by K. J. Howe
Luciano’s grip around his waist tightened like a boa constrictor. Prospero threaded through the trees, cautiously motoring down to the area where Bassam had hurtled off the mountain. As he closed the distance, realization dawned. Small boot prints—the size of Ocean’s feet or the boys’—led straight to where the branches had been.
A trap. And Bassam, out of his element in these mountains, hadn’t realized until it was too late.
Prospero spotted a hint of movement about three hundred feet below, something nestled deep in a patch of forest. He studied the area, then saw it again. A flash of red. Ayan’s down jacket. They were closing in on the escapees.
Chapter 58
By pairing her phone with the one carried by Prospero’s man in St. Stephen’s, Thea had managed to capture a recording of the live feed of the prisoners. The Italian had been careful not to include any outside views, as terrain could be an indicator of locale. Still, the smallest details could tell a story if you knew what to look for.
She studied the video again and again, freezing each frame. The black arrow painted on the floor was undoubtedly there to show the direction of Mecca. Coupling that with the delicate ceramics collecting dust in a corner and the design of a small carpet, she surmised the hideaway was likely somewhere in Turkey, which made sense, since that was where they were supposed to deliver the captured truck. Of course, it was a big country.
Rif was cleaning the weapons before the mission when Thea interrupted. “Any idea which region in Turkey this could be?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” He shook his head. “But Hakan has the analysts searching for any links Prospero might have there—friends, businesses, property. Let’s hope he gets a hit.” Hakan was a genius at this sort of thing, and his impressive skills had helped them locate countless hostages over the years. Everyone left a fingerprint on the web, even if they tried not to. She often counseled Quantum clients to avoid posting their current location and travel plans on social media. Today’s kidnappers stalked potential victims online, and being told where and when they could find you made the abduction a whole lot easier.
“Ayan and Jabari are quite capable. They’ll sit tight until we can find them,” Rif said.
“Stop trying to cheer me up. You know they’re going to cause havoc every chance they get. It’s who they are.”
He smiled with genuine affection. “Yeah, especially Ayan.”
“Prospero is going to have his hands full, and he’s not the most patient man.” Deep down, Thea knew that he was unlikely to hurt the boys, but that was little comfort when she couldn’t lay eyes on them. And she wondered how Laverdeen, Dillman, and the other hostages were faring.
“Did you see the medical report on the passengers?” Rif looked up from the M4 he was reassembling.
“Two require meds: Matthias takes digoxin for his heart, Karlsson takes risperidone, a second-generation antipsychotic, for schizophrenia.” At least one out of ten people needed some kind of regular medication. And kidnappers often were forced to procure it—not out of compassion, but to keep the “commodity” alive and well. And medications could be traced.
“Think Prospero will take care of them?”
“One would hope—but he may not have access to the medications if he’s in a remote area. And he might just not care.”
Thea’s phone beeped. Hakan, with more research on the passengers. “Ocean,” she said to Rif after the call.
“The woman with one name.”
“That’s what made identifying her a challenge. But Hakan came through,” she said.
“And?”
“She might be the target.” Thea was lost in thought for a moment. “Her birth name was Akira Nakamura. She legally changed it two years ago.”
“It’s not a crime to change your name.”
“Of course not,” Thea said, shaking her head. “You remember when Jihadi John beheaded Haruna Yukawa and Kenji Goto?”
Thea had been in Syria working another case when that had happened. Yukawa had been a failed Japanese businessman who’d tried to reinvent himself as a private military contractor in Syria. After he’d been kidnapped by ISIS, Kenji Goto, a freelance journalist, had headed to the Middle East on a quest to free Yukawa, but he ended up being captured and then beheaded alongside the man he’d tried to find.
“How could I forget it?” Rif was loading 5.56x45mm NATO rounds into a spare magazine.
A lot of people blamed kidnapping victims for their predicaments: she shouldn’t have been volunteering in such a dangerous region; why were they hiking in such a remote place?; he knew the risks, working in Iraq. But these people—employees of NGOs, adventurous travelers, ambitious expats, dedicated missionaries—didn’t want to be kidnapped. They just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and ran into the wrong people.
And this was exactly what had happened with Yukawa and Goto. During the ransom negotiations, many Japanese people had felt that the government owed the two men nothing—certainly not the two-hundred-million-dollar ransom. Japan had withdrawn all its diplomats from Syria by March 2012 as the civil war was escalating, and the government had issued a travel warning. If Yukawa and Goto decided to ignore the caution, the thinking went, then they were responsible for their fates. While the hostages’ families were trying to mourn the brutal slayings of their loved ones, widespread censure only added to their devastation.
“There’s a connection.”
“Are you saying Ocean knew one or both of the men?” Rif asked.
“No, but she went through the same thing. Three years ago, her father was captured by ISIS in Syria during a peacekeeping mission.”
“Orange?” The color of the infamous jumpsuits used in the snuff videos made by the terrorist group.
Thea nodded. “Humiliated, tortured, then beheaded on video. Ocean’s mother couldn’t face the harsh criticism from the press and social media. She took her own life.”
“Leaving Ocean an orphan,” Rif mused. “No wonder she bonded with the boys.” He slid the full magazines and a couple of grenades into the TacVests.
“There’s more,” she said. “Ocean was one of the top nuclear engineers at the Sendai plant before she left Japan two years ago. Apparently she left the industry altogether and went to work for a pharmaceutical lab in Johannesburg.”
“Wait, pharma? I thought she was a nuclear scientist.”
“She seems to have an advanced degree in bioengineering too.”
“You think that’s why she’s the target?”
“Maybe. The only thing I’m sure of—we don’t have a full picture of what’s going on. Why would a Sicilian gangster risk hijacking an international flight? What does he want with a truck full of Syrian refugees? And what is the connection, if any, to this Japanese national who happens to be a nuclear engineer?” Thea ran a hand through her hair.
“The truck we’re hunting might give us answers.”
“Or create more questions.” The lives of the hostages, including Ayan and Jabari, rested on them answering those questions. Those boys were her last connection to Nikos—getting them back was her first priority, not only for their sake but for her own.
Thea had taken a leave of absence from Quantum after Nikos vanished in the Zambezi River, to assist in the search for his body. After four weeks of scouring the river and surrounding areas, the effort had finally been called off, her brother’s body never found. The local experts gently explained that the plethora of crocodiles in the river could be the reason why.
Exhausted mentally and physically from the grueling recovery operation, her phone battery drained, she’d headed straight to Kanzi and the orphanage, a place Nikos considered home. She owed it to the boys to tell them about her brother in person, which she dreaded. Ayan and Jabari had already lost their parents and so many others.
The midday sun scorched the red dirt, the earth’s minerals sparkling like tiny diamonds. Sweaty and slightly sick to her stomach, Thea arrived to find the Kuria boys
lined up with the other children for vaccinations.
“Thea!” Jabari left the queue to hug her, his wiry arms squeezing her tightly.
Ayan stayed in place, a big smile on his face. “Needle day.” As if that explained it all.
She went over to the little guy and gave him a big hug too.
“Last I remember, needles weren’t all that much fun.” Her hands trembled, her heart beating faster than usual. She attributed it to the particularly hot day.
“We get chocolate if we let them poke us.”
She laughed, feeling a little light-headed. “That explains why you wouldn’t get out of the line.”
“I asked if I could have two needles and two chocolates, but they said no.” Ayan looked slightly disappointed.
“Someone has a sweet tooth.” Both brothers nodded at this. “Listen, I need to talk to you guys. Maybe after the needles we can go for a walk?”
“Is Nikos coming?” Jabari asked.
“Just us . . .” Her vision blurred slightly.
“Are you okay? You look all white.” Jabari stepped closer.
The world started spinning. She flung an arm out, reaching for support that wasn’t there, and crumpled to her knees.
“Thea, are you okay?” Jabari’s voice sounded distant.
Her mouth moved, but no words came out.
“Orange juice,” the older boy commanded Ayan.
She shook her head, trying to gather her thoughts, but her head was muddled and too damn heavy. Movement to her right had her lifting her blurred gaze. Ayan was running toward the canteen. Seconds passed, feeling like centuries.
A figure stood off in the distance, familiar somehow. She squinted. Nikos. No, she was imagining things. Nikos was dead.
A cup was thrust toward her. Ayan and Jabari helped her sip the orange juice, encouraging her to drink more. Their voices were soothing, kind.
Slowly, the world came back into focus, steadied. Her hands stopped trembling, and her mind sharpened. She was almost human again.
She reached into her pants pocket, pulled out her phone, then remembered that the batteries were drained. That’s why her Dexcom alarm hadn’t sounded, alerting her that her blood sugar was running low. The toll of the search coupled with her anxiety about having to tell the boys about Nikos had made her less meticulous about monitoring her diabetes.
“How did you know?” She had always kept her disease a secret, only confiding in her immediate family, Rif, Hakan, and the Quantum team. But she’d never told the boys.
“Know what?” Ayan asked.
“The juice.”
“Nikos told us that if you ever acted weird to give you orange juice. He didn’t say why, but he made us promise.”
Her brother, so damaged, had had the forethought to protect her even in his absence. Her eyes filled.
“Thank you both. I have a medical condition, and the juice helps.” The queue had moved along, Ayan losing his spot. “I owe you both some chocolate.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Ayan gave her a hug.
She touched her head to his, hoping another sip of orange juice would help her reclaim the use of her tongue. Recovery from a low was damned slow, but she had to do this now. “I need to tell you something. Nikos . . . he’s gone.”
“Gone where?” Jabari asked.
“We lost him in a river. He’s with the angels now.”
“He’s dead?” Jabari’s voice sharpened. These kids had witnessed far too much loss in their short lives to be satisfied with euphemisms.
“Yes.”
“No.” Ayan placed his hands on his hips.
“I’m sorry, Ayan.”
“No, he’s not dead. I can feel it here when someone is gone.” He touched the left side of his chest.
Thea had known it would be difficult news for the boys to accept—they had been so close to Nikos—but the look in Ayan’s eyes left her gutted.
Chapter 59
Rif studied the detailed map of Budapest on the large screen in their makeshift war room. Thea, Johansson, Jean-Luc, Brown, Neil, and Stewart gathered around the conference table. Shortly, they’d all be diverging to their assigned locales. The city covered 203 square miles, occupying both sides of the Danube since Buda merged with Pest back in 1873. Almost three million people lived in the city. And their target was one lone vehicle.
“Remember, eight main roads lead into Budapest, four of them motorways,” Rif said, pointing them out.
“The truck is coming from the east?” Stewart asked.
“Likely, but we need to cover all the routes.”
“It would be ideal to locate the target before it reaches the M0, the orbital motorway around Budapest.” Thea sipped from her water bottle.
“Do we know its final destination?” Johansson asked.
“According to Prospero, it’s the Parliament Building. And the drivers are armed and dangerous. We must stop the truck before it gets there . . . at any cost,” Thea said.
A look went around the room—a target like that suggested a bombing. And hijacking a truck with a bomb on it would not be easy.
“I’ll be in the plane above the city,” Rif said, breaking the silence. “And Hakan has someone working on hacking into the local traffic cams.”
“A truck full of refugees. Illegal?” Stewart asked.
“Probably. Intel says they’ll be hidden behind cargo.” Rif tapped his fingers on the table. “But the refugees aren’t the identified target, just the truck.”
“Prospero will definitely have another team working on this, hedging his bets. We need to find that truck before they do, so we have leverage to bring the hostages home alive.” Thea sounded calm, but the taut lines around her mouth suggested otherwise.
“The vehicles ready?” Brown asked.
“Yup. Two motorcycles, an Audi S8—you don’t want to know how much that cost to rent—a borrowed garbage truck, panel vans, and an aerobatic plane. We have it covered,” Thea said.
The motorcycles would allow them access to alleys and shortcuts once they found the truck. The larger vehicles would be useful for blocking streets or forcing the target off the road. All the vehicles had e-vignettes for the toll roads.
“The refugees on the truck will likely be frightened of being discovered,” Brown said.
“They’ll also be terrified of us—from their perspective, we could just be a gang of thugs,” Johansson added.
“Neil and Stewart will take them to safety once we neutralize the driver and guards,” Rif said. “They both speak Arabic and will be able to explain what’s happening and hopefully reassure them enough to get them in the vans without making a fuss.”
Rif’s phone pinged. “Time to go.” He strode to his duffel and distributed the weapons he’d brought: M4s, MP5s, Glocks, and grenades. “Remember, we can’t afford to engage with local law enforcement, so stay below the radar.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Brown said with a half smile as he secreted a Glock and two grenades in his vest, probably thinking about the concealed surprises he and Johansson had left at strategic points along the shore of the Danube.
“Sacre bleu,” Jean-Luc said, speaking for the first time.
Brown burst into laughter.
The situation was far from ideal, and they were on the wrong side of the hijacking, but no one called Quantum for the easy jobs.
Chapter 60
Prospero closed the distance to the spot where Bassam had catapulted off the mountainside. Easing the throttle back, he brought the snowmobile to a full stop. Luciano jumped off the back and sprinted toward the cliff. Prospero followed, the cold wind stinging his exposed skin. He stood beside Luciano, peering over the edge. Bassam rested in the canyon far below, his neck twisted at a fatal angle, a pool of red staining the white blanket covering the rocks. The snowmobile was in pieces.
“Sfigato,” Luciano spat.
Heavy, wet snowflakes landed on Prospero’s eyelashes. He wiped them off and scanned the nearby forest
where he’d first caught a glimpse of Ayan’s red coat. Pointing his gun into the air, he fired one shot.
“Come out now, and no one gets hurt.” His deep voice echoed around the valley. “You’ll freeze to death out here.”
He waited thirty seconds, a minute. Nothing. The cold air stung his eyes, making them water.
“Drive the snowmobile to the other side of the trees in case they try to escape that way. I’m going in on foot.”
“Give me my gun,” Luciano demanded.
“You’ll be fine without it. They can’t cover ground quickly in this snow.” He’d confiscated Luciano’s SIG Sauer after Dillman’s death.
“The little one bit me.”
“Get a grip.” They were tough and wily, but they were still just kids. And Ocean probably weighed fifty kilos soaking wet. Prospero stomped through the snow, headed for the forest.
Luciano started the snowmobile and looped around the perimeter of the wood—the pines were bunched too closely together for the snowmobile to navigate through them. The howling engine faded to a soft background buzz as his nephew circled the woodland.
Approaching the forest, Prospero was impressed that the escapees had made it this far. That impromptu toboggan had worked well for them. His gaze scoured the trees, the Glock in his right hand. The morning light faded as the foliage thickened. In here, their footsteps were plainly visible, protected from the wind. Farther on, he spotted a few sprigs of a cherry laurel that had been broken, and cookie crumbs peppered the ground—he was on the right track. His stomach growled at the thought of real food. The hamsi stew and cabbage soup Aslan’s cook had prepared was sitting on the stove, waiting for his return.
A sound. The soft whispering of bushes.
He had them cornered. Stepping forward, he raised the Glock, careful to move without disturbing any foliage. A swishing sound. His gaze darted to the right.
A wild goat bulleted through the forest as if it was being chased by the devil himself. Porca miseria.