Siren in the Wind Book One of the MIT Series

Chapter Thirty Five

A fucking container. They were in a container truck; clever bastards weren't taking any chances. The steel box blocked any signal transmissions. The stifling shell was pimped out with iron shackles, welded to the sides and to the floor. An ankle and wrist were both secured, rendering him ineffective. They'd fastened Abby to the opposite wall. Too far away from him. So far she'd been treated well enough, without any roughhousing, and thankfully they'd given her water.

Max needed out of the metal box for the transmitter to work, a breadcrumb for his team to follow. He estimated their journey time at around the two-hour mark.

"I need to piss."

"Piss in your pants, asshole," Roman said.

"I can do that. Hope you can deal with the smell. It sure is a warm day today, and no offense to the smelly-ass dicks in here, but some of your colleagues are less hygiene conscious then say...the three of us."

Max looked over at the guard in the right corner who reeked of garlic and unwashed duds. The guy stank. It was no surprise that the immaculate Roman gave the man a wide berth; vanity was a bitch.

"Guess the smell of urine will just add to the bouquet."

"Max, please don't," Abby piped up. "I'll throw up. I'm already nauseous." His woman had caught on and was playing the game.

"Well, this should be a sweet-scented ride. She suffers from motion sickness and a swaying steel crate isn't the best cure."

Roman glanced down at his shiny loafers, clearly envisioning a floor covered in piss and vomit. Pulling his gun, he pressed the intercom secured to the wall and told the driver to stop. With sudden ease, he shoved Abby to the floor.

Max lunged, restrained by the damned cuffs. "Get the fuck off her."

Roman ignored Max's rage, straddling Abby as she lay on her back. Gripping her jaw, the fucker shoved the barrel of the gun into her mouth.

"You son of a bitch!" Max scrambled to reach them.

"My beauty, we haven't officially been introduced. I'm looking forward to getting acquainted on an intimate level." Roman rolled his hips.

Max exploded. His savage shouts thundered through the container as he fought against the restraints.

"Calm the fuck down, get out and take a piss. One wrong move and I'll blow her head off, Khalid be damned. I won't die for another man's cause. Oh, and I would hurry if I were you. I'm tempted to play, such a pretty piece of ass."

Garlic Boy uncuffed a panting Max, who envisioned ripping Roman's head off, but the prick's finger rested on the trigger. With little choice, Max hopped out and took the quickest leak of his life as a guard stood watch. Glancing around, Max only saw African bushveld. Acacia trees everywhere. They were traveling in a northeasterly direction. His location would be pinged but had it been worth letting that slime-ball's hands touch Abby?

Max clambered back into the hot box. Once he was secure, Roman holstered his gun and jumped off the truck to make a phone call, too far away to make out what he was saying. Convulsive crying told Max that something had gone down during the brief time he had left Abby. Refusing to make eye contact, she rolled towards the wall.

"What did he do to you?"

Abby shook her head, choking on a sob.

"Honey, talk to me. What did that son of a bitch do?"

Abby remained silent. Explosive fury ate away at his sanity. Any semblance of control he'd achieved over the years was washed away in the eruption. Roman wrapped up his call, climbed in and the truck rolled onwards. Max hadn't known true hate until that moment, vowing that Petrovich would be a vaporized memory in the red mist of the rising sun.

***

The thirty-eight-second transmission indicated Max's position as being near Makopane in the Limpopo region, just off of the R101 freeway. A drone combed the area, along with a contingent of Mandla's men accompanying Slater and Donnie. Their ETA to the transmission site was ten minutes. Searches for properties registered to Muller came up empty. MIT HQ looked at aliases and offshore bank accounts possibly linked to Kris Muller. They were closing in on the fucker. Johnny only hoped that it wasn't too late.

Two of Mandla's best analysts sat with Johnny as they combed through the intel while running through the feeds. Johnny now had the dossier on the poaching ambush and subsequent interrogation.

Noleen Keller was a ghost. The only property listed under her name was thoroughly searched and they'd come up empty. MIT would keep looking.

Slater checked in. "Max's transmission pinged at a pitstop. Tire tracks indicate that they are being transported via a truck. I'm assuming it's a container truck, reinforced to block any outgoing signals. Footprints in the sand tell me that Max found a way to exit by taking a piss. Looks like his boot pattern and approximate size. Two other sets of footprints are visible."

"Which direction is the truck heading?" Johnny said.

"Still northwards. Trouble is that the road forks up ahead. They could travel west towards Botswana or eastwards to the Kruger. Muller's worked in this area. If we find Muller, we'll find Khalid."

Johnny stared at the map, melding Kris Muller's profile with the best tactical shuffle that Johnny would make if he were in the man's shoes. The targets would want someplace remote, away from prying eyes. That crossed the main roads and small towns off the list.

Kris Muller loved the African bush; aside from killing rhino for selfish gain. Kris was also a braggart. Combine those two traits and Johnny guessed that they were looking for a decently sized game lodge with all the trimmings.

"Look for private game lodges in the area. Mid-sized and run by a small contingent of foreigners. Spread out and ask questions. The locals will know who's new to the area."

Johnny circled the territory they'd concentrate on. "Hold on, brother," he muttered. "We're coming for you."