WAR: Opposition: (WAR Book 3) by Vanessa Kier

damaged throat…
    Brakes squealed as the rebels pulled up out front.
    “Hurry!”
    Kirra took a deep breath, then wedged herself and her backpack into the narrow space.
    “Remember,” the bartender said, “no noise.” Then he shut the door.
    The darkness pressed against her, heavy to the point of suffocation. Fear spiked her pulse. She didn’t want to die alone in the darkness. She wanted to see the light one more time. Tears burned the cuts on her cheeks as she struggled to get her damaged body to move. Then pain swamped her and took her under.
    Gasping for breath, Kirra groped for the latch. She couldn’t stay in here. She—
    Doors slammed on a vehicle, sounding so close that Kirra startled. The rebels called to one another. The gate opened with a crash.
    Cold sweat broke out over her skin despite the hot air.
    No. She couldn’t afford a panic attack. Not with the rebels here.
    Shifting so that she could rest her forehead on the top of her backpack, she pulled the guitar pick out of her pocket and worried it between her thumb and forefinger while she strained to hear what was going on. Now she realized why the bartender had told her to be silent. This space must border the patio, because she could hear the voices of the rebels as clearly as if they were in the next room. Which meant that if she scuffed her foot or sneezed, they’d hear her.
    “Hey, obruni ,” a voice called out. “You seen a white woman come through here?”
    “Nope.” The white man’s voice, as gravelly and threatening as his appearance, sent shivers down Kirra’s back. When she’d spotted him on the patio and met his gaze, all of her survival instincts had screamed at her to run. Partially hidden by shadows, he’d reminded her of a hunting cat waiting for its prey. What light had fallen on him had revealed several days’ worth of dark stubble on his cheeks, although golden glints made her think that in the sunlight he’d be a dark blond. He wore a t-shirt under an unbuttoned collared shirt, both of indeterminate color in the faint lighting. Even with only part of his body showing above the top of the table he’d given off an aura of menace that had sent her fleeing back into the street. She’d met men like him in Cape Town’s underworld. Men who would rather kill you than talk to you.
    “Maybe we don’t believe you,” another voice said. “Step away from the table.”
    Even from her hiding place, Kirra heard the white man snort. “Seriously? You think I’m hiding some white chick under the table?” The voice was undeniably American. “Be my guest.” The sound of a chair scraping against the concrete floor of the patio let Kirra know that he’d complied with the rebels’ request.
    “You need to learn respect, white man,” a rebel said. “Maybe we need to teach you proper manners.”
    Kirra bit her lip against the memories as she listened to the too familiar sound of fists hitting flesh. Someone grunted in pain, then one of the rebels said, “Hey, look at his ID. You’re that pilot who does work sometimes for Morenga?”
    “Yeah,” another man commented. “You used to fly for Natchaba too, didn’t you?”
    The American answered with a curt “Yes.”
    The breath stuck in Kirra’s throat. Every news station had covered the Hospital Massacre and the man behind it, Sani Natchaba. Just hearing about the atrocities his men had committed had been enough to turn her stomach.
    Tensing, she waited for the American to betray her to the rebels.
    “I don’t care who he worked for,” said the rebel who’d mentioned respect. “We are strong West Africans. We don’t need help from foreigners.”
    “Leave him alone,” another man ordered in an authoritative voice that had Kirra marking him as the leader. “We cannot afford to anger this man’s allies. Remember, our mission is the woman.”
    The other rebel muttered angrily. Tables and chairs crashed to the patio. Glass tinkled as something broke, then Kirra smelled