Desert Horizon: The Final Sneak Peek

Well, Michael Hawkins got his four touchdowns, and as promised on X, here is one final look at Desert Horizon before its release. As before, I'm saving the action stuff. You'll have to buy the book to get the good stuff, but how about the opening scene? Jump into Nigeria with Ransom and Eddie. :)

(Note: I don't have time double check the editing tonight, so if you notice a typo or a line that isn't italicized, it won't be there upon final release).

Desert Horizon: Scene One, Chapter One

The heavy, humid air settled onto him like weights; every movement of his limbs slow and insufferable beneath the undeterred, Nigerian sun. His beige cotton, and collared shirt clung to him like a crazy ex, and the sweat made him itch in places too embarrassing to reach. Why the hell they couldn’t sport something cooler, like a tank top or even a simple short-sleeved tee? Nothing about the locals in Lafia suggested they could care less about keeping a “professional appearance.”

His feet felt wet and cramped in his boots as they stepped across the muted green and tan field, following in the wake of Usman— their local informant. Ransom didn’t care for Usman, and stayed further behind as the lanky, wide-nosed Nigerian conversed freely with Eddie. He wore the same yellow and green polo shirt he had the day before, his blue Air Force ball cap turned backwards. Ransom couldn’t tell if the Nigerian wore it as some sort of joke or a lame attempt to show his love and support for America. Regardless, the most wear and tear visible was the once-white logo being stained by the dirt to more of brownish-orange.

“Just up ahead!” Usman loudly proclaimed with his chopped English.

The announcement proved to be unnecessary, for as they began to descend a slight hill, the sour and overcompensating smell of death attacked their nostrils. It wasn’t Ransom’s first introduction to such a smell, but it didn’t get any easier as he choked back a cough. It invaded his entire being, as if it were pouring out from within him, stinging and clinging to every possible sense the closer they came. Throughout the trek he had wondered what he might grab to eat once they returned to the safe house… Now he wondered if he would ever eat again.

The slaughtered cattle had been lying out under the sun for some time, and even the ever-steady Eddie began to cough and choke back vomit as they arrived. Only Usman appeared unaffected, and Ransom thought it was because everyone and everything in the entire City already smelled and so he was immune.

The edge of Usman’s mouth curved up, a twitch of his cheek. Their suffering was a source of amusement for him and Ransom found himself wishing for not the first time that he could knock the man’s lights out.

“You see,” he pointed to the Red Bororo cow at his feet. Her body looked stiff under her reddish-brown coat, dark eyes glassy and as empty as they had been when she was alive. She was a heffer— Perhaps just under nine hundred pounds. Her neck was gashed, the pink flesh revealed where the coat of hair split, and red stained the earth below. “Machete wound. You see?”

The oppressively large flies of Africa swarmed her, creating a buzzing in the air as Ransom swatted one away from his face.

“Machete wound,” Eddie agreed with a nod. He had retreated a few steps, his sunglass-clad and tanned face turning towards the sight further down, where the rest of the throat-slit cattle were laying about. Near the tail end— the only member of the herd with a difference— a red and muscular Longhorn with only a long, and curved horn sticking up where its head rested on the ground. “Whoever did this has the other one, I’d bet.”

“Yes, yes.” Usman put his finger in the air as he spoke, “Ogah! They take revenge for grazing on their farmland!” He pointed outward, where a worn-down wooden fence with barbwire across the top had collapsed in one section. “Ogah Farm. They cross there, kill cattle.”

“Well, did your cattle graze their land?” Ransom already knew he should keep his mouth shut, but the quick turn of Eddie’s head in his direction, complete with a firm and thin line of his mouth, confirmed it.

Usman’s dark eyes flicked towards him with minimal interest. The Nigerian wasn’t entirely stupid. He knew Eddie was in charge, and he probably knew Ransom didn’t care for him. “Grazing rights. No crime but the one at your feet.”

Grazing rights… Sure. It wasn’t as if he knew enough of the local laws to protest, but it seemed like a severe response.

But what isn’t severe about Africa?

“These Ogah’s,” Eddie proceeded, his tone more cautionary, “Have they given your family trouble before?”

Usman nodded excessively, his fingers brushing the dark soul patch that served as his only facial hair. “They harass my mother, sisters… Threats! Violent because they think we will steal their land.” He gestured out with his white-palmed hand towards the scene once more. “Clearly, they are the thieves.”

Ransom cleared his throat as he fought off the sting of bile, nostrils twitching at the acidic smell continuing to chip away at his senses. “Why not call the police, Usman? Why involve us?”

Usman smiled, his teeth large and revealing a gold tooth that he got from God knows where. “We are peaceful people! My father only wishes for payment. They pay, they leave us alone. No police.”

Of course. Call the Americans when you need a dollar.

Eddie sighed, perhaps feeling a bit irritated for once with their Informant.

Usman Samake was already on the U.S. taxpayer dime— weekly wads of cash that would make a Midwestern Lunch Lady red in the face— in exchange for helping the Central Intelligence Agency weed out any active Fulani terrorist networks in the region. So far, he had given them nothing but false leads, shrugging his shoulders and suggesting that perhaps Lafia wasn’t the hotbed for Islamic Terrorism that the Pentagon suspected it was.

“How much each to replace them?” Eddie responded with a tone of reluctance.

Again the crack of a grin, twitch of a cheek on Usman’s dark face. “Eight-hundred thousand Naira!” His expression turned daunting, his eyes widened, the whites always a slight tint of yellow, lips practically puckered like a wife about to beg for something her husband can’t afford.

Eight-hundred thousand Naira… Ransom quickly did the math in his head after counting fifteen dead cattle. Five-hundred times fifteen… He cursed. Seventy-five-hundred dollars. There were more egregious sums wasted by the Pentagon, but what did a land feud in Nigeria have to do with the hardworking American citizen?

Eddie stared at him, his mouth twisting as if he were weighing the cost. “You know anything about Nigerian cattle prices?”

“I know a thing or two about minding my own business.”

Eddie chucked. “No you don’t, Brother. Did you forget who you work for?”

He conceded the point as Eddie sighed loudly with a heavy heave of his shoulders, his arms crossing his chest. “Well, Usman,” he began, “How about we go visit the Ogah’s and see about collecting that money?”

More frantic nodding from Usman. “This is why America number one! No police needed. Peaceful resolution, all will be well. Come! You must tell my father. They are very angry.”

Despite the unyielding heat and suffocating thickness of the air, the trek back was more pleasant simply by putting distance between his nostrils and the rancid smell of dead cows. A slight breeze even greeted them— kissing his sweat soaked skin when he tilted his head back to embrace it— as they strolled upon the cattle herding home of the Samake. They were “Wuros”— mobile dwellings made of mud and thatch, fifteen meters around and built to allow them to move across the vast land they herded their cattle on. A simple, fenced enclosure likely meant for the cattle sat empty nearby, and women carrying baskets on their heads filtered by as children weaved around their legs, chasing each other with sticks.

The men of the Samake family stood together outside one of the conical-roofed homes, machetes in the hands of a few, and one loosely held what Ransom identified as a dirty and well-used Makarov PM— an old Soviet pistol from the fifties.

They were shouting loudly, illustrating their words with their hands and weapons.

“Ed,” Ransom called, his eyes alert for any threats. “What do you think?”

“Relax, Rook,” he coolly replied, bringing back the nickname he had used for Ransom ever since they first shipped out to Africa. “Just how they talk to one another here.”

The women— dressed in green striped gowns that draped across one shoulder, dark hair beaded or entirely shaven— smiled brightly and giggled at Eddie. Unlike Ransom, he did not wear a ball-cap, choosing to showcase his short, curly-blonde locks. It was a big hit in Nigeria, with people often pointing and and asking to touch it.

Ransom’s hair was dark brown, far less impressive to the natives.

The gathered men of the Samake finally took notice of them, Usman calling out to his father and waving. “Mai Ango!” He shouted. He glanced over his shoulder as they followed. “Mohammed. My father.”

How original.

Mohammed was frail, his back stooped and his short beard graying. The skin taut across his face suggested a life of hardship, and his equally hard eyes took quick measurement of the armed American Operatives his son had just brought to his doorstep.

“You must stop your plans,” Usman asserted. “They’ve agreed to go in our stead, as I said, you remember?”

Mohammed continued to stare as the other men of the family surrounded him in a half circle, their weapons not at the ready but still hanging menacingly at their sides.

Ransom eyes kept flickering discreetly towards the tall, bald one with a scar. The only one that appeared to have a gun. Though, any of the ones with a machete could close the gap quick and do serious damage.

Still, Eddie remained calm, his hands splaying out at his sides. “Hello, Mohammed. Your son has told us great things about you… He really looks up to you.” His tone was full of shit, but the locals struggled to pick up on such subtleties.

Mohammed snorted, his dark eyes continuing to burn into Eddie before settling on Usman. “Some insults must be paid in blood.”

Ransom decided he liked the father a hell of a lot more than his son.

“Allah would not stand for such a response!” Usman cried. “The money will replace the cattle, and we can move on.”

There was something uninspiring about his delivery, especially with the quirk of his mouth and cheek, as if everything he did and said were just a source of amusement. It was a strange dynamic— the jubilant and suspicious son and his serious and bloodthirsty father. It did nothing to ease Ransom’s concerns as he surveyed the environment for the safest spot for cover should they have to book it.

After an uncomfortable silence, the tension thicker than the humid air, Mohammed waved his hand and the other men of the Samake family slowly turned away, weapons in hand.

Usman let out an exasperated breath, a smile cracking his lips as he turned and raised his brows at them with a laugh.

Mohammed stepped forward, staring at Eddie and Ransom respectively. “One million Naira for each loss.” He turned away without another word, and Eddie shot a quick glance Ransom’s way with a shrug.

Time to go shakedown a family.

Of all the things Ransom thought he might do as an employee of the CIA, turning into a goon for a Nigerian Godfather was not one of them.

All part of the fun, right?