Siren in the Wind Book One of the MIT Series

Chapter Eight

A battered taxi blared its horn as it forced its way in front of them, ignoring the rules of the road and veering over the pavement in the process. Anton Vorster slammed on the brakes.

"Shee-it!" Johnny white-knuckled the door handle in protest.

TIA, buddy, this is Africa. Hell, this wasn't just Africa. They were heading into Hillbrow, an inner-city neighborhood of Johannesburg riddled with gang activity. Hillbrow was known for high levels of population density, unemployment, poverty, and crime. Max glanced out the back window of the Jetta. It was a Saturday afternoon, and activity littered the streets. Gangs of men huddled on street corners, arrogantly watching over the scurrying locals. Anton pulled up at a light. Street vendors and beggars tapped at the windows, jostling for their attention.

"Fok off!" Anton yelled, waving an aggressive window washer away.

Anton was a neutral contact who would get them in Mandla Nkosi's door. He worked for Nkosi on occasion, renting out his SF skills. Max was no stranger to working in dangerous cities—places that made Afghanistan look like utopia—and he bore physical souvenirs as proof. Hillbrow felt about the same, that keyed-up heightened awareness. Being surrounded by wolves waiting for any sign of weakness. Towards the end of Apartheid, Hillbrow was named a grey area where people of different ethnicities lived together. However, due to poor planning, its infrastructure could not cope with the rapid population growth. An exodus of middle-class residents in the eighties left in its wake an urban slum. Fast forward to present day, and it was a dangerous cesspool of drugs and poverty.

"Are you sure we can trust this Nkosi guy? He hasn't exactly taken up residence in the best part of town."

Anton glanced at Johnny. "Mate, he chooses to live here for that very reason. Nothing goes on without Mandla Nkosi knowing about it. Don't worry, he has men watching our six on every street corner for the next five blocks."

"No offense, buddy, the only one watching my six is my teammate." Max reached over and squeezed Johnny's shoulder.

"Want me to turn the air up?" Anton fiddled with the vents while swerving around a jaywalker. Jesus, that was close.

"Perkele. Just get us safely in and out of this damn ghetto."

"Is there a reason we're doing this on a Saturday?" Johnny asked.

"You sound like a bunch of girls, all pink on the inside. Mandla's a busy man and this is the only time he'll see you. Let me guess, Big John, you're not a fan of crowds?"

"Which operator is a fan, you fucker?"

Anton laughed. He was enjoying this. Max would bet that the tough mother was a regular visitor to this part of town.

Anton Vorster's hardness resulted from the brutal life he'd lived as a South African Special Forces Soldier—also known as Recce—ruthless warriors who instilled fear in their enemies. For many years, Recce was ranked as the best trained unit worldwide. Now many of the Former SF men found themselves unemployed. Some turned to mercenary work. Max knew of Recce fighting the Boko Haram in Nigeria and had also run into them in Sierra Leone and Iraq. Others had been killed or captured in shadowy corners of the world. The lucky ones like Anton found work with consultancy firms, covertly aiding the government and wealthy clients by protecting their assets. Max didn't entirely trust Anton—not many men earned that right—but he did respect the hell out of him.

His mind kept drifting back to Abby touching herself in the shower. He'd been with a fair number of women in his time, yet that was the most erotic moment he'd ever experienced. Abby's throaty moans echoed through his brain. The way she'd shouted his name. Shit. There was no way he'd allow his dick to get his team into trouble and fucking a target would get them into a tank load of it. A target. A terrorist. A traitor.