Logan and John watched two figures appear under the awning, but at fifty yards, they couldn’t be sure they were their targets.
“Can you confirm it’s Badawi?” Logan asked.
“Wait one,” Amira responded as the two men reached the end of the awning and stepped into the fading illumination of a streetlamp that would soon shut off with the rising sun. “Jackpot. Badawi confirmed. Second male is Chinese, young, short black hair. Looks like the guy we saw on the helo leaving the cemetery.”
“Bingo,” Logan responded. “Game time. Here we go.”
The two men stepped through the black security gate and into pedestrian traffic, which was light at this hour of the morning. People moved back and forth across the sidewalks, oblivious of the cat-and-mouse game unfolding in their midst.
Badawi and his co-conspirator turned right and proceeded up the sidewalk, walking toward Logan and John’s position.
“On my mark,” Logan said, waiting for the right moment. The timing had to be precise.
A few more seconds . . .
The two men strode casually down the sidewalk, engaged in an animated conversation, their features becoming more defined in the dusky predawn light. Logan had studied the face of Namir Badawi from the photographs Langley had provided, but it was the second man who interested him more.
The short black hair, muscular physique concealed by well-fitting khakis and a white shirt—it seemed like everyone in Sudan wore the same acceptable version of Western clothing—and a youthful face that belied the experience and professional maturity he possessed: it was the man from the cemetery.
Fifteen yards . . .
“Go,” was all Logan said, and the two vehicles slowly pulled out of their spaces on the opposite sides of the street.
Had he waited five seconds longer, the operation would have been carried out flawlessly. Unfortunately, luck and circumstance were always the variables that couldn’t be accounted for.
Logan and his team never saw the old man until it was too late. On his way to the local mosque in time for the sunrise prayer, he was oblivious of the traffic on the street and stepped out between two parked cars directly in front of the white minivan driven by Lieutenant Reed.
Screeeeeech!
The tires skidded across the asphalt as the man looked up in surprise at the oncoming van. Every member of the team, including Logan, suddenly turned in the direction of the unexpected sound. It was human nature, but it also cost them the element of surprise.
The vehicle stopped less than two feet from the old man, and he continued to stare into the windshield. A moment later, he calmly raised his hand absentmindedly and kept crossing the street, apparently unconcerned that he’d been moments away from a one-way trip to Paradise.
“Oh no,” Amira said across the radios, and Logan redirected his gaze at the targets, whose eyes flashed back and forth from the white car moving toward them to the minivan behind them.
Namir Badawi locked eyes with Logan, who was now less than ten yards away, and in that moment that stretched between them, Logan watched recognition transform the intelligence chief’s face from a look of casual awareness to urgent action. We’re made, Logan thought.
“Move now!” Logan screamed as he accelerated the car toward the two men, but it was too late. Namir Badawi spoke hurriedly to his younger companion, and the two men abruptly split apart, sprinting in different directions.
Namir scrambled over the iron gate as his companion dashed across the street in the opposite direction toward the next alley past Amira’s position.
“I’ve got China,” Amira said, sprinting down the sidewalk after the target.
“We’ve got Badawi,” Logan said, and slammed the white sedan onto the sidewalk, leaping out of the car and dashing toward the black fence.
“We’ll back Amira,” Cole said, and the minivan turned across the middle of the street to pursue the Chinese operative.
“Why are we always running after these motherfuckers?” John said as he followed Logan over the fence, memories of the foot chase in Haditha fresh in his mind.
“We’re just lucky, I guess,” Logan said as he landed on his feet and watched Badawi disappear around the corner of the building. Where the hell is he going? The Nile is the only thing back there.
CHAPTER 52
Namir was furious with Gang. The young operative should never have come to his doorstep late last night, especially after the turn of events at the prison. Namir had been trying to keep the lid on that fiasco, ensuring news of the prison escape hadn’t leaked to any of the ministers, who might, in turn, inform the president. He’d been able to contain it, but he didn’t know for how long.
Several of the guards were dead, and dozens of inmates—mostly rebels from Darfur—had escaped. The irony was that a hostile American force had attacked his sovereign soil, yet Namir was powerless to do anything about it because of the secrecy of the Black Hole and the disastrous ramifications that would come to pass if its existence were publicized.
The assault on Tuti Island had only complicated matters further. Namir was working with the minister of justice to ensure the bodies of the dead Chinese operatives remained unidentified for as long as possible. Locals on the island had been told that Sudanese police had raided a criminal camp and that several of the suspects had been killed. In a city as vast as Khartoum, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
Namir had assumed that Gang had alternate plans in place with his own intelligence service. It was well known that the Chinese were expanding intelligence operations across Africa. So he was shocked when Gang arrived at his apartment, seeking temporary refuge. Namir insisted that Gang utilize the Chinese Embassy as his sanctuary instead. It was, after all, how Gang had initially contacted Namir. It was only after he was pressed that Gang had dropped a bombshell on him—although he and his unit were from various organizations inside the Chinese military and intelligence apparatus, the true senior leadership in Beijing hadn’t actually sanctioned the operation.
Namir was stunned at the treachery, to the point of outrage, so much so that he’d momentarily considered shooting Gang in his apartment. Gang had expected that reaction, and he’d calmly reminded the director of the Al Amn al-Dakhili that the operation had benefited his country, as he’d promised it would.
Gang had been right, which had infuriated Namir even more. The benefits had definitely outweighed the risks, but the fact that an operative as experienced as he was had been deceived so completely was almost unfathomable.
Namir demanded answers, but Gang had provided none, only revealing the existence of a global organization that had been orchestrating worldwide events for years. It possessed a sweeping global vision that encompassed more than just an oil deal between Sudan and China. Gang emphasized the fact that the organization’s interests and those of Namir and his country were intertwined on this part of the continent. Gang assured him that the longer it stayed that way, the more mutually beneficial the relationship would grow.
Realizing it was pointless to press the issue—the young man was more formidable than he’d given him credit for, and he’d given him plenty—he’d dropped it, and both men had turned to a night of restless sleep.
The debate had continued, at least until the white minivan almost struck the old man in the street.
It wasn’t the bearded driver and his passenger that gave away the ambush. Westerners with beards were common in Khartoum, trying to blend in as seamlessly as possible, quite often failing. It was the second car in front of them, which also had a Western driver and passenger, and the fact that the two were converging directly on them. In his business, seeming coincidences such as these were often fatal, and years of training and professional paranoia had allowed him to identify the ambush.
He’d told Gang to run and reestablish contact later in the day once they were both safe and secure. Namir never doubted they would be. They were both proficient in their field and equally dangerous.
This i
s why I have a backup plan, he thought as he fled along the side of his building, carefully sidestepping rocks and debris in the dirt. But first he’d have to get to safety, and he needed to outpace his pursuers. He didn’t need to look back to know the Americans would follow, and the footsteps behind him confirmed it.
Better run faster, Namir thought, and picked up the pace.
———
Lau Gang sprinted across the street and diagonally moved away from Namir toward an alleyway. A blur of movement from his right caught his attention, and he risked a glance, spotting a homeless woman emerge from another alley and give chase.
It’s the same woman from the airfield, his mind registered automatically. It wasn’t her appearance that gave her away—she’d expertly changed it—it was the way she moved, the fluidity and grace she employed that made her look like she was gliding as she ran.
Gang had watched the encounter with the mysterious woman outside the airfield from a distance through high-power binoculars. He’d seen how quickly she’d killed Chang, and he’d recognized the rare degree of lethality she possessed. Now, here she was again, this time pursuing him.
He didn’t know who she was—he hadn’t been provided that information from the American—but he knew she worked for the CIA and was a trained assassin. The American had at least told him that much.
What he didn’t know was how the CIA had been able to locate him so quickly, but it didn’t matter. They could have been targeting Namir, and he’d just been caught up in the web. Regardless, he needed to find a secure location and escape the country.
The alleyway ended, and he found himself looking across an open area of dirt slated to be the building site of another new apartment complex. More homes and buildings were on the other side, beckoning to him to seek out their refuge. There’s no way I can make it across without getting spotted.
To his right was another construction site that ran the length of the dirt field. The builders had only reached the initial stages, framing the location with steel girders, several floors, and skeletal walls. At this hour, the construction workers hadn’t arrived yet, and the location had a desolate feeling to it. But it wasn’t the building’s ambience he was seeking. He intended to use it for concealment as he worked his way through to the safety of northern Khartoum beyond.
He dashed down the small street behind the building’s skeleton. As he reached the entrance to the construction site, the white minivan appeared forty yards away at the end of the narrow backstreet and slammed to a halt when the driver spotted him.
So much for hiding, Gang thought. Always eager to improvise, he decided on another course of action, one he preferred—stand and fight. The thought of hurting these Americans, especially the woman, sent chills of anticipation and excitement through him. They were no match for him.
Gang suddenly stopped running and faced the minivan. Once he was sure the driver could in fact see him, he did something completely unexpected—he pointed at the minivan, at himself, and then into the building.
The message was clear: Come and get me.
The minivan turned up the street, and Lau Gang vanished into the network of concrete and steel.
CHAPTER 53
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Shots ricocheted off the concrete next to Logan’s head as he peered around the rear corner of the apartment building. He ducked behind cover and looked at John, who stood next to him along the wall.
“Badawi’s twenty yards away on a slope that runs away from the building toward a tree line,” Logan said. “I have no idea where this guy’s going. Ready?”
“On your count?” John said, his .45-caliber 1911 in his hand, anticipating the next move after years of tactical experience with his friend.
“Uh-huh,” Logan said, his Kimber .45 raised and ready for action.
“One . . . two . . . three,” Logan said, and wheeled around the corner in a crouch, his pistol up and searching for their enemy.
John stepped out from beside Logan, and large-caliber gunshots echoed across the landscape as he fired the Colt in quick succession.
Logan began to squeeze the trigger in step with John’s actions, which were intended as a distraction for Logan to take the real shot, and stopped—Badawi was gone.
“Where’d he go?” John said.
“Let’s go find out,” Logan said, and sprinted down the pathway toward the trees.
The back of the apartment building contained several concrete patios connected by interlocking stone pathways. In the center of the layout was a large, pristine oval pool, which calmly reflected the morning light.
“There’s nowhere for the squirrelly motherfucker to go,” John said as they approached a small opening in the trees, weapons up in case Badawi tried to ambush them again.
The sound of a small boat’s motor starting solved the mystery.
Logan and John broke into a sprint along the path. They emerged on the bank of the Nile to discover two small piers with an assortment of single-engine motorboats, large wooden canoes, and small sailboats.
Operating a small white boat, Badawi pulled away from the pier, gaining speed. Logan knew there was only one choice.
“You or me?” Logan said calmly.
“I’ve got it,” John said quietly, and Logan stepped aside to provide his friend a clear line of sight.
The Colt tracked the moving boat, and John steadied his aim, sighting on the figure of Badawi at the helm. He relaxed momentarily as he’d done countless times before, exhaling to prevent unnecessary movement. He felt encapsulated by the moment, and he welcomed it, a hunter of men relishing the stillness before he caught his prey. He gently squeezed the trigger, and the cannon in his hand roared with a singular cry across the water.
Boom!
There was a shout of pain, and Namir Badawi suddenly bent over to his right, losing his balance and his grip on the wheel. The boat veered to the left, and the wounded man was thrown into the air. He sailed off the starboard side and landed in the murky waters of the Nile. The boat straightened and kept moving, putting distance between itself and its owner, now struggling to stay afloat in the water.
“My turn,” Logan said, and turned to John. “Nice shot, by the way. Here. Hold this.” He grinned and handed John his prized Kimber .45 semiautomatic. “I don’t want to get it wet.”
He ran to the end of the pier and dove into the river, arms outstretched in front of him.
“Show-off,” John said as he watched Logan kick and stroke his way across the surface of the Nile.
———
The inside of the construction project was warm, musty, and quiet. The steel girders, floors, and partitions created a partially contained environment. The stench of dust and recently dried concrete hung heavily in the air.
Amira had entered the site as the Chinese operative had ducked into the first floor and disappeared inside the structural maze.
Amira, Cole, and the two SEALs had rallied at the entrance and realized they could cover more ground in teams of two. Engaging in the Hollywood-horror-movie stereotype of running off individually would only get them picked off one by one.
Amira and Cole had found a stairwell and were on the third floor, while the two SEALs remained on the ground floor on the off chance their quarry decided to make a break for it, although his actions outside indicated otherwise. He wants to confront us. He’s either that good, suicidal, or both, Amira thought. The two stilettos on her belt comforted her, even as she held the black SIG SAUER in front of her and stalked through the building.
She briefly wondered how John was faring with Logan, but then forcibly removed all thoughts of him from her mind, refusing to succumb to any type of distraction. Experience dictated that she be in the moment one hundred percent. Anything less could lead to disaster for her and the team, and that was unacceptable.
“This guy’s either luring us into a trap, or he’s already left the premises,” Cole said from her right as he looked through the convergence of meta
l and wood that seemed to meld into one the longer she stared into it.
“I don’t think so. I think he’s here, waiting for the right opportunity to strike,” Amira responded quietly.
No sooner had she spoken than the sound of a commotion arose from the ground floor, followed by a cry of pain and several clangs as what sounded like pipes fell onto the concrete floor.
“Damnit!” Amira said.
The nearest stairwell was roughly thirty feet in front of them. Not enough time. They won’t last if he’s as skilled as I think he is.
“Take the stairs,” Amira said tersely to Cole. “I’m taking a more direct route.”
She ran to the edge of the poured concrete floor and looked down—there were no exterior walls erected yet, just the frames and struts necessary to hold the structure together. She glanced back and saw Cole sprinting toward the stairs. Smart man. Didn’t need to be told twice.
She turned, stepped backward off the edge of the floor and dropped straight down, extending her arms overhead as she did. One benefit of weighing only one hundred and twenty-five pounds—albeit, all taut muscle—was that she was able to execute maneuvers heavier men could only imagine from movies and TV shows. Her relatively light body weight minimized the stress on her joints, and she easily caught the edge of the floor above her head, abruptly stopping her fall. She released her grip and dropped the short distance to the second floor, repeating the same maneuver to reach the ground level as the encounter between the two SEALs and their target was nearing its conclusion.
Less than fifteen feet in front of her in an area full of hardware, tools, and worktables, the young Chinese man she’d briefly spotted at the Khartoum War Memorial Cemetery was engaged in a violent hand-to-hand struggle with the older SEAL, Chief Sorenson. The younger lieutenant was facedown on the concrete, his arms above his head. She wasn’t sure if he was dead or unconscious, but considering the two-foot metal pipe the attacker wielded, she hoped it was the latter.
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