Bloodline: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  “Three,” Seichan corrected. “The woman in the green sarong by the door of that internet café.”

  Gray didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary in her appearance, but he trusted Seichan’s assessment.

  Kowalski remained oblivious. He picked up a banana and sniffed at it. “Are we buying something or not?”

  Gray headed away, continuing toward their hotel, drawing the tail in his wake.

  “So Amur is not as loyal as the CIA claimed,” Seichan whispered.

  She leaned toward him like a lover. Physical contact between men and women was frowned upon in this country, but there was a strange, heightened intimacy in being this close without touching.

  “Painter suspected as much,” Gray mumbled.

  The director had reviewed the various potential contacts here and selected Amur specifically because of discrepancies in his behavior in the past. It seemed the man was not above playing one side against the other, especially with big money involved.

  Once a pirate, always a pirate.

  Gray sauntered down the road with his teammates, not bothering to try to shake the tail. He wanted the others following his team. Amur was playing a dangerous game, but one that suited their purpose.

  Because two could play that same game.

  9:01 P.M.

  Tucker Wayne maintained a safe distance behind Amur Mahdi, keeping a city block between them.

  The radio embedded in his ear buzzed. “Do you have him?”

  It was Commander Pierce. Tucker touched his throat mike and subvocalized his answer. “Affirmative.”

  To blend in with the locals, he had pulled a loose plaid macawiis tunic over a thin Kevlar jacket and donned a regional turban to hide his hair and further shadow his features. Not that there weren’t white faces here. It seemed the city drew opportunists from around the globe. He heard German, spanish, and French spoken alongside the continuous dialects of African languages.

  Still, he kept almost entirely out of sight of his target, trusting another’s eyes more than his own.

  Several meters ahead, Kane kept to the shadows, ghosting along, sticking to the crumbling wall of a palatial estate, gliding around and over obstacles. Few eyes glanced at the shepherd’s passage. Plenty of dogs—half-starved waifs, showing ribs and bony legs—roamed the streets.

  A block away, Amur turned a corner and angled away from the busier zone of newer hotels and larger estates. He moved with determination into a bulldozed section of the city, occupied by cranes, piles of rubble, and metal trailers, all in readiness for the expansion of the neighboring business district.

  Tucker radioed the change in direction. “He’s heading out of New Boosaaso, aiming for a rougher part of town. Definitely not going home.”

  Tucker had memorized everything he could about his target, mapping out the man’s life in his head: where he lived, where he met friends for drinks, where his mistress was holed up. Amur wasn’t heading toward any of his usual haunts.

  “Keep following, but maintain your distance,” Gray warned. “We don’t want him spooked.”

  I know how to do my job, Tucker thought sourly as he reached the corner. This is what you hired me for—or, rather, hired us.

  Kane had already stopped at the corner and glanced back. Tucker signaled an open palm.

  Stay.

  Tucker surveyed the terrain ahead. Tall security fencing, screened by barrier fabric, lined both sides of the road, keeping pedestrians out of the construction zones. At this hour, no one else was in view. He had no choice but to wait.

  If I follow, I’ll be immediately spotted, my cover blown.

  For now, they had a small advantage. Gray had gone to painstaking ends to keep knowledge of Tucker’s involvement in this mission secret. They’d even traveled from Tanzania to Somalia by different planes. Gray wanted all eyes diverted and focused on his team and away from Tucker, freeing him to move independently.

  At the end of the street, Amur stopped at a locked gate in the security fencing. A lounging guard with an AK-47 greeted him. They leaned their heads together, then the guard nodded and unlatched the gate. Amur vanished inside, drawing the guard with him.

  What is he up to?

  Tucker headed down a few meters until he discovered a gap between the fence and the sandy ground. A tall metal Dumpster helped hide the spot. He drew Kane there, then pointed to the gap, circled a finger, and touched his nose.

  Crawl through, search for the target’s scent.

  Tucker knew this was a task Kane could handle. Humans had 6 million olfactory receptors in their nose; hunting dogs had 300 million, which heightened their sense of smell a thousandfold, allowing them to scent a target from two football fields away.

  At the end of the instructions, Tucker lowered his palm facedown, signaling Kane to stay hidden if the target was found.

  Finished, Tucker slipped a hand to the shepherd’s flank, running his fingers over the black jacket that blended perfectly with his fur. It was a K9 storm tactical vest, waterproof and Kevlar-reinforced. He checked Kane’s earpiece, which allowed them to communicate in the field—then flipped up an eraser-size lens of a night-vision video camera secured near the collar and positioned it between the dog’s pricked ears.

  The team needed eyes and ears in there.

  Tucker pulled out a cell phone, tapped in a code, and a grainy, dog’s-eye view of himself appeared on the small screen. He leaned down and gave his partner’s nape a fast ruffle. He also shook the vest to make sure nothing rattled to betray Kane’s position in the field.

  Satisfied, he knelt and cradled the dog’s head in his palms. A muscular tremble betrayed Kane’s excitement. His tongue lolled as he silently panted. Dark eyes met Tucker’s. It was one of the unique features of domesticated dogs—they studied us as much as we studied them.

  “Who’s a good boy?” he whispered to his friend, a ritual of theirs.

  Kane’s nose shoved forward, touching his, acknowledging their bond.

  Tucker finally stood and flicked his wrist toward the gap in the fence.

  Go.

  Kane swung and lunged smoothly through the hole, his tail vanishing away in seconds. Tucker checked his phone. A juggling view of parked bulldozers and piles of rebar-ribbed broken slabs of concrete appeared on the small screen. The image bobbled and swung like some badly directed horror movie.

  Tucker touched his throat mike. “Video’s up, commander. In case you want to watch the show.”

  As he waited for a response, Tucker slipped a Bluetooth earbud into his free ear. Through it, he heard the soft whisper of Kane’s panting breath.

  In his other ear, Gray responded, “Got it. Let’s see what our friend Amur is up to.”

  Tucker kept to the shadows of the Dumpster and watched his partner’s progress. Fear prickled over his skin.

  Be careful out there, buddy.

  Kane races low to the ground, senses stretching outward, hunting for his prey. Around him, night brightens into shades of gray, frosted by muted hues. Piles of stone grow high on either side, offering sheltered pathways forward. The stir of a breeze shifts a crumpled paper cup, the movement twitching for attention but ultimately ignored.

  When sight fails him, scent fills in, layer upon layer, marking time backward and forward, building a framework of old trails around him.

  Bitter musk of spoor …

  Acrid sting of a urine marker …

  Burned oil from silent machines …

  He moves through the maze, taking in more smells, drawing them upon his moist tongue, deep into the back of his throat and sinuses. His ears swivel at every hushed whisper of sand: from breezes, from the pad of his paws.

  On … always onward …

  He holds his nose high at a turn, tracking.

  Then … familiar sweat, spicy and pungent, drifts to him, basking outward in the wake of the prey.

  His legs slow.

  He lowers his body, keeping to the shadowed trails.

  He forces
his panting to grow quiet.

  Ahead, the prey approaches others. They are out of sight, but their musk betrays them. They are hidden behind a pile of metal, smelling of rust and burrowed through with the scent of scurrying things. The odor of man wafts past it all, impossible to ignore, stinking and strong.

  His prey walks forward, trailed by another with a gun.

  Kane knows guns—by scent, sight, and sound, he knows guns.

  The hidden others show themselves at last, stepping into the open. The prey falls back, the scent of his fear spiking sharper—then it quickly fades, snuffing out again.

  Among the four, lips are pulled back, showing teeth, but not in threat. They speak, making noise.

  Kane creeps closer, finding a spot to watch unseen. He lies still, on his belly, but his haunches remain tense, ready to flee or charge.

  For now, he stays.

  Staring, obedient.

  Because he asked.

  Kane continues to draw in the night, ever vigilant, painting the world around him in scents and sounds. He smells his own trail, going back, buried among so many others. But through it all, one trail shines like the sun in the night around him, connecting him to another, both bound together forever by blood and trust.

  He knows that name, too.

  By scent, by sound, by sight.

  He knows that name.

  9:12 P.M.

  Tucker spied on the meeting between Amur and his trio of compatriots, fellow pirates judging by their tribal scars and harsh manners. They gathered near a rusted stack of old iron H-beams and broken cement bricks. In his ear, he heard their harsh laughter and words spoken in a local Somali dialect. A translation program converted the conversation into a tinny computerized version.

  “How long can you draw them out?” one asked.

  “How much money can you get?” another added.

  “Hassan, Habib, trust me.” Amur smiled, lifting his arms. “There is more going on than they tell me. For that, I can make them dance on a string at my whim.”

  “So you say,” the third said doubtfully.

  As proof of his word, Amur removed a wad of bills and stripped out several for each. “But first,” he said, “I must give these Americans something to chew on, to keep them hanging on my words, yes?”

  The others ignored him, counting their bills and stuffing them away.

  “What have you heard about this American woman?” Amur asked, drawing back their attention.

  “Only rumors, Amur.” These words earned nods among the three.

  Another voice spoke in Tucker’s other ear: “At this point, I’ll take rumors.”

  That assessment came from Commander Pierce. It seemed the team leader was listening into the feed with as much interest as he was.

  “Then what is the word?” Amur pressed.

  “A friend of my brother’s uncle, up near Eil, he says a white woman came through his village. He says they were moving her into the mountains.”

  “The Cal Madow mountains?”

  A shrug answered him.

  “That is much territory to cover,” Amur said, but he didn’t seem disappointed. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If she is among those mountains, she will never be found. I can easily give that information to the Americans without truly telling them anything. And with Allah shining upon us, I should be able to tease out our relationship for several profitable days.”

  “And after that?”

  “Then I will no longer have a use for the three Americans. It would be unfortunate if something happened to them—unfortunate but not unusual in these treacherous lands, yes?”

  Grins followed, shared all around.

  “So it seems Amur is not the hospitable host he pretends to be,” Gray said in his ear. “I think we’ll have to—”

  The commander’s words were cut off by a low growl.

  The view on the small screen shifted as his partner retreated, clearly sensing something.

  “What’s your dog doing?” Gray asked, also noting the sudden movement.

  “Hold on. Something’s spooked him.”

  The grainy image leaped and joggled as the shepherd bounded and circled around a steep pile of concrete debris. It looked like the dog was trying to outflank Amur and his group.

  Then the view settled again.

  Farther out in the construction zone, a team of six men descended toward Amur’s group. They were outfitted in black body armor and wore helmets equipped with night-vision goggles. At their shoulders, they carried assault rifles. These newcomers were no rough pirates; they clearly had military training. Their intent seemed anything but friendly.

  Amur’s inquiries must have reached the wrong ears.

  Not good. Not now.

  Tucker watched as hand signals from the squad’s leader split the group. They spread out to either side, a pincer move intended to trap Amur’s group between them.

  Unfortunately, the former pirate was not the only one caught in the trap. Tucker’s heart thudded in his throat.

  6

  July 1, 9:15 P.M. East Africa Time

  Boosaaso, Somalia

  “Stay put!” Gray ordered.

  Seichan stood at his shoulder; Kowalski at the other. They had stopped at the mouth of an alleyway, a few blocks from their hotel, observing the feed from the shepherd’s camera. The armored commando team had swept wide, circling Amur’s group, clearly intending to let no one escape.

  “Can’t do that, commander,” Captain Wayne responded. “Not until Kane’s out of harm’s way.”

  Gray knew there was nothing he could say to stop Tucker. He had no authority over him, and if the man was spotted—or worse, caught—he’d jeopardize the entire mission.

  “Then at least wait until I get there,” Gray pressed. “We’ll do this together.”

  A long pause followed, long enough for him to worry that the man had already gone.

  Then an answer came. “I’ll wait,” Tucker said. “For the moment. But no promises.”

  That was as much concession as Gray would get from him.

  “I’m on my way,” Gray radioed—then faced the others and pointed down the street. “You two, head to the hotel. Keep the tail chasing after you. Convince them we’ve retired for the night.”

  Seichan stepped closer. “You shouldn’t be going alone. You barely know the city.”

  He tapped up a street-view map of Boosaaso on his phone. “I’ll manage. Besides, we have no choice. Amur surely has other friends in the city. We need an alibi if he comes to a bad end in that construction yard. We don’t want his murder pinned on us.”

  “What’re you going to do?” Seichan asked.

  From the corner of an eye, he caught sight of the three-man team sent to tail them. The trio had gathered near a cloth stand, feigning interest in the stacked fabric rolls.

  “At the next corner ahead, when we’re momentarily out of sight, I’ll head down a side street. You two rush to the front of the hotel. Let them see you going inside, cause some commotion. Hopefully they’ll believe I’ve already entered.”

  From the furrow between Seichan’s eyebrows, she had little confidence in his plan.

  He reached for her hand and gave her fingers a quick squeeze. It was a reflex move, more intimate than he intended. “I’ll be fine,” he mumbled.

  If nothing else, the brief and surprising contact left her speechless.

  “Let’s go,” Gray said before any further discussion could start.

  They headed together down the street, sauntering at a leisurely pace. Once Gray passed around the next corner, he hurried to the mouth of another alleyway ahead. If the map was correct, he should be able to circle back and join up with Captain Wayne.

  As he turned away, Seichan’s last glance remained unreadable.

  Kowalski was more blunt. “Watch your ass out there.”

  He planned on doing just that. Behind him, Seichan and Kowalski rushed headlong, aiming for the broad steps to Hotel Jubba at the end of the b
lock.

  At least they knew how to take orders. He prayed Tucker Wayne would do the same. But with each step, Gray hurried faster, knowing that was not likely. Tucker was as much a creature of instinct as his furry partner. The man would react before thinking.

  Especially if his dog was in danger.

  Kane huddles in the shadows under a protruding slab of broken concrete. Beyond his hiding place, the night around him is a complex weave of scent trails, echoing sounds, and movement. He stares unblinking at it all, allowing the landscape to build before him, as much a map of the present as the past.

  The whispery crunch of a stone under boot …

  The leathery tap of a rifle strap on cloth …

  The heavy pant of excitement of a predator closing in on prey …

  His original prey remains clustered with his pack, deaf to the danger approaching. Kane tracks the newcomers as they cut through old scent trails, even his own, creating a new one, stinking of man. It fully circles the others now.

  Then draws tighter as they move in on their prey.

  Kane stays in his hiding place, unmoving, placing his trust in shadows.

  And one other.

  9:22 P.M.

  Tucker crouched outside the fence, hidden behind a Dumpster, his attention fixed to the feed from Kane’s camera. Still following his original instructions, the dog remained focused on Amur’s group, who continued to discuss where to spend the money in hand, where to eat a late dinner, and how to get more payments out of Commander Pierce.

  All the while, a deadly noose tightened around them all.

  Even Kane.

  Tucker dared not risk calling his partner back to him. The movement would draw the commandos’ attention.

  As if the dog had heard his silent worry, the view on the screen shifted as Kane glanced backward, over his shoulder. The angle turned enough to reveal a commando in black body armor closing toward Kane’s position. The shepherd remained at his post, as Tucker had ordered.

  Kane thinks he’s hidden well enough, Tucker realized.

  But the dog was wrong.

  Night-vision goggles hid the approaching commando’s eyes. Kane’s shadowy shelter offered no protection from such technology. In a moment, the shepherd would easily be spotted, along with the foreign vest—then all hell would break loose.