Lover's Sacrifice (PAPERBACK)

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THIS REALLY WASN’T how Mason had expected to spend his Friday morning.

Endless piles of paperwork? Definitely. Arguing over the phone about continued funding for the clinic? Probably. Counseling sessions with some of the children under his care? Yep.

Staring down the barrel of an automatic weapon wielded by a twelve-year-old? Not so much.

The black muzzle of the AK-47 never wavered as it pointed at Mason’s chest, held securely in the hands of a wild-eyed Haitian boy. The child appeared dwarfed by the high-powered assault rifle cradled against his scrawny shoulder, but Mason knew all too well how deadly he could be.

The MP escorting a small group of newly liberated child soldiers to Mason’s rehabilitation clinic had turned his back for less than a second before the boy struck like a snake—yanking the weapon from his slackened grip and turning it on the people he no doubt saw as enemy captors.

Both Mason and the MP stood frozen in place. The MP’s mouth was hanging open in surprise. No doubt the man had thought himself lucky to draw such a cushy posting in Port-au-Prince, guarding adolescents instead of fighting in the rebel-held villages out in the hinterlands.

More fool him.

As the physician in charge of the ragtag, under-funded Center for the Rehabilitation of Underage Conscripts, Mason knew exactly how hazardous the duty they were performing here could be. And if he survived the next few minutes, he would bloody well find out who had failed to adequately brief the hapless soldier standing next to him. At which point, he would rip that person a new orifice, Hippocratic Oath or no.

It was fairly obvious that the MP was going to be little help in defusing the situation, though Mason supposed it would have been worse if he’d decided to go all Rambo on the kid and do something fatally stupid.

Mason stood perfectly still, his hands hanging loose at his sides, trying to breathe calmly through the massive adrenaline dump coursing through his body. He recognized the hallmarks of the body’s fight-or-flight response, though his detailed medical knowledge of the process did little to curb the wash of instinct that was trying to shut down his logical thinking ability just when he seriously fucking needed it.

His senses were heightened, strained to their utmost, taking in the oddly jarring sounds in the background of the tense scene. The happy shouts of children playing. The creak of palm trees swaying in the sea breeze. The smell of salt clinging to the air, buried beneath vehicle exhaust and decomposing garbage.

The way the matte black finish of the automatic weapon’s barrel seemed to swallow the daylight.

Mason mentally shook himself, trying to force his focus back to the boy—to his body language and facial expression. Remaining calm was the key. Panic would only get him—and possibly a lot of other people in the immediate area—killed.

There was no cover to speak of in front of the clinic, and few options for outside assistance. Even if the wide-eyed child holding the rifle felt like letting Mason stroll around the corner for a moment to place a leisurely phone call on his mobile, calling the coppers in Port-au-Prince these days was about as effective a method of summoning help as picking up a random tin can from the street and shouting into it.

Face it, mate, he thought. It’s up to you to keep this thing from going tits-up.

He took a slow, measured breath and let it out before speaking.

“Okay, let’s just take a minute to calm down and talk,” he began, his Aussie accent becoming more pronounced than usual, as it always seemed to when he was under stress. “You’re in charge… you’ve got the gun. I promise you, you’re perfectly safe here—”

The boy lifted the gun a fraction, his aim moving from Mason’s chest to his head. “I might be safe, blan,” he said, eyeing Mason’s pale skin and obviously foreign mode of dress, “but you aren’t. Have this soldier take me an’ the others back where you found us, or I’ll kill you.” He bared white teeth. “Maybe I’ll just kill you anyway, eh? What d’you think of that?”

Movement in the corner of his eye drew Mason’s attention, and a face appeared at the screen door of the building next to him. Bugger.

“Joni,” he said in a calm voice, speaking to the young nurse who was little more than a teenager herself, “why don’t you take the rest of the children out the back way and go down to the beach for a bit?”

Their eyes locked, and he saw the same fear he was holding at bay reflected in her face. He forced a reassuring smile and jerked his head toward the back of the structure, silently imploring her to get herself and the other children to safety. With a clipped nod, she backed away from the door, and he could hear her issuing quiet instructions to the kids who had gathered at the front of the clinic for their mid-morning medications.

He turned his full attention back to the boy and steeled himself to try something that would either improve the situation… or escalate it.

“It’s me you need to talk to,” he said in the same conversational tone. “I’m the one in charge, here. Let’s have a chat, just you and I.” He flicked his eyes to the MP. “You—take our other guests inside, please, and help Joni.”

The soldier looked at Mason like he was bent in the head. He might’ve even had a valid point about that. Still, Mason nodded toward the door, insistent.

He met the eyes of the half-dozen other children who had arrived with this group. “Go on—please make yourselves at home. There are bottles of Coke chilling on ice in the corner of the front room. Help yourselves.”

The other boys looked uncertainly at each other, but after a few moments of indecision, two of them wandered toward the door and peeked inside. Upon seeing the large red cooler sitting in the corner as promised, they went inside. The others followed.

“Go on,” Mason told the MP, praying like hell that he wasn’t making a deadly mistake.