room, scanning it over the sights of his pistol.
“Who are you?” a young man demanded, trying to free himself from the children clutching at his legs. “What are you doing here?”
He was in his early thirties, plump and dressed in clothes calculated to project wealth more than fashion. His round face was unremarkable and the fear was visible there despite his attempt to hide it. The great Farrokh seemed almost impossibly small when stripped of the electronic illusions he liked so much to hide behind.
“Don’t move!” Omidi shouted.
“Who are you?” he demanded again. “Do you—”
“Silence!”
Omidi moved closer, reaching out for one of the bawling children while keeping his gun aimed at the man’s face.
“So when the great Farrokh can’t cower behind a computer screen, he hides behind children?” Omidi said as his men circled behind the godless terrorist.
“Farrokh? Are you crazy? I’m—”
The Taser hit him in the center of the back and he collapsed, convulsing satisfyingly on the floor.
Omidi shoved the pleading children away and knelt, grabbing the man by the hair and lifting his head. “I know exactly who you are. And so does God!”
20
Jon Smith felt the rented snowmobile loft into the air and was forced to throttle back a fraction when it landed. The heavy powder billowed over him, filling his open mouth and sticking to the stubble on his chin. Tall ponderosa pine were becoming more plentiful, and he slowed a bit more, picking his way through them as his eyes struggled to adjust to the transition from blinding sunlight to deep shadow.
He adjusted his trajectory slightly, using the thirteen-thousand-foot peak of Mount Dana to keep his bearings as he navigated the wilderness at the edge of California’s Yosemite National Park.
A herd of deer watched him burst from the trees and head for a distant column of smoke bisecting the horizon. He’d never been to the Sierras when there was snow on the ground and regretted not making the trip sooner. The scenery was as spectacular as anything he’d seen in his extensive travels — massive granite walls, frozen waterfalls, untouched forest.
On the other hand, to say it was hard to get to would be a wild understatement. The nearest cup of coffee was a day’s travel in good weather. In bad weather, you’d more likely just end up a permanent part of a snowdrift.
The tiny log cabin that was the source of the smoke came into view at the very limit of his vision, and Smith pulled off his hood and sunglasses to make sure he was easily recognizable to the man he knew was watching.
When he got within five hundred yards, he shut down the snowmobile and continued on foot, wading through the deep snow and keeping an eye out for the deep ravine he remembered blocking frontal access to the property.
It didn’t take long to come to the edge of the precipice, and he traversed west until he spotted a narrow footbridge. There were no human footprints on it, but mountain lion tracks were clearly visible. Peter Howell had struck up an odd friendship with the cat a few years back — two dangerous creatures interested in occasional companionship as long as it was on their own terms.
Smith passed a pile of snow in the vague shape of Howell’s pickup and crossed the slippery bridge, noting that a single misstep would end with a fall long enough for his life to flash by his eyes at least twice.
The area had recently been hit by one of the worst early winter storms in recorded history, and the snow had slid from the cabin’s roof, burying its entire north side. Poking out from that minor avalanche was the mangled remains of a satellite dish — explaining his lack of success in reaching his old friend by conventional means.
“Why, if it isn’t the elusive Jon Smith,” came an English-accented voice to his left. “You do get around, don’t you?”
Smith turned in time to see a thin, weathered man in his early fifties appear from behind a tree. He seemed impervious to the cold, wearing only a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and an old cowboy hat. In one hand he held a rifle upright, its butt resting on his hip.
It was hard not to feel as though he’d suddenly been transported a hundred years back in time, and Smith supposed that was appropriate. In many ways, Peter Howell would have been better off in the last century. He’d spent much of his life in the British SAS, fighting in nearly every hot spot on the planet before retiring to what he euphemistically called a consulting career. Smith knew for a fact that one of his clients was MI6 because his work for that organization had brought them together in the past. Beyond the British Secret Service, though, Howell’s client list was murky — various foreign governments and probably some private industry work. Smith didn’t ask questions, and in turn, Howell accepted the fiction that he was just another army doctor.
“It’s been awhile, Peter. You look good.”
“Flattery. Now I really
Entering the cabin was always a bit disorienting. An enormous flagstone fireplace was the only thing that hinted of the exterior or American West. The furniture was English country and the logs that made up the walls were almost completely obscured by regimental flags, antique weapons, and mementos from various skirmishes across the globe.
Howell pointed to a leather chair lit by the glow of flames and Smith stripped off his jumpsuit before sinking into it and holding his palms out to the heat.
“Can I assume this isn’t a social call?” Howell said, handing him a glass and filling it from a bottle of Wyoming Whiskey.
“A guy can’t come and spend the day with an old friend?”
“I seem to remember that the last time we spent the day together I was shot at numerous times and we were very nearly involved in a helicopter crash.”
“You can’t hold me responsible for the chopper. You were the one flying it.”
“Of course, you’re right.”
Smith leaned back in the chair, kicking off his boots and feeling the blood start to flow to his toes again. “There’s a little matter in Africa that I need to look into. Thought you might be interested in getting out of the snow for a couple weeks.”
“A little sun and sand?” the Brit said with a hint of sarcasm. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Smith grinned and picked his jacket up off the floor, pulling a flash drive from one of the pockets and holding it out. “The password is ‘Ares.’”
The retired soldier inserted it into a laptop and played the Uganda video, staring intently at it while Smith sipped his whiskey.
“The god of war indeed,” he said when it was over, sounding a bit stunned. “SEALs?”
“A black ops team pulled from a number of different units.”
“Any survivors?”
Smith considered telling him about the team leader’s suicide but then decided against it. “No.”
Howell shook his head solemnly. “Africa.”
There was a fatalism to his voice that Smith had never heard before — an undertone of something that sounded almost like defeat.
“Most likely this is nothing more than a charismatic cult leader whipping a bunch of terrified, superstitious people into a frenzy. On the other hand, there’s some shaky evidence that there could be more to it — possibly a biological agent. The army thinks it’s worth looking into.”
“The army,” Howell said, frowning at the game they were forced to play. “And yet they can’t supply a single
