In a fair fight those bastards wouldn’t stand a chance.
But the chances of a fair fight were slim to none, yet Acton wasn’t worried. He knew they were worth more alive than dead. His only worries were for Reese being raped, and one or more of them being used as “examples” to force the ransom being paid.
“They’re gone,” whispered Niner from the other side of the window frame.
Acton walked over to Niner, Reese at his side. “Who would these guys contact to demand ransom?”
“My guess is they’ve sent somebody to the American embassy in Khartoum,” said Reese. “They’re probably assuming we’re all Americans so they’d want to talk to somebody at the embassy and demand payment in exchange for our release.”
“How much?” asked the Brit.
“Probably ten or twenty million, then they’ll negotiate rapidly down.”
“They better,” muttered the Brit. “I’ve got about sixty quid in the bank, and my wife’s probably already earmarked that for something more important than me.”
“Laura will cover whatever it takes,” said Acton. “Assuming she’s brought into the loop.”
“Wangari should be in Rome with her. He’ll definitely be in the loop,” said Reese.
Niner looked at her and frowned. “We need to tone you down and fast.”
“What do you mean?”
“With all due respect, ma’am, you’re too hot,” replied Niner, causing Reese to blush. “We need you to stand out a lot less than you do now, otherwise one of the young gentlemen holding us might take a liking to you.”
Reese blanched, her hand reaching out for Acton’s arm and closing around it like a vice as she steadied herself.
“Suggestions?” asked Acton, taking over for Reese.
Lee Fang stepped over, removing her jacket, revealing a tight fitting black undershirt. Her small chest size compared to Reese would definitely not attract as much attention, but the exposure of that much skin might.
Acton shook his head. “No, you’re at risk as well.”
Lee Fang frowned. “I assure you I can take care of myself.”
“I have no doubt you could one on one, hell, probably five on one. But there’s at least a dozen of them, and they all have guns.”
Lee nodded then put her jacket back on as the surviving French observer came over with his own jacket. He was small framed, slight, and when Reese slipped into the jacket, she smiled, it almost looking like a natural fit.
Lee pointed at the exposed neck. “You should button up your shirt and zip up the jacket. The less skin the better.” She pointed at Reese’s skirt. It’s too bad we don’t have pants for you.”
One of the Italians threw his shirt over. “Tie this around your waist.”
Reese smiled thankfully, wrapping the shirt around her and tying off the sleeves.
“My bigger concern is her hair,” said Niner. “She’s blonde in a brown and black world.”
Reese reached up and tied her hair back with a tie she had removed from around her wrist. It helped, but not enough.
“We need a head scarf,” said Acton. “Laura wears them all the time when she’s on Middle Eastern digs. He looked about and his eyes settled on his blanket.
“She’ll die from heat exhaustion if she wears that,” said Lee, Reese nodding in concurrence. Lee removed her jacket again then removed her undershirt, leaving nothing but a sport bra and ripped abs to see as the room spun to give her privacy. She tossed the undershirt to Reese as she put her jacket back on, zipping it up.
Reese quickly fashioned a headdress out of it that covered her blonde locks, and with the shirt being plain black, it muted her beauty significantly. Lee dropped to the earthen floor, scraping some of the dirt up with her fingers, then lightly smeared it over Reese’s face, neck, hands and exposed legs.
“Hopefully they won’t find a dirty woman appealing,” explained Lee as she finished up, spreading the remainder on her own exposed skin.
Acton wasn’t sure, but being accustomed to seeing Laura covered in mud, dirt and sweat at dig sites, and finding her still irresistible, had him wondering if Lee had just made them both more attractive. Reese turned to look at him.
“What do you think?” she asked, twirling.
“Ugly as sin,” he said, deadpan followed quickly with a wink.
“Perfect.”
The door flew open and a big pot of rice was carried into the center of the room along with a bunch of flat bread and a bucket of water of questionable purity. The door was about to be closed when Acton stepped forward.
“Some of us need to go to the bathroom,” he said, the Brit repeating it in Arabic.
The man nodded and left, returning a few minutes later with an empty bucket. He pointed at it. “You go there!”
Acton thought better of reminding the man that there were women present, and simply kept his mouth shut. He turned to the group. “I suggest we eat as much as we can, ration the water, and designate one corner the latrine. Perhaps we can figure out a way to hang some of the blankets for privacy.”
Everyone nodded and the Frenchman took up position by the food, quickly counting out the flatbreads. “There’s enough here for everyone to have at least one,” he said. He found a ladle at the bottom of the bucket of water and used it to pour some water on his hands, washing them as best he could, then wiping them on his relatively clean shirt. “If no one minds, I’ll serve?”
There were no objections and he soon began handing out the bread with a fistful of rice in the center. Within minutes they were all eating, the water bucket being handed around. Acton finished all he could eat and turned his attention to the ceiling. It was a simple design, corrugated steel nailed into wood framing, the entire guts exposed.
Leaving plenty of places to hang blankets from.
He pointed to one corner. “I suggest we make our latrine there. We can hang some blankets from the ceiling, and when needed, just empty it out the window. If they don’t like it, they’ll get the hint quick enough to give us a better option.” He looked at Niner. “What’s outside the window?”
“Just a back alleyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone dumps their shit out there.”
“Good. Wanna give me a hand?”
Niner nodded. “It’s a shit job, but someone has to do it.”
Overlooking Hamashkoraib, Sudan
Dawson chowed down on another handful of Cap’n Crunch, took a swig of water, then popped a chunk of Jack Link’s Sweet & Hot Beef Jerky into his mouth, chewing on one of his favorite high-protein snacks. The back of Camel Man’s van had turned into a treasure trove of Western decadence from food to electronics. Pretty much everything except a working phone.
Though he did find a windup emergency charger and cable.
He had spent the better part of the morning taking a few minutes here and there to charge the phone he had found and it was now at a full charge. He had transferred the photos to a laptop he had found in the van—a brand new Dell XPS—and had used the built-in software to zoom in on the shots from last night. Using the light of day and the laptop, he had pinpointed the exact location of the celebrations and, using a telephoto lens adapter for the phone—one of those simple ones that just stuck on the phone—he had set up camp, sitting on the floor of the opened van, videotaping the houses in that area then playing the video back on the laptop for the larger screen.
Armed men were circling one house in groups of two, and he spotted three jeeps that looked damned familiar parked in a nearby alley. He had counted at least twelve distinct guards, but hadn’t seen any of the hostages. He had no way of knowing for certain whether or not the hostages were even there, but why guard the building if they weren’t? There were much more impressive houses in the city that he could see from his vantage point, suggesting anyone worth protecting would be in a finer abode than the hovel he was staking out.
He dragged his finger along the touchpad, backing up the video. He hit play again and saw a bucket being
emptied out one of the windows of the house being guarded, arms briefly visible. Watching the same few seconds over and over, he couldn’t tell if it was his mind playing tricks on him, wishful thinking, or whether what he thought he was seeing was real, but it appeared to him that the hands were white.
He pushed the notebook away in frustration.
There’s no way to know from this distance.
He picked up the phone again and held it up, trying to get a steady shot of the house.
And cursed as he dropped the phone out of sight, too late.
Hamashkoraib, Sudan
Samir stretched hard, it having been a late night of celebration. As he surveyed the surroundings he froze, his eyes catching sight of something shiny on the surrounding hillside. We’re being watched! His heart leapt into his throat and he immediately spun to warn the others, then stopped.
He took another look but the reflection was gone. If it was binoculars like he was thinking, then they might be aware he saw them. He leaned against the wall, fishing some khat out of his pocket and slowly began to chew. He had his head turned slightly away from the hillside, but his eyes never budged from their careful watch.
And still they saw nothing.
No reflections, no puffs of dust, no movement.
Nothing.
Which meant either there had been nothing there, or there was, and they knew they had been made.
And that meant checking it out would be dangerous.
He grinned.
Inwardly.
What better way to possibly eliminate some of my “partners”?
He turned and walked around to the front of the house, the hill now at his back, and entered. “Jalal! Abdul!” he shouted, “Come out front!”
He stepped back outside and waited for the two men, normally his rivals, whom he had been forced to partner with in this venture.
“What is it?” asked Jalal as he stepped outside, squinting, his eyes already red from a constant khat habit and too much alcohol the night before. Abdul didn’t look much better, though he never partook in the drinking, his strict adherence to his Muslim faith forbidding it. Abdul had personally spoken to all of the hostages to make sure none were Muslim and in need of being set free. None were, thankfully, otherwise their payout might be less, and with three shares now involved, things were tight enough without giving away hostages for free.
“I think someone is watching us from the hillside,” said Samir, motioning with his chin toward the hill behind the house.
Abdul rounded the corner, looking up at the hill. “What makes you say that?”
“Don’t make it so obvious, you fool!” cried Samir.
Abdul spun on his heel and stormed toward Samir, anger etched across his face, his eyes narrowed in hatred. “How dare you call me a fool!”
Jalal stepped between the two nonchalantly, holding up a bottle of water to his lips and taking a long, drawn out swig, his arm raised high to block Samir’s view of Abdul, and Abdul’s of him. It gave Samir an opportunity to defuse the situation—the last thing he wanted was a confrontation here. He wanted it out on the hillside where there’d be no witnesses.
“I’m going to go check it out,” he said, his voice calm. “I need more men, just in case. Which one of you will come with me?”
Jalal finished his drink. “Perhaps I should—”
“No!” interrupted Abdul. “I’ll go.” He yelled for his men to bring their vehicle around and Samir did the same, moments later the two vehicles arriving, Abit at the wheel of his Toyota.
“Where to?”
“The back road, up the hill. I saw something.”
Abit nodded, flooring the gas as the two vehicles raced for the outskirts of town. Samir glanced back and could see Abdul’s truck right on their tail, none too happy to be in the rear.
Samir leaned forward so no one would see his lips move. “Miss a shift.”
Abit downshifted as they approached a rise, but instead of dropping to second, he dropped to fourth, gutting their momentum. Abdul’s vehicle roared by, Abdul giving a satisfied sneer at Samir and his men, as if he were superior in some way.
“Okay, keep up with him, but not too close.”
Abit nodded and they quickly sped up. Samir turned to talk to his four men in the back. “When we get there, everyone get out, pretend you’re searching with them, then when they head for their vehicle, shoot them all.”
Already khat-widened eyes nearly burst from their foreheads, fear written across their faces. Samir understood why. Abdul was a terrifying force in the town, and he had a lot of followers. But his death would scatter them to the wind, increase his cut from one third to one half, and eliminate a rival.
And it would all be blamed on whoever was hiding up here in the hills.
“Don’t worry,” he said, grinning. “We’ll say they were ambushed.”
This didn’t seem to reassure the men, but as they were nearly at the location where he thought he had seen the reflection, he had no time for further handholding. He pointed to an outcropping of rock.
“Honk your horn.”
Abit honked several times as Samir leaned out the window, pointing to the location. Abdul’s vehicle jerked to the right then shuddered to a halt as his men jumped out. Abit pulled up behind them, Samir and the others jumping out.
“Spread out!” he ordered, his own weapon at the ready as he surveyed the area.
“Look!” shouted Abit, pointing at the ground. Samir looked and saw the distinct pattern of fresh tread marks in the dirt.
Someone was definitely here!
He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as he realized there was genuine danger here and his plan, already underway, would only add to it. He turned and saw that Abdul and his men were all clustered together as they followed the tire tracks.
He raised his weapon, as did his men. His finger shook over the trigger and he felt its cool touch as he slowly squeezed. His men were looking back and forth between him and Abdul’s group, he knew wondering why he hadn’t opened fire.
Suddenly one of Abdul’s men noticed what was going on and shouted, spinning around with his weapon raised at waist height.
“What the hell are you doing?” screamed Abdul as he raised his own handgun, pointing it at Samir. “You dare point your weapon at me?”
Samir’s eyes darted to the ground, almost ashamed for not having the balls to take this golden opportunity to take out one of his enemies. He looked up. “I wasn’t,” he said, his voice a pathetic whisper. Which enraged him. Why are you such a woman? Be a man! “I wasn’t!” he repeated, louder and with more authority, sounding much more like the badass he thought of himself as. “I was simply going to tell you that we should get back. I don’t trust Jalal with the hostages alone.”
Abdul lowered his weapon, albeit slightly. “I don’t trust him either.” He motioned to his men to return to their vehicle. “Let’s go.”
Suddenly a shot rang out and Abdul’s eyes bulged in shock and pain, blood trickling from his mouth as he dropped to his knees. He raised his weapon toward Samir, his finger slowly squeezing on the trigger, a race taking place between how long the strength would remain in his hand and how long the oxygen would keep getting to his brain.
Samir fired, ending the competition, and in less than a second eleven weapons were firing, one taken out of the duel before it had even begun.
Leaving Samir to wonder who had fired the thirteenth weapon.
Overlooking Hamashkoraib, Sudan
Dawson sat behind a large group of rocks. He knew he had been made and cursed himself for it, but without the proper equipment such as anti-reflective binoculars, he had to take risks and make do with what he had at his disposal. Fortunately he had been prepared for this and first thing in the morning had scouted a fallback position.
His phone was propped up, hidden between two stones, giving him a full view of the area. He had moved the van from its original hiding place, farther back up the road, then swe
pt clear the tire treads with some loose brush. He couldn’t risk losing the vehicle or having it damaged by stray gunfire, and instead had decided to make his stand, should it be necessary, at the original location where he had been spotted.
All of his available weapons were laid out and fully loaded. He regretted having tossed the body armor yesterday, but at the time it had been the right decision, and going back to get it now was not. He was hoping for a small group and the element of surprise, along with his training, to even the odds considerably—part of him even hoped they would discover the van gone and return to the village, but he usually wasn’t that lucky.
It didn’t take long before the sounds of multiple engines had his hopes of a small party fading and minutes later two technicals rounded the bend and pulled up to where he had been parked earlier. A dozen men jumped out, spreading out to cover the area until someone noticed the tire treads. The first group gathered around their leader, pointing at the ground and how the treads led back to the road.
Which was when he noticed the second group, spread out, their leader raising his AK-47 and pointing it at the other group, his men following his lead moments later.
Now this could get interesting.
Somebody in the first group spotted the move and a showdown quickly ensued, guns and voices raised, but it was quickly put to rest, leaving Dawson frowning.
And unable to let the opportunity pass.
He took aim with his Beretta and squeezed off a single round, hitting the leader of the first group between the shoulder blades, he having little doubt the man’s heart had just been pierced. His target dropped to his knees, and immediately the two groups opened fire on each other.
Dawson ducked down, smiling, as the herd he had to deal with thinned each other out, at this moment apparently none the wiser as to who had started the firefight. The distinctive sounds of the AK-47s echoed off the rock walls of the hills, the ground shaking as stray rounds tore into the hard soil, and as the number of weapons waned, the screams and shouts abated, he poked his head up to take another look. Only three were still standing, all from the second group, including their leader. The man walked over to the bodies of their enemy, kicking each, putting a bullet into the backs of two who still moved.
Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) Page 21