The Relentless Hero Read online

  “I’ll be back for the forms in a few minutes,” the woman added, then disappeared around the corner. Scanning the documents, Julian lifted the pen. After signing by the x on each page, he glanced up to see where the woman had disappeared.

  A flush of adrenaline raced through his body.

  Chapter Three

  Squinting, Julian couldn’t stop staring at the woman less than fifteen feet away from him.

  Tall and statuesque, her ebony flawless face was crowned by a curly mane of shoulder-length jet black hair. She leaned over and studied a carved settee placed in the corner adjacent to the nook.

  Their eyes met, and Julian was catapulted back to the darkest time in his life. The pain and guilt over Broman’s condition had gutted him, leaving him broken and alone until she’d shown up on his yacht. She’d been through her own hell, having survived a maniac only to struggle with how to reintegrate back into her life. They’d found solace in each other until she’d sneaked off in the middle of the night. He’d known he wouldn’t see her again. The next morning, he’d set sail for St. Basil with two boxes of Saltines and a bottle of vodka on board.

  Julian swallowed, his heart skipping a beat as he walked toward her.

  Sunny Tate. She hadn’t changed one bit in all of these years.

  “Hey.”

  Sunny looked away for a split second. “Hey.”

  “This is … awkward,” Julian admitted.

  “Wasn’t it always between us,” Sunny said.

  Julian raised an eyebrow, unsettled by her assessment of their past. “No, but maybe it should have been?”

  Sunny gave a reluctant smile. “That would have kept us out of trouble.”

  “And what fun would that have been?” Julian asked.

  “None. No regrets, right?”

  “No regrets,” Julian agreed.

  Going through basic training with Broman and Sunny by his side had been his entire world. Those carefree early days in the Navy when they were too young and self-absorbed to be concerned with anything other than becoming sailors felt like a lifetime ago. The competitiveness and drive to be the best fueled them as they pushed each other to be faster, stronger, and smarter. They’d each achieved the success they’d wanted: he and Broman had become SEALs, and Sunny realized her dream of being one of the few female pilots assigned to special operations.

  “What are you doing in Nairobi?” Julian asked.

  “Can you believe I live here?” Sunny asked.

  “No.” Tension wafted between them as Julian shook his head. “Why the hell would you move here? After everything that happened.”

  Sunny held up a hand. “I’ve made peace with all of that. Some pain you can’t keep carrying around with you. The irony of coming back to this place, and finding happiness was liberating. Now, I live in a beautiful city with amazing people. I have a thriving business in private security, and I still pilot chartered flights for the execs in between. I have a good life here.”

  He should have been convinced by her optimism, the positivity in her new outlook on life, but he wasn’t. The Sunny Tate he knew was more than capable of overcoming any obstacle. But he found it strange that she decided to make Africa her home.

  Crossing her arms, she seemed to be wilting under his intense gaze. Julian softened a bit, not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable after all these years. She had a right to deal with her demons how she saw fit, and she’d obviously moved past them all. Just as he had moved past his … with Mena’s help.

  “I’m happy for you,” Julian said, breaking the silence between them.

  “Whatever Montgomery. I know you think I’m bonkers, but I can promise you I’m not,” Sunny said, punching him in the arm and daring him to deny it. The Sunny he remembered, in all her full glory, resurrected in that one action.

  He wouldn’t insult her. She knew him too well.

  “Enough about me. What brings you to Kenya?” Sunny asked, a suspicious look in her gaze.

  Julian stiffened. “I’m not on a mission if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Four years ago, Sunny had come close to convincing him not to walk away from the SEALs. To honor his best friend by continuing the pursuit of making a difference in the world by eradicating it of terrorists. In the end, Julian couldn’t imagine serving in the military without Broman by his side. They’d spent their entire Naval career in the same boat crews and later assigned to the same SEAL team. They were swim buddies, watching each other’s backs on every mission. How could he do that with someone else?

  He’d walked away from the SEALs and from the Navy, with everyone’s understanding that his last mission had been too much to overcome. Sunny was like the rest, oblivious to the truth of what really happened in Central Sulawesi.

  She had no clue what he’d done. And she, more than anyone else, would have the right to hate him if she found out the truth.

  Sunny asked, “Why are you here?”

  Julian hesitated, not sure how to respond to her question.

  Sunny’s eyes narrowed, her head tilting as she scrutinized his face. “You’re here because of a woman, aren’t you?”

  It was Julian’s turn to look away. He didn’t want to hurt Sunny. He didn’t know if telling her about Mena would.

  A man dressed in a rumpled business suit brushed against Julian’s arm as he angled for a better position to examine a painting on the wall near the settee.

  Stepping closer to Sunny and out of the man’s way, Julian decided to be honest. No matter what had happened between him and Sunny through the years, she was still one of his oldest friends. “My girlfriend works at the Tribal Museum.”

  “And you’re here to visit her,” Sunny said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

  “I moved here with her. We’ll be in Nairobi for another year and a half. After that, it’ll depend on where her next job is,” Julian explained.

  “Wow. Montgomery is following a woman around the world for her career. Never would have imagined that. What kind of work are you doing?” Sunny asked.

  Julian bristled, not wanting to answer her question.

  As if divinely inspired, the gallery worker motioned for him as the package containing Mena’s mask was brought out from a room in the back.

  Julian looked back at Sunny. “I gotta go. My mask is ready.”

  “No problem,” Sunny said. Reaching into the back pocket of her shorts, she handed him a business card. “We really should catch up when you’re not too busy. You can buy me a vodka tonic.”

  Julian took the card and read it.

  Tactical and Intelligence Defense Executive Services (TIDES). Sunny Tate. Owner.

  Below the names were two phone numbers. A local Kenyan number and the Atlanta cell phone number Julian still knew by heart.

  “Bye, Montgomery,” Sunny said, walking away. Heart pounding in his chest, he watched her walk out of the gallery. Sunny raised her umbrella and crossed the street to The Hub, disappearing from his sight.

  An uneasiness settled within him. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be his last encounter with Sunny Tate.

  “Mr. Nix, your mask is ready,” the woman said, behind him.

  Julian rolled his eyes, checking his watch once again.

  11:05 a.m.

  Damn. He was too late. The lecture had already begun.

  Chapter Four

  Crossing the wide exhibit hall toward the last sculpture, Mena stopped near the center and gazed at the audience. Hundreds of guests—dignitaries, senior executives of the African business elite, and a hodgepodge of political who’s who of Kenyan government—stared back at her. Riveting was the word that came to mind as she thought about the presentation she’d been giving over the past hour.

  Wangari Irungu, director of the Tribal Museum, had the forethought and vision to expand the focus of the museum to showcase temporary exhibits of art from internationally acclaimed African artists. The exhibit hall itself was a masterpiece of design, perfectly complementing the very fi
rst showcase of three dynamic sculptures by the Ghanian artist, El Anatsui.

  “This last piece by Anatsui is a prime example of his philosophy that sculpture should be malleable, flexible, conforming to space, and not rigid. The form has taken on different shapes in each installation, proving the dynamic nature of his work and embodying a view that art should suggest and not dictate,” Mena explained. A soft murmur rippled through the air as the crowd nodded in approval and understanding.

  Pointing to the sculpture, Mena described the materials used and the composition. She’d practiced her presentation dozens of times over the weekend in preparation for the opening lecture. She scanned the faces of the crowd, recognizing a few of the other conservators at the gallery. Isaac Gatobu sat in the aisle seat on the second row, his scrutiny was palpable. The meticulous conservator scribbled notes. Mena had no doubt he planned to provide feedback, constructive of course, to her in front of the entire team. He hadn’t hidden his displeasure with her selection to lead the lecture and considered it almost sacrilegious to let an American teach Africans about the prominent work by a renowned African artist.

  Wangari had ignored his complaints and maintained her decision, encouraging Mena and educating her about the cultural differences regarding presenting in Africa compared to what Mena was used to from her training in American institutions.

  Sitting next to Isaac was Grace Kadenge, a mediocre conservator and aspiring socialite of the Nairobi fashion scene. Grace was a smart woman but didn’t apply herself as much as Mena thought she should, preferring instead to work on her social media presence to attain the fame she desired.

  Mena’s eyes drifted to the front row, where Wangari sat next to her husband, the Director of Public Prosecutions, Okeyo Lagat. Their hands intertwined, Okeyo whispered into Wangari’s ear. As a sensual smile spread across her lips, she nodded, then nudged him to pay attention to the presentation.

  Mena felt a twinge of envy, scanning the room once again for Julian. He still hadn’t arrived. Why had she pushed him to pick up the mask this morning? With the horrendous traffic and rain, she should have known he wouldn’t make it to the museum in time.

  “The transformation of these common and simple materials into a complex lattice tapestry of a massive scale is the hallmark of Anatsui’s work, making him one of the most impressive African artists of our time,” Mena said, ending the formal portion of her presentation.

  Applause erupted in the hall, sending a jolt of adrenaline through her body. She’d nailed the lecture, despite what Isaac would probably say later. He never missed an opportunity to criticize her in some way or another. She almost found it laughable now, his need to tear her down to assuage the threat he thought she represented. She wasn’t the first fellowship recipient he’d had to work with since the museum opened, and she wouldn’t be the last. She couldn’t understand why he disliked her. For some reason, Isaac had decided she was unworthy of the fellowship and the experience of working at the Tribal Museum. Mena had become resigned to suffering through his ridicule and derisiveness for another eighteen months.

  Beaming, Mena gave a short nod to the crowd. The applause grew louder, and she raised a hand to quiet the room.

  As she stepped behind the podium, her eyes were drawn to a man in the back. Mena looked away, then stared back at the lone figure standing at the door.

  It couldn’t be him. Could it?

  Was she imagining him, or was he really staring at her?

  Dizziness overwhelmed her. Mena took a sip of water, trying to regain her composure. She still had a Q&A session to facilitate. She couldn’t be distracted by his presence.

  Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Mena focused her attention on the crowd and fielded questions.

  Ten minutes passed, then twenty. He was still at the back of the room, watching her. She tried to relax, but it was impossible.

  “Any other questions?” Mena asked after a silence settled in the air. Scanning the room for any raised hands, Mena saw none. She nodded and then announced Wangari Irungu to come forward for closing comments.

  Stepping to the side, Mena looked toward the back of the room again.

  He was gone.

  Her eyes darted across to the doors, and the side walls.

  There was no sign of him anywhere.

  Mena inhaled deeply, hoping he’d been a figment of her imagination. The last thing she needed was a ghost from her past intruding on her present. Smoothing a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, she tried to calm her frazzled nerves. She was overreacting. There was no way he would cross the Atlantic to find her. What would be the point? They had nothing to say to each other. She didn’t know who that guy was, but he couldn’t be—

  “Mena, is that right?” Wangari asked.

  Mena sputtered, not aware of what Wangari referred to. Taking a guess, she decided to agree with her boss and gave a confident nod.

  Mena forced herself to focus.

  “Now, for those of you who purchased the lunch with the lecture, please follow our intern into the reception hallway to be escorted to the private dining area. I truly hope you enjoyed our lecture on the work of El Anatsui and hope to see you again for future lectures. Good afternoon,” Wangari concluded.

  The director slipped an arm around Mena’s shoulders as the crowd meandered out of the exhibit hall.

  “Great job today. You were excellent. The passion in your voice for this work captivated the audience, and that’s exactly why I knew you’d be perfect for the presentation,” Wangari said.

  Mena nodded, her eyes searching the crowd for Julian again. He’d missed the entire lecture.

  “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be a little happier about how today went,” Wangari said.

  Mena tried to smile, but she wasn’t fooling her boss and friend. “I’m a bit distracted right now.”

  Mena slumped down in a chair across from the podium.

  Wangari took the seat next to her. “Distracted about what? And don’t tell me nothing. We’ve grown too close for you to keep things from me. Especially since it’s obvious something is bothering you. What is it? How can I help?”

  “You’re going to strangle me,” Mena said, shaking her head.

  “Is this about the errand you sent Julian on this morning?” Wangari asked, raising an eyebrow. “I get that he’s your own personal hero, but you couldn’t possibly believe he would make it back to the museum in time to see your lecture.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel worse?” Mena mumbled, covering her face in her hands.

  “I’m trying to make you see reason,” Wangari said, yanking one of Mena’s hands from her face. “If that’s not it, then what is it?”

  “Things got weird for us after we came back from Florida. We’re usually so comfortable with each other, but having him meet my mother probably wasn’t the best thing,” Mena said, thinking about her mother’s incessant prodding about marriage in Mena’s future with Julian.

  “Families can be tough. The only advice I can give is to try to keep them out of your relationship. Do you think my family wanted me to marry a divorced man twenty years older than me with three teenage kids? They still don’t approve of him, even though he’s one of the most powerful men in Kenyan politics. I face that challenge every day, but my love for him makes fighting any obstacle worth it,” Wangari said.

  “My problem is the opposite. My Mom loves Julian. They instantly took to each other, and I swear it’s like they’re kindred spirits or something. Now she has it in her head that we need to get married, and she’s dropping not so subtle hints every time I talk to her,” Mena said, rubbing the ache building in the back of her skull.

  “You don’t see marriage in your future with Julian? I must admit, I’m surprised. Seems like an obvious next step for the two of you …”

  “Yes, but much later on. Not when we’ve been together for less than a year,” Mena said, shaking her head. “I’ve been married before, and I’m not in a hurry to go down that r
oad again. I don’t know why we need to rush to the next step.”

  “I’m guessing Julian doesn’t feel the same way,” Wangari said.

  “I’m not sure how he feels. I thought we were on the same page about waiting, but then he started questioning why we had to wait. I was stunned. I didn’t know if he was playing devil’s advocate or giving me a glimpse into his real feelings. He dropped the subject as quickly as he brought it up,” Mena said.

  “And you don’t want to bring the topic back up in case he does want marriage now,” Wangari said.

  “Right. But he has to be okay with where we are now. He went to Tiffany’s and bought this for me,” Mena said, holding out her wrist. The rose gold charm bracelet sparkled under the lights of the exhibit hall as the single heart-shaped charm rested against the back of her hand.

  “Stunning. Is that engraved?” Wangari asked.

  Mena nodded. “It’s our initials. I think Julian gave me this as a sign of his commitment instead of freaking me out with an engagement ring.”

  “Sounds like he knows you well,” Wangari said. “Anyone can see that he’d move heaven and earth for you, Mena. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  “I hope so. I don’t want to do anything that would change how he feels about me,” Mena said.

  Wangari patted her on the arm, then stood. “Stop worrying. You and Julian will get pass this. Are you coming to lunch?”

  “I’ll be there in a second. Just want a moment to get myself together,” Mena said.

  “Don’t take too long. I’m sure Isaac is already trying to steal your spotlight.” Wangari gave Mena’s hand a quick squeeze, then exited the hall.

  Looking around the room, Mena relaxed into the still emptiness of the massive space. Three of the most impressive sculptures she’d ever seen hung against the front walls, the stars of her lecture on full display. El Anatsui had made beautiful works of art from materials that had been discarded. Creating hope out of despair, he forced the world to see the materials from a different perspective.