“I get it.”
“Once we’re out, just follow us west.”
Gwen wanted to punch him. Instead she nodded. The kid grumbled in his sleep. Hailey handed Gwen a key. She mounted the bike nearer the door, slipped the key into the ignition. It fit. Owen hopped onto the second bike. Hailey slid on behind him and wrapped her arms around him as he gave Gwen a thumbs-up. Gwen squeezed the clutch, made sure the bike was in neutral, jabbed the starter. The engine rumbled to life. She kicked the bike into gear, let out the clutch. The bike jumped forward—
And the engine coughed and all its power was gone. Gwen felt it going limp underneath her. She laid off the throttle and put the bike in neutral to try to save the stall, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t even had time to get her feet on the pegs.
“Gwen! You said—”
“I do. Hold on.” She’d told the truth. She knew how to ride. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she was sure. The engine had dropped. She hit the starter again and the bike rumbled to life. She offered it gas, careful this time to keep the clutch tucked tight, making sure the engine wouldn’t stall—
But it did. As soon as she gave it more than a hint of gas. She knew that on cold days, some motorcycles, especially old ones that had carbs instead of fuel injectors, needed a tight choke and a few minutes at high-rev idle to get warmed up enough to move. But this bike was new, and anyway, it was plenty warm. She was no expert, but she figured the fuel line or the injectors were clogged.
She tried again, knowing this was her last shot. The engine gave up even faster this time, not even fully starting before it slid into a clicking half-stall like the battery was giving out. She laid off the starter. In the silence she heard a man yelling. She dropped the kickstand, stepped off the bike, peeked out the doorway—
Behind them the mechanic shouted. Owen raised the AK and fired a burst at the top of the motorcycle poster, shredding it, kicking a ragged line of holes into the wall. The mechanic dropped to his knees and raised his hands. Owen stepped toward him. As he did, he unslung the AK and shifted his hands to hold the rifle’s barrel like a bat—
“Owen—”
“No—”
Owen gave no sign he’d heard them. He chopped the butt of the rifle across the mechanic’s temple. The Somali’s skin tore like paper and blood gushed. He put one hand to his forehead to stanch the flow and scrambled back against the wall.
“You stay there,” Owen said. Like he was talking to a dog. Gwen didn’t know what had happened to him, where this violence was coming from, but she wanted it to stop now.
Outside, the voices increased. Gwen peeked out of the hut. A soldier walked toward them, holding an AK. “They’re coming,” she said.
“How many? Are they armed?”
“How many? Are you joking?”
“It’s over,” Hailey said.
Owen grabbed Gwen’s shoulder, squeezed hard enough to hurt. “You go out there. With your hands up. Big smile. Tell them you want your boyfriend.”
“Then what, Owen? Then what?”
Owen grinned like he was about to let her in on the best joke ever told, the secret of the universe. “What else? Tell Wizard we have a hostage.”
—
She wanted to scream at him for his foolishness and sudden cruelty and this disaster he’d brought. But the soldiers were close, and she was scared he might start shooting, get them killed. She walked into the rain with her arms held high. More men had come out. They moved in groups of two and three, slumped and half asleep and spreading out vaguely around the hut. In the dark they looked like zombies, zombies with guns.
Two men pointed their rifles at her. She went to her knees in the muddy ground. The men walked toward her, clucking at each other in Somali. Inside the hut, Owen sang Katy Perry, You change your mind like a girl changes clothes . . . Gwen wondered if she was hallucinating. Maybe Scott had spiked her orange juice back at Dadaab. Maybe she’d been tripping since last week and never stopped. Merrily merrily merrily merrily life is but a dream. But no, the rain was cool and dear on her arms. Behind her Owen kept right on singing . . . You’re hot and you’re cold . . . the pitch just right.
The men stopped a foot stride from her.
“I need to see Wizard. Please, Wizard.”
A yell from the middle of the camp, one word coming through clearly, Samatar. The clamor grew. Gwen didn’t have to ask. She knew he’d died. The man nearest her stepped forward and raised an open hand. As he swung his arm down, she didn’t flinch. She raised her chin and let his five fingers catch her across the cheek. No one had hit her like that before, no one had ever hit her at all. The slap knocked her head sideways and tears sprang to her eyes, but she didn’t raise a hand to stop him—
Thank you, sir, may I have another—
As they pulled her up and dragged her away.
—
She sat on the ground inside Wizard’s hut, legs crossed in a parody of a yoga pose, the skin of her cheek red and bruised, a separate mark for each finger. They were alone. A plug of miraa big as Gwen’s fist filled Wizard’s mouth, but his eyes were half closed in exhaustion. “What happened?”
She told him. Outside, the rain drummed on the hut’s straw roof.
“You did this? Why didn’t you listen to me?”
“You could have let us go last night, Wizard. You want me to think we’re friends?” She was furious, these men playing in the dirt like boys in a sandbox, but the guns and bullets real. At least Wizard had an excuse.
“Your friend, what does he want?” His voice was barely louder than a whisper.
“Let us go.”
“Where.”
“I don’t know. Back to Dadaab.”
“After he killed my man.”
“Well, you killed Scott.”
“The mzungu.”
“He had a name. Scott.”
“He killed one and I killed one,” Wizard said.
“He’ll kill the one in the hut, too. The mechanic?”
“Yusuf? Then he’ll have no hostage.”
“He’ll have me and Hailey. He’ll shoot us and then himself. Leave you with nothing.” Gwen wasn’t sure that Wizard believed Owen would hurt her. She wasn’t sure she believed it either. But she was out of cards to play.
“You think your friend will kill you.”
“Why not? He’s desperate.”
Wizard closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he seemed calm. “How old are you, Gwen?”
The question was so unexpected that she needed a few seconds to remember. “I just turned twenty-three. Couple weeks ago.”
“Older than me. But I know something you don’t.”
“You know lots I don’t.”
“People want to live. Do anything to live. Walk across a desert with no shoes, no food or water. Leave behind their sons and daughters, fathers and mothers. Crawl when they can’t walk any longer. Crawl on their hands and knees and blind. You and your friend and the other girl, you might get free tomorrow. You tell me you desperate.”
“We’re not desperate enough for you, Wizard?”
He didn’t seem to recognize the sarcasm. “No. You know what I should do to you?” He leaned down and pulled the knife strapped to his leg. He held it up so she could see the way the weak lantern light pooled on the serrated blade. He twisted it back and forth like a snake dancing.
Gwen shook her head, no no no.
“Should cut your clothes off, tell your friends that unless they come out right now I’m going to let every one of my men take a turn with you. Show them what desperate means.”
“Please.”
On the wall of the hut the knife’s shadow loomed oversized, cartoonishly large. “You know that not even three hours ago, someone, an Arab, he offered a million dollars for you. Cash. Said he would pay tonight.” He nodded at her as if daring her to disbelieve him.
“So are we going with this man? This Arab?”
“I said no. Man gon’ hurt you. Make a vid of you.” W
izard swiped the blade sideways, lazily, a neck-cutting motion. “I told him I send you back to America, back to your families.”
“Why?”
He jabbed the knife at her and she fumbled backward, screaming, shrieking, “No, please—”
He tucked the blade into its sheath, sat back. Her crotch was warm and soaked, and she realized she’d peed herself. Shame on shame.
“You think I hurt you? I never hurt you. That’s for letting my man die. Not telling me so I could stop it. Making me a fool. Now you have a choice. Stay here or go back to your friends.”
She thought of staying. Then was ashamed she’d even considered. “Back.”
“Back, then. Long as you like. You try to escape, we’ll kill you. But not while you stay inside.”
“What about Yusuf?”
Wizard shook his head. “I can’t send more men after him. Lost too many already.”
“I won’t let Owen—”
“If you say so. When your friend gets tired, he puts down his rifle and the three of you walk out.”
“That’s it. No other punishment.”
Wizard’s skin was smooth, but his eyes were heavy, careworn. Old. “Don’t you see. I need money for you, yes. Have to have it. But I want you gone as much as you want to be free.”
22
LOWER JUBA PROVINCE, SOMALIA
Wells rested against a sloppy mud wall, his face kissed with rain. He was as alone as Adam without Eve. Though he was sure that the Garden of Eden was nowhere close.
He’d crossed the border more than an hour before. No fence marked it, but a few minutes after riding out of camp, he’d noticed rusted lengths of barbed wire that must once have sectioned the land, must once have meant the edge of something. The Kenyans had given up the chase. Wells hadn’t seen their lights since leaving camp. He was happy to have lost them, though he hoped they didn’t take out their anger on Wilfred.
The rain started as he left camp. At first Wells welcomed it. The day had filthied him with dirt and gasoline and blood from two species. He smelled worse than Tolkien’s foulest troll, looked like a refugee from the end of the world. Even in Afghanistan, after weeks without a bath, he’d never reeked so badly. The storm came as a relief.
But the rain kept coming, soaking his shirt and jeans, dripping down his chest. He could hardly see. The parched earth turned to mud that sucked at his tires and forced him to creep in second gear. The good news was that the low clouds muffled the engine.
A half hour after crossing the border, Wells spotted three dim lights on a hill to the northeast, the first evidence of human habitation he’d seen in Somalia. He was too far off to hear voices or generators. He cut the engine, waited. But the lights didn’t move or flicker and after five minutes he rode on, doglegging southeast. After another half hour, he checked his GPS. It showed him about twenty miles east of the border, and farther south than he’d expected. The ground was softening under his tires, and not just from the rain. Wells feared he had nearly come to the swamps that stretched from the Indian Ocean. He had only the vaguest idea of this land. His GPS was civilian rather than military, so it had almost no data on Somalia, just the broad outlines of Mogadishu and the other coast cities. Swamps weren’t his favorite topography. Mountains had their dangers, but they were cold and clean, no snakes or gators or quicksand.
Wells saw a wide puddle ahead, rain splashing into open water, and decided to turn northeast and look for a place to call Shafer. After a couple minutes, he saw an L-shaped section of cracked mud wall, the remnants of an abandoned hut. He stopped, reached for his phone. Two-fifteen a.m. He was supposed to see Little Wizard’s men at the border in fifteen minutes. He’d never intended to make the meeting. He’d set it because he wanted Wizard to send men to a place where the drone could find them. When he failed to show, they would return to their camp. The Reaper would follow them. He’d follow it. Simple as bread crumbs. The weather didn’t matter. The Reaper’s thermal-imaging systems and radar could see through walls.
“John.”
“Ellis.”
“Location.”
Wells gave it.
“Awful far south.”
“I’m aware. What are you seeing?”
“Five men. Two on their bellies, covering from a hill to the north. They were there when we got on station. Fifteen minutes ago, a pickup drove up, parked fifty meters east of the border. Two guys in the cab, a third lying down in the bed. Simple setup, but professional under the circumstances. Nobody’s moving too much.”
“Weapons?”
“The cloud cover’s got us stuck on radar and therms, not optics. It’s tough to tell for sure, but we think AKs only. I’d say they have orders to bring you in. Not shoot you.”
“Anyone come from the Kenyan side?”
“No. We did pick up three vehicles maybe five km west of the border. Not moving. You clean?”
“Think so.”
“It would be best if the Kenyans didn’t get more involved.”
“If they were going to get more involved, they would have already. You’ll let me know when Wizard’s guys go home?”
“I’ll call you. But if I were you, I would start heading north. They’re north. You a hundred percent sure you want to do it this way? That SOG team will be in Mombasa in a few hours. And the SEALs would be glad to join the fun.”
“You gave me tonight, Ellis.”
“Ever consider that getting our friends in uniform involved would tie Vinny down?”
Shafer had a point. Duto was oddly bipolar on these high-risk ops. Sometimes he liked belt-and-suspenders protection, presidential findings, memos from the Office of Legal Counsel. But every so often he liked to run off the books, in the dark, do what he thought best with nobody watching. What was best for him might not be best for Wells.
“I have the advantage of being here.”
“Don’t forget he gets to be most of the way there, too. Without getting killed if something goes wrong.”
“Fear the Reaper, you’re saying.”
“I bet myself you’d say that.”
“Glad you won. Vinny watching now?”
“No. But he wants to come down, I can’t stop him. His house, his rules.”
“Call me when you have that location, Ellis.” Wells hung up without saying good-bye. He was tired of Shafer’s wisdom.
He leaned back against the wall and thought of Anne. He wanted to hear her voice. They hadn’t talked since he landed in Nairobi. But he had to move, and anyway, he still felt guilty for what had happened at Castle House. He didn’t deserve to hear her tell him everything would be okay.
He mounted up and rode north. He wondered if the hostages had any idea that tens of millions of people were hoping they’d be saved. Probably not. Wells hoped they were being held together. At least they wouldn’t be lonely.
His phone buzzed forty minutes later. “It worked,” Shafer said. “They went back to camp.”
“Where?”
“Where are you?”
Wells pulled his GPS, gave his location. “You closed the gap but they’re still about eighteen, nineteen kilometers north-northeast. Shouldn’t have gone so far south.”
“Nothing I love more than twenty-twenty hindsight. What’s the setup?”
“Big camp. My guy estimates sixty to one hundred soldiers. Until the clouds break enough for us to use optics, it’ll be hard to know for sure. And unfortunately, the weather guys say the storm is stuck for at least two, three hours.”
“Weather guys?”
“Got drones, got to have weather guys. Anyway, the camp runs basically east-west. Uncultivated land all around. Probably living off what they steal from convoys. There’s a hill east of the huts and past that several vehicles, pickups and technicals mostly, behind a high wall. Well designed, tough to spot except from above.”
“They have generators?”
“If they do, they’re not running them. We’re picking up very little noise. Lot of guys awake, though
. Plus sentries—”
“How many?”
“We count seven. One west, one south, the others north and east. The whole camp is oriented to the east. There’s also a cluster of men and vehicles several kilometers northeast. Not sure who they are or if they’re connected with the camp.”
“Define ‘cluster.’”
“Maybe forty. And growing.”
“No lights, lots of guys awake, sentries, another group massing nearby. Sounds like they’re on combat footing.”
“How it looks to us, too.”
“Fantastic.” Though Wells couldn’t pretend to be surprised.
“Any guess where the hostages are?”
“It’d be normal in this situation to keep them in the center of camp, near HQ.”
“Right.”
“If you’re going to do this, your best bet is to come from the southwest. Easier to hide. East, there’s that ridge above the vehicles. A guy’s posted there and he’s going to see you coming. But whichever way, you’ve got to get in quick. You have less than three hours of darkness left.”
“And there’s only one sentry to the south?”
“Correct. Looks like he’s in a static post because of the rain, maybe six hundred meters south of the western edge of the camp. I checked the topo and there’s a route along a streambed that’ll take you within two hundred meters before he sees you. I’ll give you the waypoints. Get to him, take him out, you can get nice and close before anyone sees you, one hundred meters from camp.”
Not for the first time, Wells found himself awed by American warfighting technology. The United States spent almost as much on its military as the rest of the world combined, but it got what it paid for. No wonder the Taliban had been forced to depend on suicide bombs. How else could anyone fight an enemy that had the advantage of an extra dimension?
“Give me the waypoints, the coordinates for the camp and sentry posts. Also that cluster of guys to the northeast.” Wells entered the figures into his GPS and saw a cluster of white dots north of his current position, which was marked in blue. He hadn’t been sure how best to use the Reaper’s firepower. He didn’t want to panic the Somalis into hurting the hostages. But as he visualized the camp’s layout he had an idea.
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