crossed in front of them and the shirtless man standing in the bed swung the gun in their direction but didn’t have time to decide whether or not to pull the trigger before he disappeared around a corner.
“Okay, that’s far enough, Peter,” Smith said, grabbing the shifter and pulling it into neutral. “Either you tell us what we’re doing, or we turn around and get the hell out of here.”
The Brit just thumbed into the backseat, where Sarie was on her knees watching the crowd close in behind them. Unlike the machine gunner, they’d had time to think about the strangers in their midst and were well on their way to a decision that wasn’t going to go well for anyone.
25
There she was.
Brandon examined the woman waiting for the elevator and, when he was satisfied that she wasn’t on speaking terms with any of the people around her, moved in.
As his discomfort with the Uganda operation had grown, he’d begun quietly researching people he could go to if he decided he was in over his head. His work with Drake allowed him access to the CIA’s database well beyond his pay grade and he’d managed to come up with a short list of tough operatives with extensive experience and reputations for unshakable integrity.
Despite looking like she was still in her midthirties, the woman in front of him was a minor legend at the agency. He’d initially disregarded her because she was posted in Afghanistan but then heard she was back stateside sitting out the backlash over the death of a Taliban leader she’d tracked into the Hindu Kush. Maybe his luck was finally changing.
The elevator door opened and he shuffled in, staying close enough to her that he could smell the shampoo in her short blond hair. The athletic body, full lips, and tanned skin were undoubtedly significant assets in her work but a clear liability to him. The surreptitious glances of the men in the elevator weren’t going to make what he’d come to do any easier.
Gazenga fought for a position beside her in the crowded space, watching in his peripheral vision as she fixed her dark eyes on the floor numbers counting down.
The elevator stopped with a jerk and he used it as an excuse to bump into her, slipping a note into the pocket of her jacket as he did so.
She turned slightly, black eyes wandering along the side of his face and giving him a sudden overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. At the last moment, he pushed through the people in front of him and out the closing doors. The hallway was nearly empty and he concentrated on controlling his breathing as a duct overhead blew cool air across his sweaty skin.
He hadn’t lost his nerve. He’d done it. But for some reason the sense of relief he’d anticipated didn’t materialize. If anything, the sensation of being trapped continued to tighten around his chest.
With that note, he’d irretrievably stepped off the diving board. All he could do now was hope the pool had water in it.
26
Peter Howell smiled casually at a group of comically overarmed men staring dumbfounded at them as they cruised by. Ahead, an elaborate archway led through the stone wall they’d been paralleling for the last few minutes. By the time they stopped in front of it, there were at least three mounted machine guns and no fewer than thirty small arms trained on the aging taxi. A man in fatigues came cautiously toward them, looking over the sights of an Israeli-made Tavor assault rifle and screaming unintelligible instructions.
They were forced from the vehicle, and Smith grabbed Sarie’s arm to keep her from being dragged away, trying to position himself so that she was shielded between him and the car.
“Is there a plan here?” Smith shouted over the hood, not sure if he was more angry with Howell or himself. “Or did you just pick today to commit suicide?”
“A bit of shopping,” came the Brit’s enigmatic answer.
A young man in a tattered Smurfs T-shirt gave Smith a hard shove and he pushed back, sending the man to the ground. “Back the hell off!”
The African jumped to his feet, clawing for the machine gun hanging across his chest, and Smith lunged for him. Someone to his left threw an elbow and he ducked around it, keeping his eyes locked on the compact Heckler & Koch lining up on him.
Then it all stopped. There was a brief shout from the direction of the archway and the young man backed away, careful to keep his hands well away from his weapon.
The crowd began to disperse and the guards lost interest in them, going back to surveying the people moving back and forth in the dusty road.
“Peter! My good friend,” came a heavily accented voice. What remained of the mob scurried out of the way of a tall African striding toward Howell.
“It warms my heart to see you again,” he said, pumping the Brit’s hand. “I never dreamed I would.”
“Good to see you, too, Janani. I’d like to introduce you to my friends Sarie and Jon.”
The African motioned toward them. “Come. We must get out of this horrible sun.”
Smith looked over at Sarie and shrugged, taking her arm before following the two chatting men through the arch.
“You’ve gotten fat,” Howell said.
“And you’ve gotten old, my brother. I live a good life. I have many wives and children. How many sons do you have?”
“None.”
Janani shook his head sympathetically as they turned down a narrow alley lined with storefronts dedicated to merchandise built around the theme “Things that can kill you.” There were numerous gun dealers, specialists in various types of explosives, and a shop with a canary-?yellow awning advertising Africa’s best selection of handheld SAMs.
Janani led them through an unmarked door that opened into a surprisingly large and well-equipped machine shop.
“Janani makes custom guns,” Howell explained, waving a hand around him but not looking back. “The best in the world.”
“You flatter me, Peter. Do you still have the pistol I made you so many years ago?”
“I’m afraid I lost it.”
“But not before it killed many men.”
Howell nodded, his voice suddenly sounding a bit distant. “Many men.”
They passed through an open door at the back and came out onto a covered patio containing a dizzying assortment of guns lined up in racks. A lush butte started about twenty-five yards beyond, sloping gently upward, with targets spaced at measured intervals.
“Jon,” Janani said, spinning to face him. “What do you normally carry?”
“A Sig Sauer. Sometimes a Beretta.”
An unimpressed frown crossed the African’s face and he pulled a pistol from a neat foam display.
Smith accepted it but barely had his hand around it before Janani snatched it back with a disgusted scowl.
“Completely wrong,” he muttered, selecting one with a slightly thicker grip. “Tell me how this one
