An avid reader since childhood, Beverly Barton wrote her first book at the age of nine. She wrote short stories, poetry, plays and novels throughout high school and college, and is now a New York Times bestselling author, having written over sixty books since she was first published in 1990. Beverly lives in Alabama with her husband.
Also available by Beverly Barton
DANGEROUS DECEPTION
AMNESIA
CLOSE ENOUGH TO KILL
THE MURDER GAME
THE DYING GAME
BEVERLY BARTON
A TIME TO DIE
In loving memory of Wilhelimena “Willie”wood,
who lived her religious beliefs, setting an example
for family and friends. You left this life much too
soon, but your deep faith in a heavenly eternity
comforts those you left behind.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A special thank-you for invaluable technical
and medical research assistance.
Roger Waldrep
Steven L Romiti, MD
PROLOGUE
THIS ASSIGNMENT sucked big-time. Lexie would rather be just about anywhere than here in Gadi covering the presidential inauguration ceremonies. Newly elected President Tum was an evil, arrogant son of a bitch who had massacred a hundred thousand of his own citizens in an ethnic cleansing. And the world had turned a blind eye. Even UBC, United Broadcasting Center, for whom she worked as a TV journalist had thought this man’s official takeover of power was so insignificant that they had sent only her—a rookie reporter—and a lone cameraman to cover the event. Their escort/bodyguard, Mr. Kele, was here somewhere in the crowd, a moth-eaten-looking rogue who made Lexie’s skin crawl. But at least the guy carried a gun and spoke the language.
“There he is. President Tum. Get as many close-ups of the cocky little bastard as possible,” Lexie told Marty Bearn, her cameraman.
Marty and she had met for the first time on their recent plane ride from Atlanta, the home base for UBC. She had bellyached to him about this crap assignment until she’d vented as much frustration as she could, and he had shown her photos of his bride, a cute little brunette with big doe eyes. She had wondered what a cutie like his Sherry saw in a big, hefty oaf like Marty, with his shock of auburn red hair, hee-haw laugh and oversize teeth. But by the time they arrived on the Dark Continent, Lexie understood Marty’s appeal. He possessed a laid-back, easy-going nature, an appealing personality and a caring attitude. Not to mention that he was hog-wild, crazy in love with his wife. What woman could resist a man who loved her that much?
“Look at him strutting up to the podium like a little bantam rooster,” Marty said. “I bet he’s not more than five-six without those high-heel boots he’s wearing. He’s definitely got a Napoleon complex.”
“He’s a monster, if you ask me,” Lexie said off-camera. Then she returned to reporter mode, keeping her voice low as Marty began filming again.
Prior to Babu Tum’s arrival, she had commented on the outdoor event being held in an open courtyard half the size of a football field. As Marty had cinematically scanned the area and the large crowd of citizens who had been herded into place like mindless cattle, she had considered how she would present this news event to her audience. Later, once back at the studio in the U.S., she would create a voiceover to describe today’s farce. A fake election. A dictator president. A subjugated people. She supposed it was possible that UBC would use the entire piece Marty and she created, but she seriously doubted it. The “powers that be” would cut it down to a two-or three-minute segment and put their own spin on the soon-to-be forgotten event. One more African dictator assuming official power was hardly newsworthy, was he?
Unfortunately, Lexie was not proficient in the native language, so she managed to pick up only a word here and there, occasionally piecing words together to figure out a sentence. Where was their guide when she needed him? Lost in the crowd, not worth the two hundred dollars a day UBC was paying him.
Oh, well, it probably didn’t matter that she couldn’t understand every word of Tum’s speech. Overall, the man was simply blowing his own horn.
Less than five minutes into Tum’s speech, which had been interrupted half a dozen times by shouts Lexie did understand—Long live President Tum—a ripple of apprehension tapped up her spine just as droplets of perspiration trickled between her breasts. In one life-altering moment, she instinctively knew something horrible was about to happen.
A single rifle shot rang out—the long-range weapon hitting its mark. Babu Tum’s dark eyes widened in shock and realization as the bullet entered his forehead.
“My God!” Marty Bearn gasped. “Tum’s been assassinated.”
Tum’s guards, whose presence on the podium with him had apparently not deterred the assassin, aimed their weapons, searching the crowd for the killer. One by one, three of Tum’s six-man advisory council dropped as shot after shot rang out. While the other three men took cover, the crowd went wild, screaming and running, everyone hysterical with fear. Caught up in the frenzy, Tum’s guards began firing into the crowd, killing at random, taking down unarmed civilians.
“Let’s get out of here!” Marty called to Lexie.
“No way in hell!” she yelled back. “This is history in the making. Keep rolling. We don’t want to miss a thing.”
“Damn it, Lexie, we’ll get ourselves killed.”
“Keep rolling!” Being on the scene for this story could make her career as a journalist. Once she got this footage back to Atlanta, her face and name would become famous overnight.
As if from out of nowhere, a group of armed warriors surrounded the courtyard, returning fire in an attempt to protect the crowd by taking on Tum’s guards. While the gunfire continued, Lexie described what was happening and Marty filmed the scene as it continued to unfold. What appeared to be a four-man team, all wearing black, their faces masked by some sort of camouflage paint, each carrying a rifle, stormed forward, waging war on three times their number. One man in particular stood out, at least in Lexie’s mind. Towering a good six-four, his sheer size distinguished him from the others.
“They’re not Gadian,” she said into her microphone. “From what I can tell, these soldiers are all Caucasian, except one. Apparently they’re either mercenaries or special agents of some type who were sent to assassinate President Tum or—”
Marty Bearn grunted loudly, then clamped his left hand over his chest and went down on his knees, all the while clutching his camera in his right hand. Bright-red blood stained his shirt and seeped between the fingers of his left hand.
