by Gayle Wilson
Like Reynolds’s other men, his guards were both armed with the old-fashioned Soviet-made rifles, which was a blessing and a curse. If he attacked them, Landon knew he had a better chance of survival than if he were facing an AK-47. But even if he succeeded in overpowering his guards, the weapon he would take from them would be infinitely less effective than Reynolds’s.
By now he could hear the low grind of an engine straining to climb the grade of the narrow road leading up to the flat, desolate area where the American had parked the jeep. After a moment the first of the two battered, dust-covered trucks became visible. Tribesmen sat on either side of its hood, automatic weapons in their hands. The second truck, smaller and similarly guarded, followed in its wake.
An almost forgotten surge of adrenaline flooded Landon’s veins. This time, however, the eagerness with which he had always greeted the start of action at the end of a long premission wait was dampened by his worry over Grace.
It didn’t make any sense that Reynolds had put her in a position that made her so vulnerable. Maybe he was hoping—as Landon was, of course—that she was too valuable for anyone to want to chance her being hit by a stray bullet. Still, to have her so exposed…
The lead truck came to a halt about a hundred feet in front of the jeep. The second one pulled alongside before it, too, came to a stop. Both drivers killed their engines, leaving only the sound of the wind whipping across the clearing at the top of the plateau.
After what seemed an eternity of waiting, a man climbed out of the passenger seat of the smaller of the trucks. To indicate he was unarmed, he held his hands out to his sides, his palms toward Reynolds, as he began to close the distance between them.
Before he was halfway across, Reynolds called out in Dari, demanding to see Stern. The man stopped, looking over his shoulder as if awaiting instructions from someone in the truck he’d just exited.
When they were given, the guards sitting on the hoods of the trucks gripped their weapons more tightly. One of them moved fractionally, almost raising his semiautomatic into firing position before he thought better of it.
“We’ll see the woman first,” the intermediary called back in the same language.
“She’s right here,” Reynolds said, taking Grace’s elbow to pull her forward. “Now where’s Colonel Stern?”
The man carrying on the negotiations again turned to look behind him. Taking advantage of the time that would be necessary for the exchange of information the intermediary sought, Landon glanced behind him, once more checking the position of his guards. It hadn’t changed. Although both of them were watching the action unfold below, neither seemed to share Landon’s own sense of tension.
Nor did they appear concerned that the bargaining wasn’t progressing as Reynolds had planned. Their weapons, in contrast to those of the men sitting on the trucks, were still held loosely in their hands as they craned to see around the rocks they were supposed to be hidden behind.
Maybe they didn’t understand the language, Landon thought. Still, if they knew their comrades’ attack on the men in the trucks was imminent—
Suddenly the nagging anxiety he’d felt from the first exploded in Landon’s gut. Reynolds’s men weren’t prepared for action. Not of any kind. While the tribesmen who had purportedly come to trade Stern for Grace—
His gaze quickly returned to the clearing below. The intermediary for whoever was sitting inside the second truck was only now turning back to relay his message to Reynolds, who was still holding Grace’s arm.
Landon’s every instinct, sharpened by years of covert operations, screamed that something was very wrong about what was taking place. He just wasn’t sure who was double-crossing whom.
And at this point it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was the woman who was about to be caught in the middle of it all.
“He says you are to come with us,” the intermediary called to Reynolds. “We’ll take you to see the American colonel.”
“That wasn’t the deal,” Reynolds yelled back. “You were supposed to bring him here.”
“He is unwell. Unable to make the journey.”
“Then the deal’s off.”
Reynolds said something to Grace, releasing her arm and at the same time appearing to give her a small shove in the direction of the open passenger side door. She had already turned, taking a step in that direction, when the first bullet ricocheted off the jeep beside her, whining away into the blazing heat.
It was the signal Landon had been waiting for. And dreading.
Despite his growing uneasiness with what was happening, with Grace in the line of fire, he would never have dared to make the first shot. Now that someone had—and had drawn no answering fire—his suspicions solidified.
He whirled, in his hand the fist-size rock he’d selected hours ago. Ignoring his guards’ attempts to bring their weapons up, he charged across the few feet that separated them, striking the one who appeared to be slightly closer to getting his rifle into firing position with a vicious upward swing to the jaw.
With his other hand, Landon grabbed the man’s weapon as he toppled over backward. He brought the gun around, swinging the butt at the other guard’s head, as the man finally got his gun up.
The force of the blow jarred his victim enough that the shot went wide. Shifting his hands slightly on the barrel of the weapon he held, Landon swung it like a club, bringing the stock down on the unprotected side of the man’s neck. He, too, crumpled like a fallen tree.
Slinging the strap of the rifle over his shoulder, Landon clambered over the boulder the two of them had been stationed behind and then continued to climb. Driven by fear and adrenaline, miraculously he seemed to anticipate finger and toeholds in the sheer rock face that allowed him to scale it until he reached a position that would put him above the rest of Reynolds’s men on the other ridge.
As he had made his move, he’d been aware he would be highly vulnerable during this ascent, both from the tribesmen below, as well as from the American’s men. Bullets began to chip stone only inches from his body as he climbed, but not nearly as many as he had expected.
As soon as he reached an outcropping that would provide cover, he ducked behind it. He peered over the rim as shots continued to splinter shards from the rocks around him.
The jeep was still parked in the same spot. He couldn’t see Grace, but Reynolds had taken shelter behind the vehicle and was returning the fire coming from the trucks with a hand gun.
Although bullets from the automatic weapons raked the front of the jeep, from which steam now rose, Landon held to the thought that Grace could survive even that barrage if she’d made it back inside the automobile. Especially if she were on the floorboard, placing the engine block between her and the gunmen.
Refusing to think about anything other than stopping the shots aimed at the jeep, Landon sighted through the scope and took out one of the two men on the smaller truck with his first shot. Seeing his comrade fall, the second scrambled off the hood, only to be cut down before he’d taken more than a couple of steps.
Landon then turned his attention to the occupants of the larger truck, picking off the guard on the left before he’d had time to realize what was happening. The remaining tribesman finally stopped firing at the jeep and lifted his weapon to take aim at the new threat. Landon shot him in the chest before he had time to pull the trigger.
By that time Reynolds had also turned and was looking up. He didn’t raise his weapon in Landon’s direction, however, so Landon ignored him, sending a round through the windshield of the truck where the person issuing the orders was seated. With the angle of the sun off the splintered glass, it was impossible to tell if he’d hit anyone, but at least the vehicle didn’t move.
Before he had pulled the trigger, he had fleetingly considered that Stern might also be inside that truck. Almost as soon as the thought formed, he rejected it. If this “exchange” had been legitimate, the colonel’s captors wouldn’t have gone through the song a
nd dance of demand and counterdemand. Just as his gut had told him, this had been a setup from the beginning.
The driver of the second truck had apparently gotten the message that someone was deviating from the script. He started the engine and then stomped down on the accelerator, sending the rear wheels spinning through the loose dirt.
For an instant Landon thought he intended to drive the truck straight into the parked jeep. A sense of helplessness fueling his rage, he pumped a couple of bullets into its windshield, as well. By the time they made impact, it had become obvious that the driver had simply been circling to get by the other truck.
He roared around it, wheels spewing gravel, and headed down the grade over which his vehicle had strained only minutes before. When Landon’s gaze returned to the smaller truck, he saw that a man was pulling the dead driver out of the front seat and dumping him on the ground. Then he scrambled in over the body, slamming the door and immediately starting the engine.
With the muzzle of his rifle pointed at the windshield, Landon waited until the replacement driver had made the same circle in the center of the plateau, following the dust generated by the first truck back down the slope. When it disappeared, he lowered the rifle he held until the crosshairs on its scope were aligned with the center of Steven Reynolds’s forehead.
“Throw your gun into the passenger seat,” he ordered.
There was only the slightest hesitation before the American held his hand out to the side, tossing the hand gun he’d been using into the seat Grace had occupied.
“Now call off your men,” Landon said, shifting the muzzle slightly toward the ridge before he aligned it once more with Reynolds’s head. “Do it now.”
Whatever else Reynolds was, he wasn’t stupid. “Throw your weapons down,” he yelled to his men.
There was no way Reynolds could know for sure whether Landon spoke enough of their dialect to understand that command, but apparently he wasn’t taking any chances.
In the resulting stillness, Landon heard the distinctive clatter of weapons being discarded onto rock. Whether all of Reynolds’s men had obeyed that order was open to question, of course. That would depend on the kind of discipline the American had instilled in his force. Something Landon wouldn’t find out until he put it to the test.
“Grace?” he called.
He literally held his breath until her head and shoul ders slowly appeared in the narrow space between the jeep’s front seat and its dash. She had done exactly what he’d hoped she would, taking shelter in the one place that would offer her some protection.
Of course, no one had ever questioned Grace Chancellor’s intelligence. As she picked up the gun he’d made Reynolds pitch into the passenger seat, Landon knew he would never have cause to doubt her courage, either.
“You hurt?”
In the couple of seconds he’d allowed himself to take his eyes off Reynolds to glance over at her, he had noticed the spreading splotch of red on the sleeve of her silk shirt. She gripped the gun in her right hand, however, pointing it at Reynolds. At his question, her left crossed over her chest, touching the opposite arm just above the elbow.
“Only a scratch.” Her voice sounded remarkably steady, considering.
“Think you can drive?”
There was a slight hesitation, which Landon hoped was attributable to surprise rather than any indecision about her ability. It wasn’t strictly necessary, of course, but he’d feel better if he were the one holding the gun on the American.
“Of course.”
“We need the trucks,” he said, turning his attention back to the American. “Have someone bring them around.”
Reynolds’s mouth twisted in anger. “You won’t make it out of here on your own. Just because something went wrong today—”
To shut him up, Landon put a bullet into the mirror on the driver’s side of the ruined jeep. It struck close enough to where the American was standing that Reynolds visibly flinched.
“Nothing went wrong,” Landon said. “This was a farce from the beginning. I’m just not sure for whose benefit it was carried out.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you think—”
“Send somebody to get the other vehicles. And do it now.” Landon sighted down the barrel again, but he didn’t have to pull the trigger this time to provoke a reaction.
“Hakim, you and Husain go get the trucks and bring them here.”
Somewhere on the ridge to his right, Landon sensed movement. Again, whether the tribesmen were acting in accordance with the verbal instructions Reynolds had given was beyond his ability to verify. He would know if those orders had been carried out only when the vehicles appeared below.
Reynolds tried again. “I don’t know what you think is going on—”
“I think this was an ambush, all right, but those people weren’t the intended victims.”
“If you’re implying—”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you what I know. Nobody in the Agency wants to hand Ms. Chancellor over to Al-Qaeda. The PR damage from that would be a disaster, and they know it. And they don’t want her to emerge from this ordeal to become a hero to the media back home.”
“Look—” Reynolds began again, only to be ignored as Landon continued to speak over his attempted protest.
“What they’d really like is for her to be killed over here. Neatly and cleanly killed. With an appropriate witness. Someone who can verify to the authorities that her death took place, of course.”
It had taken him too long to figure this out, but being that witness had obviously been his role today. There was no other reason for Reynolds to have brought him along. He was supposed to return to Washington and tell Griff Cabot about Grace’s unfortunate death during a bungled prisoner exchange.
“I’ll admit that something went wrong, but—” Reynolds tried again.
“The only thing that went wrong is Grace survived. Whoever that was in those trucks, they weren’t her original captors. And they obviously didn’t have Stern. Chalk this one up to a missed opportunity, Reynolds. Apparently the company still doesn’t have the right people in place over here.”
That last remark was too revealing. At this point, however, Landon didn’t really care.
All he cared about now was getting Grace out of this guy’s control. He hadn’t completely trusted Reynolds from the beginning. Now that he knew what the man’s agenda was—as well as who was paying him—he was more determined than ever to strike out on their own.
“You’ll never get out of here alive.” Reynolds’s tone had changed, becoming less conciliatory.
“Not if we stay with you.”
Landon could now hear the sound of the other vehi cles being brought forward. He had known that wherever they’d been hidden, it wouldn’t be too far away. After all, since Reynolds’s ambush was bogus, he didn’t really have to worry about his supposed victims stumbling across them.
“What are you going to do?”
“Not a thing until your men transfer the extra gasoline from the back of the larger truck into the other one. When that’s done, you’re going to order them to leave their weapons lying where they are and all get into the larger truck. And then you’re going to order them to drive away.”
“What about me?”
“You wait here with Ms. Chancellor and me until they’re gone.”
“And then what?”
The bravado in Reynolds’s voice had slipped slightly with each question. Without his men to back him up, the American was simply another foreigner in a land that was particularly inhospitable.
“That depends on how well and how quickly they carry out your orders. And by the way,” Landon said, switching into the dialect spoken by Reynolds’s men. Although he was not even as fluent in the tribesmen’s language as Reynolds was in Dari, it was enough to prove his point. “I don’t think it’s in your best interest to tell them to do anything except what I’ve told you to. I’ll be listening very
carefully. And the first time I don’t like what I hear, then you won’t have to worry anymore about explaining to the Agency exactly what went wrong today.”
Chapter Eleven
“How do you know they’ll go back for him?”
With Grace’s question, Landon glanced over at her, taking the opportunity to evaluate her condition. Although she had assured him the wound in her arm was only a scratch, he didn’t like the chalklike paleness of her cheeks.
Before he addressed her concern about Reynolds, he also looked at the makeshift bandage he’d applied. Reassuringly, there was no seepage of blood through the folds of the cloth tied just above her elbow.
“What do you care?” His gaze had returned to the track they were following.
“Because you left him in the same situation we would have been in if he hadn’t found us.”
“They’ll come back for him eventually.”
“How can you be so sure of that? Maybe they don’t like him. Maybe they’re glad to get rid of him.”
“Except their weapons are there. Those are too valuable not to go back for. And if they don’t, then there’ll be one less bastard trying to wrench some advantage from this country.”
“I thought you were convinced Reynolds is backed by the Agency.”
“You think that means he can’t be a bastard?”
“No. The CIA certainly has its share of those. But I do think it would mean he isn’t here for his own advantage.”
“Actually, I think he’s probably an independent contractor,” Landon said.
“Hired to do the Agency’s dirty work?”
“In this case.”
“Do you really think the someone at the CIA is trying to kill me? Because I testified before Congress?” Her dismissal of the possibility was clear in the tone of her questions.
“I think somebody in Washington decided this was too good an opportunity not to take advantage of.”