Collateral Damage by Dale Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

aircraft.”
    â€œDoes this delegitimize the entire coalition involvement?” asked a short, dark-haired woman who’d just joined the group.
    â€œHow would it do that?” asked Zen.
    â€œSo killing civilians is its goal?”
    She was obviously trying to bait him, but Zen had plenty of practice dealing with that sort of thing. He simply ignored her, turning back to the reporter for CNN.
    â€œI think the coalition has a lot of good people here,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll figure out what happened and fix it. If it needs to be fixed.”
    â€œGeneral Zongchen said that he wanted you on the investigating commission,” said the AP reporter. “Are you going to join it?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t you?” asked Toumi.
    Mousetrapped. There was nothing else to do now but to sidestep, a maneuver best performed with a smile and a bit of a wink. Zen told them that he’d have to see what happened.
    He proceeded to answer different variations of the same questions for the next ten minutes or so, until the reporters finally concluded that he wasn’t going to change what he was saying. The man from CNN thanked him, and the others promptly turned around and headed away to file their stories.
    â€œWell, that went over well,” Zen said sarcastically to Jason. Following his aide’s glance, he saw that Mina Toumi was standing on the other side of him.
    â€œI’m sorry—you were trying for an exclusive,” said Zen. “I didn’t mean to ruin it.”
    â€œIt’s OK,” she said.
    â€œDid you get everything you needed?”
    â€œI’m OK. Thanks.” She gave him a tight smile, then left the room.
    â€œTongue back in your mouth,” Zen said to Jason, who was staring after her.
    â€œI wasn’t—I didn’t . . .”
    â€œRelax, Jay. If it was any more obvious I’d have to hose you down. Did you get her phone number at least?”
    â€œE-mail.”
    â€œYou’re on your own,” Zen told him, wheeling from the room.

5
    Benghazi, northern Libya
    A lone as the doors closed, Neil Kharon stepped back against the wall of the elevator and took a long, slow breath as he emptied his mind. Talking to the rebel princess required a complete suspension of ethics and opinion. Idris al-Nussoi was a despicable creature, ignorant and willful.
    But perhaps that’s why she had become the de facto head of the resistance.
    Of course, it could be worse: he could be talking to the Libyan government officials.
    His chest expanded slowly as he filled his lungs. He felt his muscles pushing outward, stretching the carbon-fiber vest he wore beneath his sweater as protection against a double cross. The vest would stop a Magnum round, and had even survived, intact, against a WinMag bullet in testing; otherwise he would not have put up with its constrictions. Kharon did not like to be constrained in any way. Tight spaces, like elevator cars, filled him with fear.
    He could deal with it, as long as there was plenty of light. He had learned several tricks over the years.
    He held his breath for a moment. The yoga guru he had learned the technique from emphasized the vibration one felt at this point, claiming that it put the adept practitioner in contact with the basic life force of the universe. Kharon had long ago dismissed this as bunk, but he savored the sensation nonetheless: a slight tingle through the muscles, relaxing against the nerve endings they intersected with.
    A moment of calm preparation for the job ahead.
    The elevator doors opened. Kharon stepped out and held up his arms as two men in tracksuits approached. They were bodyguards, though he wondered why anyone in their right mind would trust them. Disheveled, they smelled of fish and Moroccan hashish. They were several inches shorter than Kharon, and considerably heavier.
    The one on the right frisked him quickly—it was