Second Best: A Niki Finley Novel (A Niki Finley Thriller Book 2) Read online

  Second Best

  A Niki Finley Novel

  J.D. Dudycha

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Second Best

  Other Titles by Author

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Epilogue

  Text Copyright © 2019 by Jonathan D. Dudycha

  Cover Design Copyright © 2019 by Yocla Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email below.

  ISBN: 9781095663356

  [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents that are portrayed in this book are from the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to all persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Ordering Information:

  Quantity Sales - Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Other Titles by Author

  GAGE FINLEY ADVENTURES

  Scavengers

  Dark Descent

  Buried Secrets

  Deep Blue

  Hurricane

  Niki Finley Thrillers

  First Shot

  Baseball Stories

  Paint the Black

  Sitting Dead Red

  Chasing the Dream

  Inside the Dugout: A collection of Baseball Stories

  Blessed are those who mourn,

  for they will be comforted.

  Matthew 5:4 NIV

  To Connie—You know why.

  Prologue

  In the jungle of West Africa

  A LONG TRAIL OF MURKY water wound snakelike around the base of walled rock. From a passerby, a lay person, this bowl of rock and sand could have been mistaken for an empty basin. But in fact, this was no ordinary pit, this was a mine—a diamond mine. And men, women, and children toiled below. They worked with a deliberate purpose. One that was fueled by the men standing guard atop the rocky walls with AK-47s slung across their chests.

  Those guards—those guerillas of warfare—would sell what was found in the mine below to fund their mission based on the order of their warlord. A man many feared throughout the area, and throughout most of West Africa, known by only one name: Payne.

  Payne stood high on the wall of dirt, peering down over the production below. He struck a match and lit a thick cigar, then sucked in the draw, letting the flame burn down the shaft of the wooden match. He allowed the blaze to sear his skin before extinguishing the match. A callous was permanently scarred on his right pointer finger from the consistent burns. No one dared question his rationale, but if they did, they would quickly learn he had a certain proclivity for the smell of burning flesh.

  “How much has been mined this week?” Payne asked his second-in-command, Jabar.

  Without missing a beat, Jabar said, “Five grams.”

  On the open market—the United States market, the most profitable market when dealing with conflict diamonds—that meant big money to Payne and his cause. See, he had an election to buy. One he was sure to sway with the amount of money he could provide.

  The bureaucrat in question was set to win the presidency, and with Payne’s backing, there would be no stopping him. Which meant Payne would have free reign throughout the region. Recruiting—no, stealing—families from small villages around the area to use as slaves, working them to the bone, only paying them with rotten food and infected water.

  Payne stared below: a young boy bent over at the waist and grabbed his stomach.

  “Is that the same boy as yesterday?” Payne said.

  Jabar strained to see, then said, “It is.”

  A puff of smoke surrounded Payne as he walked down the wall of rock and dirt. The footing was loose and difficult. He turned his body to the right, using the falling soil as momentum to carry him downward.

  At his presence, the mass of people ceased working to see him lower himself into the pit. Each shuddered at the thought he was coming for them.

  When he reached the bottom, they pretended to go back to work, hoping he wouldn’t single out any one of them. Once he arrived at the boy, who continued to howl in agony, Payne bent down, lowering himself to his level. “What’s the problem?”

  The boy didn’t answer, but another man did, the boy’s father. “He’s sick. Too sick to work.”

  Payne returned upright and whipped his head around, squaring the man in the eye.

  The man bowed his head, refusing to look at Payne. He was shirtless; in fact, the only thing he wore resembled a baby diaper.

  “Too sick, huh?” Payne said. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No.” He raised his head, but only slightly, and still refused to catch his eye as he stammered, “His father.”

  “How did he get sick?” Payne baited him, daring him to place blame.

  The man refused to speak as he shook his head no.

  “I said . . .” Payne closed the gap between them, then yelled, “How did he get sick?”

  As the man continued to shake his head, tears welled in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. He said only two words through clenched teeth, “The water.”

  Payne cocked his head. “Did I hear that right? Did you say . . . the water made him sick?” Again his question was rhetorical.

  This time the man nodded.

  Payne reeled.

  “Did you hear that?” Payne spun in a circle and yelled into the sky. “Has the water made anyone else sick?”

  The air was quiet as everyone stared at the dirt.

  Payne returned, smiling scornfully, “See.” He shook his head and curled his lip. “Not one person has gotten sick from the water. I think your boy is too weak to work in my mine.”

  “No. No,” the man said with confidence, the first shred he’d had since Payne’s arrival. “He’s not weak. He’s . . . he’s just sick, he needs rest.”

  “Rest, you say?” Payne tightened his jaw. “Okay, okay, you’re right.” He filled the man with hope. “I’ll take him to my tent. He can rest there, how about that?”

  The man didn’t know if he could believe, but it was the first time he’d seen Payne show empathy toward anyone.

  “Please, help him up. Help your son.”

  The man grabbed his boy and followed Payne out of the pit.

  A path led to the top of the rock wall where Payne had be
en perched with Jabar. When the man, his son, and Payne reached the precipice, he nodded to Jabar.

  “Jabar will take you to my tent. He will show you the way. Leave your boy there, give him the rest he needs.”

  Jabar opened his hand and allowed the man and his son to lead. Payne didn’t watch them leave; his eye remained on the people working in the mine below. And work they did, harder it seemed since he’d left the pit with the boy and his father.

  Two minutes passed before the first shot rang out, echoing throughout the forest surrounding the mine. The shot instantly caused alarm on the people’s faces inside the pit, but not Payne’s. He relished the sound, but there was one more coming, and when it came, he couldn’t suppress his laughter.

  1

  Miami, Florida

  NIKI SAT IN A LECTURE hall with multiple rows bent in a crescent-moon shape. The rows climbed from the floor where the professor would stand to the second story of the history building. In the middle of the room, she was surrounded by many students, ten to her left, a dozen more to her right. She watched as more piled inside. By the time the door shut for the final time, over a hundred students sat in the Introduction to History classroom.

  A young man, who couldn’t have been older than a freshman, leaned in to Niki with a goofy smile. “You hear anything about this professor?”

  Niki lowered her brow. She had, but she wanted to let him fill in his own version. “No, why?”

  He looked around as if he was being watched or heard. “I heard he was like Indiana Jones or something. Like some great explorer.”

  Niki grinned—she didn’t believe everything she heard. History had taught her to be skeptical of men who bragged about their own conquests. “Oh yeah?” she mocked.

  “Yeah.” He smiled wide. “That’s why I took this course. To get to know him, to walk in his footsteps.” His giddiness fascinated her. It was as if this kid idolized this man, this professor of what? History?

  Niki opened her mouth, but before she spoke, she sat upright in her chair and swallowed the words to avoid saying something she’d regret. The name of this class, with this specific professor, was given to her in an email, sent from the director of Rescue ZULU, the Zealots, himself. There were no other details in the email. She didn’t think much of it at the time, but it was sent to her right when she was making her class schedule.

  She shook herself from the trance she was in, in time to hear the side door on the main floor click open. Everyone’s attention shot directly to the man who entered.

  He wasn’t your stereotypical professor. He was young, at least his face had young-looking features. He wore a black jacket that covered a white cashmere shirt, and blue jeans. He was smooth shaven, and he had jet-black hair and piercing aqua eyes. From the standard of ordinary men, this man was anything but ordinary: his handsomeness was undeniable, glaring even, as many of the young women in the room swooned as he set his briefcase on the table in the front of the classroom.

  “Welcome, everyone. My name is Dr. Pierce Lord.”

  Doctor of what? Niki thought.

  “But I don’t like the doctor bit, it’s too . . . pretentious.” He spoke with an accent, which Niki couldn’t quite place, and smirked out of the side of his mouth, which brought on chuckles from the crowd. “So you can just call me Professor Lord, and all will be fine.”

  Behind the professor stood a chalkboard, an old green rolling board you wouldn’t ordinarily see in a college classroom, at least not in 2018. It was there he lifted a piece of chalk and scribbled Lord on the board. As if someone would forget.

  “Now.” He brushed the chalk dust from his hands and turned back toward his students. “How many of you know the meaning of the word . . . genocide?”

  Of course the vast majority knew the word, but the look of shock lingered on everyone’s face as most held their breath. What type of question was this?

  Niki glanced around; no one had raised their hand. Being the confident soul she was, she slipped a hand up. Instantly everyone’s attention turned to her.

  Lord nodded to her and awaited an answer.

  “It’s murder, a massacre of one specific group.”

  “Good. Ms. . . . ?”

  “Finley,” Niki said.

  “Right.” He smiled at her, then turned around to flip the chalkboard over. On the other side of the board was a map of Africa. “As we’re all aware from our fifth grade geography class, this is a map of the continent of Africa. But what you may not know is that genocide, or murder of a specific group, as Ms. Finley so eloquently pointed out, is taking place all over this great continent. I myself have seen firsthand just how devastating this horrible act can be for those involved.” He paused, then moved to the front of the classroom, as if to gather everyone’s attention. “The families.” There was sadness in his eyes. “Mothers. Fathers. Losing their children. Taken away. Sold into slavery, or worse, wiped off the face of the earth by rogue soldiers looking to inflict power or simply take from the less fortunate.”

  Sad, Niki thought to herself. Her compassion was real. But what’s the point? She saw everyone hanging on his every word. He had an angle, had to, or the director would not have had Niki in this seat, in this very classroom.

  Then he got to his point. “This is your first assignment.”

  The students lifted their pencils and leaned onto their respective notebooks.

  “Pick a country, any country in Africa. Get to know it. Tell me about its imports and exports. Its government hierarchy. Insurgents in the area. Also, any terrorist groups active in the country.”

  “Wait, there’s terrorists in Africa?” the young man sitting next to Niki asked.

  Niki stared over at him, wondering if his question was rhetorical. From the disconcerted stare on his face, she realized it wasn’t. Moron.

  When the chuckling at his expense subsided, Lord held up his hand and said, “Yes. There are terrorist groups in Africa. Like I said, you will all have to get to know your country well. In two weeks’ time you will present your findings to the class by way of a five-minute speech. And next time we meet, I want you to have your country in mind.”

  After a few more questions from students—mostly about Professor Lord’s exploits in Africa and the rest of the world—the class came to an end.

  Niki rose with everyone else and followed them up and out to the second-story hallway. Once she reached the hallway, sunlight pierced through the open floor-to-ceiling windows. Students walked by her, behind and in front, but her path was intentional. She stalled at the glass and took in the majesty of the sea beneath her.

  She loved the sea. It called to her, and in that fleeting moment, she longed to dive with her father. She lingered at the window, then turned to her right, but a man cut off her path.

  She took a step backward and mentally prepared herself for a fight. Niki had no shortage of knowledge on how to incapacitate a man within seconds. Both her training in Krav Maga as well as her training from the Zealots put her on heightened alert at the hint of danger.

  However, her guard immediately dropped and she turned from defensive to elated once she recognized her friend. She wrapped her arms around his neck and grabbed tight. When she let go, she said, “Mitch Winter. What the hell are you doing here?” She playfully pushed his shoulder away.

  He couldn’t hide his affection for her either; as he smiled, his cheeks were red.

  “Can we go somewhere to talk? Some place quiet?” he said.

  Niki nodded and led the way.

  She led him to her dorm room, the most quiet place she knew of. She had her own room, and no one would bother them there. When she transferred after one year at Stanford, getting her own room was a bonus. She liked to keep to herself, especially to recharge after a long day, a trait she’d inherited from her father.

  Winter peered over his shoulder and back toward the door, making sure it closed before he began talking.

  “ZULU has a job,” he said.

  “Really?”
Niki was surprised, but deep down she was overjoyed at his appearance and news. “What kind? Where?” Niki’s first exploits with the Zealots had taken her all over the world. After her training in Colorado, she traveled to Rome. Then Cannes. Finally, New York. This had to be somewhere amazing, some place she’d never been.

  “Not a where, but a who.”

  “A who?”

  “That’s right, a who.”

  Niki waited for him to elaborate. She didn’t need to ask any further questions; she simply awaited his instruction.

  “In fact, our interest has been, and still remains, on a man you’ve just met.”

  “Just met?”

  “That’s right. Dr. Pierce Lord.”

  Niki scrunched her eyebrows. “Lord. What’s he got to do with the mission?”

  “From a distance it appears everything.”

  Niki turned her head. “How do you mean?”

  “We don’t know the specifics at this time, only chatter that points to his involvement with a warlord in West Africa.”

  “Warlord?” Niki didn’t mean to say that bit out loud, but instantly her mind went back to class. Clearly, Lord had an interest in Africa.

  “That’s right. Collar and the director want you to get close to him.”

  Niki took a step back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Winter stalled, seemingly to evade the question. “I’ll leave that up to your own interpretation.”

  Niki could tell he was hiding something. “What did the director tell you it meant?”

  Winter dropped his gaze to the floor. “He just said, get the information.”

  “Mitch!” She wasn’t buying it.

  He sighed and said, “Do whatever it takes. With an emphasis on whatever.”

  Niki showed her back to Winter and went to the window. She stared out and down at the masses of people scurrying to their next class, no doubt worrying about their busy lives, too consumed with themselves to think about the people they cut off in line or shouldered as they passed by. Niki wasn’t one of them, one of the multitudes of mindless robots that went about their day without a care about anyone else. She saw things differently.