Read Online WAR: Opposition: (WAR Book 3) by Vanessa Kier - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vanessa Kier
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couldn’t admit that to his commander, because WAR wasn’t an approved contractor. Actually, Wil wasn’t certain who else on base paid enough attention to the local power dynamics to even be aware of WAR’s existence. Which was safer. Neither Wil, nor Kwame Azumah, the founder and leader of WAR, trusted the majority of the U.S. Military presence.
“Very well,” the major said. “Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
On the way back to his office, Wil wondered how much the major knew about his workload. Wil’s unit was the poor stepchild of the military. With terrorists on the rise in the Middle East, Southeast Asia, and Eastern Europe, Washington had put West Africa at the bottom of its give-a-damn list.
His team wasn’t snidely referred to as the Cripple Brigade just because Wil was a double amputee and several other team members were impaired by injuries sustained in the base bombing in Afghanistan two years ago. No, the name had stuck because everyone knew that Wil’s team was so poorly equipped they couldn’t function effectively.
Only, they did. Innovation and need created miraculous, creative solutions. Wil and his team of misfits had not only managed to keep their unit running, but they’d done a credible job collecting intelligence and protecting U.S. assets in West Africa despite their limited resources.
Without WAR’s help, though, their success rate would be considerably lower.
He stepped out of the building into oppressive heat and humidity. Sweat immediately popped on his brow. The walk across the central square to his office would take less than two minutes. Not enough time for sweat to pool in the joints of his prosthetic legs. Still, he didn’t immediately seek the shelter of the covered walkway. Some days he craved the feel of the sun on his skin.
Hearing boots pounding toward him from the rear, he gave up his sun-worshipping and moved onto the shaded path. A moment later a crooked line of soldiers ran past. Ashamed that standards had fallen so low, Wil straightened his own posture and clenched his jaw to refrain from issuing a setdown to the unit’s leader. But he’d been told repeatedly that troop discipline was none of his business.
Wrong.
If the men here had been up to standards, Wil could have used them in the fight against the rebels. He yanked open the door to his office building and stepped into the relief of modest air-conditioning. He’d rather see the money go toward ensuring that the base had a skilled, effective fighting force instead of cool air, but no one cared about his opinion.
As it was, the understaffed military police force struggled daily to keep order on base. The military units that had rotated through here lately had been made up of unruly, undisciplined men who were on “shit duty” until they straightened out. Because those men would rather fight each other than put in an honest day’s work, Wil couldn’t count on them to help his team in securing the base and the remaining diplomatic missions. Forget helping with tracking down and eliminating potential threats. These men would paint their mother as a terrorist if it meant they didn’t have to break a sweat.
They’d fit in perfectly at the Conclave.
Wil scowled and unlocked his office door.
The Conclave was an annual meeting of mercenaries and criminals where new alliances were formed and old ones torn apart—usually by death. A sandstorm had postponed this year’s meeting for several months, which had come as a great relief to Wil. When he’d learned that Azumah had asked Kristoff Wren, the head of WAR’s military wing, to join him as he traveled the region drumming up financial support and military recruits, Wil had believed that Kris had finally given up on the idea of going undercover at the Conclave.
Nope. Kris still had the idiotic notion that he alone could waltz in there and get critical information relating to the man who’d sponsored Dietrich—a man Wil now
“Very well,” the major said. “Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
On the way back to his office, Wil wondered how much the major knew about his workload. Wil’s unit was the poor stepchild of the military. With terrorists on the rise in the Middle East, Southeast Asia, and Eastern Europe, Washington had put West Africa at the bottom of its give-a-damn list.
His team wasn’t snidely referred to as the Cripple Brigade just because Wil was a double amputee and several other team members were impaired by injuries sustained in the base bombing in Afghanistan two years ago. No, the name had stuck because everyone knew that Wil’s team was so poorly equipped they couldn’t function effectively.
Only, they did. Innovation and need created miraculous, creative solutions. Wil and his team of misfits had not only managed to keep their unit running, but they’d done a credible job collecting intelligence and protecting U.S. assets in West Africa despite their limited resources.
Without WAR’s help, though, their success rate would be considerably lower.
He stepped out of the building into oppressive heat and humidity. Sweat immediately popped on his brow. The walk across the central square to his office would take less than two minutes. Not enough time for sweat to pool in the joints of his prosthetic legs. Still, he didn’t immediately seek the shelter of the covered walkway. Some days he craved the feel of the sun on his skin.
Hearing boots pounding toward him from the rear, he gave up his sun-worshipping and moved onto the shaded path. A moment later a crooked line of soldiers ran past. Ashamed that standards had fallen so low, Wil straightened his own posture and clenched his jaw to refrain from issuing a setdown to the unit’s leader. But he’d been told repeatedly that troop discipline was none of his business.
Wrong.
If the men here had been up to standards, Wil could have used them in the fight against the rebels. He yanked open the door to his office building and stepped into the relief of modest air-conditioning. He’d rather see the money go toward ensuring that the base had a skilled, effective fighting force instead of cool air, but no one cared about his opinion.
As it was, the understaffed military police force struggled daily to keep order on base. The military units that had rotated through here lately had been made up of unruly, undisciplined men who were on “shit duty” until they straightened out. Because those men would rather fight each other than put in an honest day’s work, Wil couldn’t count on them to help his team in securing the base and the remaining diplomatic missions. Forget helping with tracking down and eliminating potential threats. These men would paint their mother as a terrorist if it meant they didn’t have to break a sweat.
They’d fit in perfectly at the Conclave.
Wil scowled and unlocked his office door.
The Conclave was an annual meeting of mercenaries and criminals where new alliances were formed and old ones torn apart—usually by death. A sandstorm had postponed this year’s meeting for several months, which had come as a great relief to Wil. When he’d learned that Azumah had asked Kristoff Wren, the head of WAR’s military wing, to join him as he traveled the region drumming up financial support and military recruits, Wil had believed that Kris had finally given up on the idea of going undercover at the Conclave.
Nope. Kris still had the idiotic notion that he alone could waltz in there and get critical information relating to the man who’d sponsored Dietrich—a man Wil now
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