damp and hot. Her entire body was slick with sweat; she was glad she had cut her hair before this last trip to Africa. Short, like a pixie.

Tinkerbell, her daddy would say. A slip of a thing: his princess, his little Thumbelina. Small, but with a punch.

The soldiers were watching her. Rikki schooled her expression into something cool and easy; a well-oiled mask. Her second skin. The twenty had disappeared from the table, and in its place was a deck of cards. Jean-Claude stood only a foot away, his reddened eyes thoughtful. “What is wrong?”

Everything, Rikki thought, but she put a smile on her face and said, “Duty calls. You want to help me get on that ferry?”

Jean-Claude knew her too well. His eyes narrowed, so sharp, but he reached behind the door and picked up his rifle. He gestured to the others. “Of course. What are friends for?” And then, bending close, he whispered, “I would have beat you this time.”

His breath smelled like beer. Rikki shook her head and grabbed her backpack. “In your dreams.”

“Not without my wife’s permission,” he replied easily, and stopped her, just outside the shed. “You are going to a sick place?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

Jean-Claude nodded, sucking on the inside of his cheek. No words, though. He turned on his heel, grabbed her arm, and pulled her toward the heaving crowd. The other men from the shed pushed ahead, clearing a narrow path that Rikki and Jean-Claude squeezed through. All of them were rough; brutal, even. People fell getting out of their way; packages were dropped and trampled. Rikki was almost knocked down herself, but Jean-Claude’s hand clamped tight and he hauled her upright, almost carrying her against his side.

The immigration official stomped out of his post as they passed. He was as tall as Jean-Claude, but twice as wide; he towered over Rikki and tried to grab her other arm.

“Vos papiers!” blustered the man, but Jean-Claude rattled off a long stream of words in their native language, and pushed him away. No stamps in her passport this time around. An illegal departure from the country, but nothing that would land her in too much trouble—for the right amount of money. If she were caught.

The ferry’s metal ramp appeared, crowded with bodies, wares, and livestock. Another immigration official lay in wait at the top; Jean-Claude said a few more hard words, leaned in close—his rifle butt poking the man’s chest—and escorted Rikki past him. She heard her name shouted, and turned in time to catch a wave from one of the young soldiers who had been in the shed. She held up her hand, nodding, but Jean-Claude pushed her away from the rusted rail toward the other side of the boat, not letting her stop until the crowd thinned and they could see the smoky edge of Kinshasa looming on the opposite bank of the muddy Congo. Dirty steel and stone, cut from the jungle like a scar.

Jean-Claude still gripped her arm. His fingers squeezed hard, and in a low voice he said, “Make an excuse. Do not go.”

Rikki glanced down at his hand and raised an eyebrow. “Two years we’ve known each other, and you’ve never given me advice.”

His gaze flickered to her breasts. It was not a sexual look, but Rikki knew exactly what he was remembering, and it made her want to cover herself. She kept steady, though. Too much time spent building herself up to crack the mask now.

“Jean-Claude,” she said. A low sigh escaped him, but he lifted his gaze and looked her in the eye—which was almost worse. She could not stand his pity.

Or his words. His voice was too gentle, as though he was trying to soothe some wounded animal; rabid, wild. “I have never given you advice, because you were in no state to take it. Not then. And by the time you healed—”

“No.” Rikki finally had to look away. “No, Jean-Claude. Please.”

“Please,” he echoed. “Do not go to the sick place. Make an excuse.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

His hand tightened. “Rikki—”

“Let go of me, Jean-Claude.”

He did, holding up his hand, and glanced away; first at the slick metal deck, and then the swirling waters. “I hear rumors coming out of Zaire. More and more stories every day. The new government has changed the name of its country, but the people are still the same.” He gave her a hard look. “The UN will not be able to protect you.”

“I’ve got bigger worries than the rebels.”

Jean-Claude shook his head. “I was not speaking of the rebels.”

Around them a shout went up, accompanied by a ringing bell and a rough announcement that the ferry would be leaving at any moment. Goats bleated; a baby squalled; somewhere nearby, a woman crooned. A breeze licked the sweat from Rikki’s face, but she could not savor it. Jean-Claude backed away, holding his rifle against his chest.

Rikki swayed after him. “Spit it out. You have something to say.”

“No.” He stopped, wetting his lips, holding himself stiff. He looked uneasy, and the fleeting smile that appeared on his face was pained, sickly. Not him. Not like the man who had once saved her life. “Next time you come around, we wrestle again, eh?”

“Jean-Claude.”

“Be careful,” he whispered—and turned, practically at a run, driving himself hard through the crowd, slipping around carts and stacked bushels of grain. Rikki pushed away from the rail, calling his name, but he never looked back. She lost him in moments.

The bell kept ringing; a black cloud of smoke coughed from the stern, burning Rikki’s nostrils. The ferry heaved, shuddering, and a low groan filled the air, followed by the chugging hack of the engines as the ferry finally pushed from shore. On her way. No turning back. She tried not to think of Jean-Claude’s words. Or that look in his eye. No telling what to make of his warning, either, which was ...really crappy.

He was scared for you. Be grateful someone cares enough to be scared.

Hell, she was scared. All the time. She just hid it better than most people. Rikki preferred being a hard-ass to having no ass at all. She thought her father would approve.

But here, now, there was nothing that could be helped, nothing to do but take a little care. Same as always. Rikki focused on her breathing. Watched the river and the people around her. Staying present, in the moment—savoring, while she could, the kind of solitude only a crowd could offer. Peace, among strangers. No demands, no ties. No shoulders but her own to lean on. Which was all she could trust to keep and hold. Lesson learned, hammered home. More times than she wanted to think about.

Friend to everyone. And friend to none.

A nearby man held a full-length mirror in his arms. It had been wrapped in cloth at some point, but pieces of fabric were slipping free. Rikki caught a glimpse of herself. Short brown hair, sharp brown eyes, a small face red with heat and slick with sweat. No make-up, but with lashes black as soot; a full pink mouth and cheekbones high and round. Natural born, her father had always said. Just like her mother.

Rikki felt like she was looking at a stranger. Tore her gaze away fast.

The ferry ride lasted only thirty minutes. No one approached her, though she heard the occasional murmur of “le blanc” behind her back. Made sense. She was the only pale face on the ferry, and they were headed for Ngobila Beach. The Gauntlet. Hell Ground. No one went to the Beach unless they had to, and she would be an easy target for the soldiers. Good thing she liked trouble. Good thing those men knew it, too.

Up close, Kinshasa boomed with twisted shacks and spires, smoke that curled through the haze of humid air. Somewhere out of sight, dogs barked. Behind her, voices got louder; a buzz of excitement, fear. Rikki steadied herself.

Ngobila Beach held no surprises. Crazy, business as usual. It took a while for the ferry to dock, and she used the time waiting to study the crowd below, the forefront of which consisted mainly of screaming soldiers in green uniforms, and beggars missing limbs. Rikki watched one young woman utterly without legs drag her torso across the rocks, her hands wrapped in colorful rags. She had a bag slung over her shoulders, the canvas bulging with sharp-edged objects. The maimed woman glanced up at the ferry and zeroed in on Rikki. Stared into her eyes with a hollow intensity that was hard to shake off. But not impossible. Rikki had seen worse. She would be swimming in it by the end of the day.

People began pushing each other down the ferry ramp to shore. Rikki let herself be carried by the surge, pressed tight on all sides by tall strong men carrying grain sacks on their heads—men who flashed her friendly smiles when they saw her looking. They tried to make room; Rikki was almost half the size of everyone around her, and being short in such a crowd felt like moving in a furnace, a stifling pocket of trapped air that smelled like sweat and excitement and fear. Close to being trampled; closer still to suffocation.

Congolese soldiers waited at the bottom of the ramp.

Black berets and green fatigues; handguns and rifles and AK-47s brandished like charms. One of the security officers stepped forward and grabbed Rikki’s arm. His breath smelled like beer and his teeth were white. Sweat rolled down his face. Rikki slid her hand into the top pocket of her cargo pants.

“Bonjour, Docteur.”

“Bonjour, Simon.” Rikki smiled and slipped a fifty-dollar bill into his hand. The officer’s eyes crinkled and he palmed the cash to his chest, slipping it inside his shirt where no one could see it. He slung his other arm around her shoulders and gestured to the men with him, who began clearing a path through the crowd, much as the other soldiers had done for her at the Brazzaville dock.

He led her past the immigration office—a place that Rikki had learned, some years back, could be avoided in its entirety with one phone call and a well-placed bribe. Corrupt, yes; immoral, maybe. Rikki had taught herself not to care. Passports had a way of getting lost in that place; same with people. And she was always on a deadline.

“You have a guest waiting for you,” Simon said, as they passed through open iron gates into a quiet area free of the crowd. “He is a very frustrated man.”

“Most men are,” Rikki replied, and Simon laughed out loud. He was still laughing when they turned a corner in the dusty yard and Colonel Bakker came into view. His pale blue beret stuck out like a piece of sky.

Simon stopped and said, “Au revoir, Docteur.”

“Until next time?”

He patted his chest, winking. “It would be my pleasure.”

Rikki smiled, fairly certain it reached her eyes, and turned to walk away fast, fingers mentally crossed. There was always a risk to the games she played at the borders. Simon could change his mind. Arrest her.

Rikki’s neck prickled; she fought the urge to check and see if the officer still watched, and instead focused on Colonel Bakker, whose hard gaze was not on her, but a spot over her shoulder. He looked unhappy.

“Bastards wouldn’t let me meet you at the ferry,” he muttered, when she was close enough to hear him. “Got worried.”

She glanced over her shoulder. Simon was gone. Bakker said, “You need to be more careful.”

“I’m always careful,” Rikki said, thinking of Jean-Claude’s warning. “But I have different ways of protecting myself. You know that.”

Bakker grunted, and she wondered if he, too, was remembering. Probably. Seemed to be a lot of that going around today. Two years was obviously not enough time for some memories to fade.

But the colonel did not look at her breasts, and his eyes were clear and without pity as he said, “Don’t know how you do it. Those soldiers won’t give me the time of day, but to you . . .” He stopped, frowning. “Must be a girl thing.”

“Must be,” she said dryly.

Bakker was a big man, broad through the chest, his fatigues drenched in sweat. Well into his fifties, his skin was too fair for the sun; his face and neck were red, peeling, his blue eyes bloodshot. He was rubbing them even as she held out her hand in official greeting, and he muttered, “Damn dust.”

She retracted her hand, just slightly. “Not pinkeye, is it?”

He gave her a dirty look, made rather less menacing by the fact that he was still knuckling his eye socket like some ten-year-old on the verge of tears. “Smart-ass punk.”

“Grumpy bear.” Rikki grinned, and this time it was all her—no mask, no illusion. “You need a hug?”

Bakker glanced askance at the man waiting for them inside the jeep. “Try and I’ll shoot you.”

“Bet your wife loves that line.”

“Why do you think we’re getting a divorce?”

Rikki placed a finger over her heart and made a hissing sound. “Very nice, Colonel.”

He grunted, pointed at the Jeep, and she obliged with a smile. Relaxed, for the first time in a week. Jean-Claude knew her better than Bakker, but Bakker reminded Rikki of her father, and there was something warm and gruff about his face and voice that she couldn’t resist. Like having a shot of home.

The ride to the airfield took less than thirty minutes. They drove past twisted metal slums and palm trees. Bakker sat in the front passenger seat while one of his men drove. He mopped his sweaty face with the back of his hand and said, “Larry fill you in?”

Rikki closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat. The air-conditioning felt good. “He said the lines weren’t safe. That Mack would do the talking when I got there.”

Bakker made a small noncommittal sound. “What were you doing in Brazzaville?”

“Coordinating with some folks from the Red Cross. Trying to get some better drugs from the pharmaceuticals instead of the usual expired shit.” Rikki frowned, opening her eyes. “Why?”

Bakker gave her an odd look. “You didn’t tell anyone when you left.”

“Didn’t know I had to.”

“Things have changed.”

Something about his tone reminded her of Jean-Claude. Rikki straightened. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing.” Bakker rubbed his eyes. “Nothing but talk.”

“Seems to be a lot of that today.”

His mouth slanted into a scowl. “Do tell.”

“You first.”

Bakker’s gaze flickered to the driver, then back to Rikki. Not here, his eyes seemed to say, but there was something more than caution in his expression. Her concern deepened.

“We’re almost there,” said the young man behind the wheel. Rikki watched his gaze jump to the rearview mirror and linger there. A furrow formed in his forehead. She turned, gazing out the back window of the Land Cruiser, and saw a black truck, polished to a mirror shine. Expensive. Unusual. Bakker also twisted in his seat. His eyes flinched.

“Speed up,” he told the driver, and touched the gun clipped to his belt. His other hand reached for the radio set into the dash. Behind them an engine roared. Rikki looked back and this time glimpsed the truck’s driver; pale skin, dark sunglasses. He seemed to be looking right at her.

He was not alone. Men suddenly stood from behind the cab of the truck. They leaned on the shining metal roof with goggles strapped over their eyes, dust and wind kicking up brown hair. Kevlar vests hugged their broad torsos, and in their hands—guns. Big fucking guns.

Rikki’s breath choked. “Bakker.”

“I see them. Get down on the floor.”

“Bakker.”

“We’re getting you to that village,” he said in a hard voice, still looking at the truck pressing close behind them. “Now, down!”

Rikki unbuckled her seatbelt and slithered to the floor. She put her head down. She breathed in and out, in and out, heart hammering.

It happened fast. The Jeep rocked forward, metal shrieking. A second impact sent her head into the door. Pain splashed. Blood roared. Bakker shouted, but Rikki could not hear him over the piercing grind of the two cars slamming together. She was thrown again into the door, and she covered her head, using her legs to wedge herself tighter into the small space.

The back window shattered. She heard popping sounds. Gunfire. The Jeep swerved. Bakker was still screaming directions, interrupted by the crack and hiss of a voice over the radio also shouting, until suddenly Rikki felt a hand tap her lower back and Bakker said, “We’re here. Get ready to run.”

The side window shattered; the young man at the wheel grunted. The Jeep swerved again, wildly out of control, then stopped so hard she thought they might flip. Bakker swore and opened his door. He said, “Go.”

Rikki fumbled for the handle, shoved open the door, and fell out on all fours. The cement burned her hands. Hot air washed over her. Straight ahead she saw a white plane with the UN logo stamped on the side. Peacekeepers were kneeling, rifles raised, aiming at the truck behind her.

Bullets ripped the air. Bakker shouted her name. She glanced up and saw him leaning against the hood of the car, gun in hand. His eyes were wild, every vein and tendon in his neck strained and popping.

A bullet slammed into his chest. He dropped. Rikki threw herself over him, pressing her hands down on the wound. Bakker was still conscious; he whispered, “Run.”

Blood leaked from beneath his body; the bullet had gone straight through. Rikki glanced over her shoulder; the peacekeepers were waving frantically at her, but the men from the black truck still had not given up. Barricaded behind their own truck, they were still firing.

Rikki peered into the car. The young driver was slumped over the wheel; blood covered his seat.

“Rikki,” Bakker murmured, eyes fluttering closed.

“Shut up,” she muttered, and hooked her hands under his armpits. Dug in her heels, putting her back into it. She dragged Bakker toward the plane. He had to weigh almost two hundred pounds and she barely hit ninety, but her old training still carried true, and she was able to move his dead weight. A long smear of blood followed them. Bullets whizzed past her head, but she kept her focus narrow, concentrating only on taking that next step backward.

She did not notice when the gunfire stopped. She did not hear her name shouted. She did not let go of Bakker, even when the peacekeepers finally made it to them. One of the men was an emergency medic. She saw his kit and her hands finally uncurled, let go, reaching instead for tools, the weapons of her trade.

They worked frantically to stop the bleeding. Bakker kept breathing. One of the peacekeepers tried to get Rikki to leave him—it was not safe, not safe—but it was not until the UN medical unit arrived that anyone could convince her to stop.

She fell backward on the burning cement, watching as men and women strapped Bakker to a stretcher. Hands touched her shoulder, her arms—hands that helped her stand. Rikki barely noticed. She looked around for the first time, saw the Jeep, empty now, and behind it that black truck riddled with bullets. The windows were shattered. Bodies slumped inside the front. Men hung over the back, dripping blood.

She stared, trying to make sense of it all—and when she was done trying, and failing, she looked back at Bakker, only to find him gone. Borne away by the medics in their van, which she saw in the distance, blue lights flashing.

Bakker. Her chest felt hollow. Her scars burned. She wanted to cry, but that was wrong, so wrong. She’d cried herself out years ago.

Someone got her on the UN plane. Someone else retrieved her backpack from the battered Jeep. Rikki sat in a jump seat near the pilots, who solemnly shook her hand and assured her that the flight would be easy breezy. Rikki merely raised her eyebrow. The men got the hint and stopped talking. Within minutes they were in the air.

She always felt queasy when flying, but this time was worse. There were spots of blood on her arms. She had worn latex gloves while working on Bakker, but they had not protected everything. She touched her hair and felt glass.

Rikki took a deep breath and stared out the window. Below, the Congo River wound through the rainforest like a thread of quicksilver. She saw settlements cut into the green, as well as farmland and roads. People, surviving. People, dying.

The UN will not be able to protect you, Jean-Claude had said. Be careful.

Rikki smiled grimly. Careful. Right.

Two hours later they landed in the Hot Zone.