“Roger that!” yelled Jimmy from the front.
“Stop!” yelled Spock, pointing toward a group of rocks. Jimmy’s training told him to listen without asking questions and he hammered on the brakes, bringing them to a sliding halt, ABS a future feature for this vehicle.
“What is it?” asked Atlas.
“Back us up behind those rocks, quick!” yelled Red, having already spotted what Spock had, and knowing exactly what he was thinking. As Jimmy gunned them in reverse and off the path, he too saw what the others had and cranked the wheel, positioning them beside the find.
They all jumped out and eyed the nine bodies lying freshly shot on the ground.
“How long you figure?” asked Atlas.
“Today for sure,” replied Spock as he felt the skin on one of the corpses.
“What are you thinking?” asked Jimmy.
Red pointed at the downslope in front of them. “That looks pretty smooth. Do you think you can jury rig her to drive down that on her own?”
Jimmy nodded with a grin. “Absolutely.”
“Get to it.”
Jimmy dove into the cab as Red pointed to some jerry cans in the back of the truck. “Check if those have gas in them. If they do, fill the back with a good layer. We want this seen for miles.”
Atlas swung into the back as Red grabbed the legs of one of the corpses. “One in the passenger seat, one in the driver seat,” he said as Spock grabbed the man under the shoulders. “Let’s have them thinking they caught you guys, at least for a few minutes. That should give us time to hoof it out of here a good distance.”
“I like the way you think,” grunted Spock as he lifted the dead weight.
“Yeah, exactly like you.”
“Got gas,” said Atlas, the chug-chug already filling their ears and nostrils as the flammable liquid was spread across the bed of the truck. Red and Spock shoved the body in the passenger side, Jimmy reaching over and pulling off the man’s belt, jury-rigging the steering wheel.
They grabbed another body as Atlas jumped down, his job done. The engine roared to life, and Jimmy climbed out, making room for the second body.
“You ready?” asked Red.
Jimmy nodded.
Red pointed to Atlas. “Light it.”
Atlas tossed a match and with a whoosh the entire back end of the truck erupted in flames, black smoke rising. Jimmy leaned in and yanked a pry bar out that was holding in the clutch, then jumped back. The truck lurched forward but didn’t stall, instead picking up speed as the engine roared in protest, demanding to be shifted to a higher gear, its protests ignored by the corpse at the wheel. They watched the Toyota speed down the hill, a thick trail of smoke in its wake, then quickly dragged the remaining bodies out of sight.
“Now let’s get the hell out of here,” said Red, pointing at the road. “That’s BD’s tread mark right there.”
The four of them sprinted down the trail, the slight downgrade as it sloped into town helping dramatically, and as they came around a bend, they were able to look over their left shoulders and see their handiwork continue to rush down the hill and out into the flatland beyond, and in the distance, a convoy of Sudanese vehicles broke off the trail, taking the bait.
“Yee haw,” muttered Atlas under his breath. “How much farther to this town?”
Red held up his phone, looking at the map. “About five klicks. But I’m thinking BD is holed up somewhere a lot closer than that.”
“And you’d be right!” shouted a voice from behind them.
Red skidded to a halt, spinning around to confirm what his ears had already told him. A huge grin broke out on his face as he saw his best friend leaning against a large rock, a smile on his face as he held a Beretta on them.
“Bang, bang, bang, bang,” said Dawson, as he pretended to shoot each of them. “You need to learn how to run much quieter.”
His men surrounded him, hugs, back thumps, fist bumps and every other form of greeting known to men of combat being exchanged. Red couldn’t remember the last time he had been so happy to see anyone. As things settled down, Dawson had them follow him around the rock.
“What the hell is this?” asked Spock, his eyebrow climbing his forehead. “Here we thought you were dead, and instead you’ve got wheels, computers, the works!”
Dawson laughed. “Not quite the works, but I got lucky. I’ll explain later.” Suddenly he was serious. “Sit rep?”
Red gave him the run down on what they knew so far, Dawson updating them from his side. He pointed at the comm gear. “We better get a sit rep in to the Professor so it can be passed on. With the Sudanese on our tails, we need them to know the world knows.”
“Roger that,” said Red, activating the comm.
Nairobi Serena Hotel, Nairobi, Kenya
Laura Palmer lay on one of the two double beds, Reading the other, both splayed out, basking in the minimum amount of clothing dignity would allow, a ceiling fan and fantastic air conditioning helping with the cool down. Reading was snoring, sometimes gently, sometimes fiercely, but Laura was too wired to let herself drift.
And she couldn’t stop checking the comm gear set up on the table nearby, all the equipment that had been promised in place when they had arrived an hour ago.
Something squawked.
Reading bolted upright in bed. “What the bloody hell was that?”
Laura was already rushing toward the table, grabbing the nearest headgear and putting it on. She grabbed the mic as Reading put his own gear on.
“Dragon Fish, Bravo Two, come in, over.”
Laura grinned at Reading then keyed her mic. “Bravo Two, this is Dragon Fish, go ahead, over.”
“Dragon Fish, Bravo Two. Are you ready to receive sit rep, over?”
Reading held up his pen, the pad already in front of him.
“Roger that, go ahead, over.”
“Sit rep is as follows. We have found Bravo One, he is unharmed. Approximately one dozen survived the crash including Bravo One-One and Juliett-Alfa. They have been taken by local hostiles and are currently held in a large walled compound to the north of the town of Hamashkoraib. Sudan regulars were at the airport and are now in pursuit of us. We have lost them for the moment. The gold was transported by the hijackers, a group of Russians, on a pre-positioned Shaanxi Y-8 that left about fifteen minutes after the initial crash. Bravo One said he recognized one of the hijackers as ex-Spetsnaz.
“Here are your instructions. One. Contact whoever is necessary to make sure the Sudanese know that we know they found the wreck, that the gold is gone and they didn’t take it, and that we expect their cooperation in rescuing the hostages. Don’t tell them where the hostages are, they’re liable to get them killed. Two. Use the number I gave you to contact Bravo One-Two. Give him the plane type and have him track it. Got that, over?”
Reading nodded.
“Affirmative, over,” replied Laura.
“Good. We will contact you again in three hours. Bravo Two, out.”
Laura pulled the comm gear off and leaned forward, dropping her head on the table as she slowly sobbed in relief.
James is alive!
al-Sadiq Compound, Hamashkoraib, Sudan
Samir stood alone in the shadows at the rear of the compound. It was quiet, dinner having finished an hour ago, his few men milling about, chewing their khat and wondering what was next. He hadn’t told them that his share had been reduced to ten percent, meaning the benefit they might gain could be minimal. Then again, if they did receive one hundred thousand dollars or more like Ali had suggested, his share would be several thousand for sure.
At least he assumed so.
Any math beyond what could be done on his fingers and toes was beyond him. It was times like these that had him questioning his father’s strict Muslim upbringing, calling education a Western scourge, he having survived with no education whatsoever, so why should his children need any.
His mother disagreed, but never dared contradict her husband. It was
only when he would leave for the day to work another more educated man’s fields would she gather the children around and try to teach them to read and write.
He had failed miserably, treating his mother with little respect and threatening to tell Father if she should try to force him.
I was a little shit.
His parents were dead now from some disease and his two sisters had left for Khartoum years ago and he had never heard from them since. It didn’t surprise him—he had never treated them with respect either. He saw how some of the townsfolk were with each other, big families, big gatherings, happiness. Husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, all getting along.
That wasn’t his family, nor was it that of his men. All were essentially outcasts with no one to go home to. They were each other’s families. They were his brothers. And they deserved more than what he was going to be getting them.
If anything.
Samir had a sinking feeling that he would be dead before the sun rose tomorrow. If Abdul’s men did indeed arrive and demand he be handed over, Ali might just do it. Samir was of zero worth to him now that he had the hostages under his own lock and key.
What a fool I was to come here!
But it had been his only choice. Abdul’s men were too numerous for his small cadre to take on alone.
But who shot him?
He was pretty sure that was a question he’d go to his grave having no answer to.
Footsteps behind him had him spinning. One of Ali’s men walked up to him. “The prisoners are demanding to see you,” he said. “Shut them up.” The man pointed to a doorway a dozen yards away. “Down the stairs, straight through two sets of doors, the room at the end.”
Samir nodded and hurried off, glad to be useful for the first time since he arrived. If he could do this, if he could keep the prisoners quiet, Ali might see some value in keeping him around.
Night suddenly turned into day as every light on the compound turned on. Shouts could be heard as guards rushed toward the front of the complex along with the sounds of engines revving as what he was certain was Abdul’s men arrived, seeking revenge.
Samir decided the best place for him was out of sight, so he continued on task, descending the stairs and through the first of two heavy metal doors, the guards manning them nodding as he passed. He heard a woman cry out that sounded American and he paused. Stepping back a few paces, he looked through the small barred window and gasped. The Asian looking woman was naked, tied onto a table by the wrists at one end, her legs dangling over the other edge of the table, one of Ali’s men undoing his belt, a lecherous leer on his face as his tongue flicked in and out of his mouth in anticipation.
In the far corner the blonde American was huddled, her hands over her head, trying to protect herself from what was happening, the two men paying her no mind at the moment, more interested in their prize already laid out for them.
He had to admit he felt a stirring in his own loins, a naked woman something he could count on three fingers the number of times he had seen one. And this one was far more attractive than the cows he had paid to be with.
But he had never raped a woman, nor would he. Pay? Yes. Why not? But rape? No. Real men didn’t rape, no matter what the reason. He had made a commitment to that Asian man that their women wouldn’t be touched, and he was a man of his word. Usually. He had given Abdul his word, which was why he had hesitated to shoot the man.
Who fired that damned shot?
He opened the door, stepping into the room unarmed, and grabbed the man about to rape the Asian woman by the shoulder, yanking him back. “What do you think you’re doing?” he yelled. “These women are under my protection! If you soil them they won’t be worth anything!”
“Go mind your own business, coward!” yelled the man, wrenching himself free and returning his attention to his target. Samir grabbed him again but this time the man shoved him back toward the door in a rage, turning to face him as he put his wagging member back in his pants. The other guard simply turned toward Samir and pumped two rounds of lead into his stomach.
Samir grabbed his stomach, immediately feeling the warm fluid rush over his hands as he bled out, slipping down the door as he quickly weakened.
Then a scream of rage brought him back to his senses. The blonde woman erupted from the corner, a knife held high in her hand. She plunged it into the shooter’s back, yanking the blade out as the man dropped to his knees, then thrust forward, burying the blade deep into the second man’s kidney as he turned to retrieve his gun, now sitting in the corner of the room.
She pulled the knife from the would-be rapist then with a flurry stabbed the shooter at least a dozen more times in the back, the frenzied attack bringing him down hard, then finally silencing his cries. The rapist was crawling toward his gun. The blonde woman, now covered in blood, leapt like a tiger onto his back. She raised the knife high, two handed, then plunged it down, the blade sinking to the hilt, probably piercing the man’s heart as he stopped moving almost instantly. She withdrew the knife and plunged it in again, over and over, screaming the entire time.
“Stop!”
She froze, the knife in mid-air, ready for its next blow. It was the Asian woman who had given the order.
“Cut me loose!”
The blonde woman jumped to her feet, quickly complying with the instruction, slicing the bonds holding the Asian woman’s wrists to the table legs. The woman immediately sat up and looked about the room. In a corner sat a pile of clothing that she quickly donned, then, taking the knife from the blonde, she stepped toward Samir, dropped to one knee and jammed the knife deep into his throat, twisting the blade.
His head dropped onto his chest as she withdrew the blade and kicked his body aside. And as the last few coherent thoughts flashed through his dying brain, he realized he had led a life entirely wasted until now. He had saved these women, of that he was sure, and his death at their hands was a fitting justice for all he had done to this point.
His eyes closed for the last time and his lips murmured his last words.
“I’m sorry.”
US Embassy, Khartoum, Sudan
Laura Palmer was sporting a female power suit that exuded wealth. It was a way she hated to dress, but found it very effective when dealing with bureaucrats, especially in the Third World. They respected money, power and penises. As a woman, she had plenty of the first, which gave her the second, and according to James, she had more balls than most men he knew.
And this evening all three were on display, Reading helping contribute to the third criteria. They had contacted Wangari immediately after hearing from Red and the IMF representative promised action but Laura had zero faith in the United Nations or the International Monetary Fund. Instead, since she knew James and the others were alive and definitely still in Sudan, they had checked out and flown to the Sudanese capital of Khartoum within the hour.
And now they sat at the US Embassy, in the ambassador’s office with several aides and a Sudanese general, in full dress regalia, promising he knew nothing of what they were speaking of.
Reading was almost purple, ready to blow a gasket, and Laura’s toe was tapping in concert with her knuckles on the arm of the chair she sat in. The ambassador was dancing around the issue in political-speak, getting nowhere.
Finally Laura blew, standing up and placing herself to the side of the ambassador’s desk, perching on the corner and leaning toward the general.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked, her tone firm with a touch of rudeness and a soupcon of arrogance.
The man looked up at her with a pleasant expression as if he had been through these dances thousands of times before, and was quite content to do so another thousand times. “Yes. You are Professor Laura Palmer.”
“It might interest you to know that I am quite wealthy.”
“Extremely,” interjected Reading. “Filthy rich, in fact.”
“I was not aware of that,” said the man, shifting in his seat as if she were su
ddenly of more interest than the public servant he was facing.
“Which means I have options available to me that the general public do not.”
“Of course you would.”
“Which means that I can take out an advertisement in every newspaper and magazine in the world describing either how the Sudanese government cooperated fully with the effort to retrieve the innocent victims of this hijacking, or of how they refused to cooperate.”
The General opened his mouth and Laura held up her finger, Reading smirking in the background at this side of her she knew he had never seen, as few had.
“So here’s what I’m going to do. I know you know that you found the plane crash site. I know you know that the gold is gone. Now here’s what I’m going to pretend you don’t know, so that you can thank me in a moment for being so helpful to your government. I know a second plane left with the gold and the hijackers aboard. I know that almost a dozen people survived that crash and were left behind. I know that locals—whether you want to call them rebels, militants, terrorists or just plain criminals, I don’t care—but let’s agree ‘people not representative of your government’, took these survivors to a nearby town. I know exactly where they are, and will inform you of that location when it is necessary.” She paused, looking about the room then settling on the General. “Are we all clear on the facts so far?”
The man nodded, his lips pressed together tightly, clearly pissed at being spoken to in such a way, and probably more pissed that it was by a woman.
To hell with him and his sexist culture.
She knew very well that the way she was dressed would earn her forty lashes as a Sudanese woman under article 152 of the penal code. She could just imagine what would happen to a woman who dared to wear shorts and a t-shirt in public like she regularly did on her dig sites.
To his credit, however, the General did manage to hide his disdain, his position probably exposing him to all manner of Western women whether he liked it or not.
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