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Wildside Press
Dead Man's Diamonds
Dead Man's Diamonds
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LIKE a fore-taste of hell, Africa’s noon-day heat made the earth shimmer and dance. Within Larry Kerrigan’s weather-stained tent, two men sat. One was Kerrigan himself tall, lean, muscular. The other was a sun-tanned Briton in the uniform of the Constabulary of Southern Rhodesia. Rawley, his name was.
The constable spoke in clipped Oxonian accents. “You strike me as being a demmed square Yank, Kerrigan. But it’s my duty to pass you a friendly warning.”
“Warning?” Kerrigan’s hard eyes narrowed. What was on Constable Rawley’s mind? How much did he know — or suspect?
The constable spoke in clipped Oxonian accents. “You strike me as being a demmed square Yank, Kerrigan. But it’s my duty to pass you a friendly warning.”
“Warning?” Kerrigan’s hard eyes narrowed. What was on Constable Rawley’s mind? How much did he know — or suspect?
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