“Don’t shoot,” Smith said in a loud whisper. “It’s me.”
Howell turned as far toward him as he could without breaking cover. Behind, the African held up a hand in greeting and then began dialing his sat phone — undoubtedly to inform Sembutu that Smith was still alive.
“Is Sarie all right?” Howell said.
“A little beat-up, but nothing serious.”
“I was starting to think you’d buggered off back to Cape Town.”
“Stopped for lunch. What’s the situation?”
“Not good, mate. We’ve lost two men and we’re pretty well pinned down. Every once in a while they fire off a round to remind us they’re still there, and I reckon they’re either sending men around to try to flank us or waiting for reinforcements.” He thumbed toward the African speaking urgently into his phone. “Okot and I figure our only chance is to wait until dark and try to get out to the east. But I doubt they’re going to let the sun go down without throwing something at us we’re not going to like.”
Okot stuffed the phone back in the pocket of his fatigues and picked up his weapon. Howell never saw the rifle butt that smashed into the back of his head and sent him pitching face-first into the dirt.
Smith tried to raise his pistol, but the African was already lined up on his head. He called back to his men, and a moment later one of them was waving a dirty white handkerchief above the grass.
45
Randi Russell drifted up behind a slightly listing Honda and waited for a place to pass while NPR faded to static. When the winding rural road straightened, she slammed the Chevy Aveo’s accelerator to the floor and tapped the wheel impatiently as it limped up to seventy.
She’d sold her Porsche along with her house a few years ago, finally fed up with dealing with them from halfway across the world. Now, on the rare occasion she was stateside, she stayed in a tiny farmhouse her college roommate had renovated but never found the time to use. The property was perfect — two hours from DC in traffic, quiet, and built around a huge fireplace that was the ideal place to unwind before her next assignment.
Her friend at TSA had come through, tracking Jon to Cape Town, South Africa. Interestingly, just the continent the late Brandon Gazenga had built his career around.
She had a plane reservation for tomorrow, made under an alias the CIA knew nothing about. A girl could never be too safe.
The road turned steep and she pressed the accelerator to the floor again, barely maintaining forty miles an hour as patches of snow began to appear in the trees. Honestly, a quick trip to the Cape wouldn’t be a bad change of pace. She despised being cold and most likely she’d find Jon lying on his surfboard catching rays. Heck, maybe she’d pack a bikini and stay on a few days.
Or maybe not.
Their relationship was one of the few things in life she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around. Fate constantly threw them together, usually along with a few near-death experiences and a soul-wrenching personal disaster or two. As close as they’d become, she wasn’t sure how many more meetings they were both going to survive.
As Randi crested the hill, the engine began to lose power, lurching weakly and finally cutting out as she rolled the tiny Chevrolet onto the shoulder. A few twists of the ignition key produced precisely nothing. Not even dash lights.
The stupid thing had less than ten thousand miles on it and not so much as a scratch in the paint or a chip in the windshield. After spending the last year on a camel that spit on her every time she got within ten feet, was a little reliable transportation too much to ask?
Knowing from experience that there was no cell reception, Randi got out and looked down at the hood for a moment before reaching into the back for her gym bag. It was four rolling miles to the house, with temperatures just below freezing under a partly cloudy sky. A nice jog, a cup of tea, and a quick call to AAA or an hour digging around in an engine that was probably suffering from an unfathomable computer glitch? Not a terribly hard decision.
She was searching for her shoes when the Honda she’d passed earlier pulled in behind her.
“Car trouble?” a man in his early thirties said, throwing his door open and leaping out with a level of enthusiasm that suggested former Boy Scout.
“Yeah, but I’m okay. I just live up the way.”
“We’d be happy to give you a lift.”
“I appreciate it, but honestly I could use some exercise.”
The very pregnant woman in the passenger seat struggled through her door and waddled around in front of the bumper. “We can’t just leave you out here in the cold.”
“Really, I’m fine. I—”
Neither of their movements was fast or coordinated enough to cause alarm, but suddenly both were holding pistols aimed at her chest.
“If you could hand over your Glock, I’d be grateful, Ms. Russell.”
She didn’t move, examining both of them carefully. Their position was perfect — far enough from each other that she couldn’t engage both at the same time and lined up in a way that they had her in a cross fire without putting themselves in danger of hitting each other. The woman was now standing in the slightly crouched position of an expert marksman, apparently no longer affected by her “pregnancy.”
Whoever they were, they were good — even by her standards. Also, they were well connected. Not only did they know the brand of firearm she carried, but it seemed likely that they’d used the OnStar System to shut down the Chevy. Those codes weren’t given out to every carjacker with an e-mail address.
Randi slowly pulled the gun from the holster at her back, silently cursing her stupidity. Being in the States with most of her long list of enemies half a world away had dulled her edge. Not a lot, but apparently enough to get her killed.
“Move away from the car, please.”
As she did, a woman she hadn’t seen emerged from the backseat of the Honda and started toward her. They were about the same size, with exactly the same clothes and hair. Randi watched as she got behind the wheel of the Chevy and turned the key. It started right up and she immediately sped away.
Based on that, it seemed unlikely they were just going to execute her. And every moment she was still breathing was a moment she could escape. If they put her in the car, they’d be close enough for her to use the knife she still had. It was a slim chance, but it was all she had.
“Looks like you could use a lift,” the man said. “But first, why don’t you give me the blade you keep strapped to your thigh.”
46
Mehrak Omidi awoke to the sound of cheering and exited Bahame’s command tent, where he had retreated to escape the jungle’s insidious biting bugs. Young soldiers had crowded around an old pickup, and he was forced to climb onto Bahame’s podium in order to see the two unconscious white men in the back.
The mob kicked and spit on them as they were dragged toward captivity and, soon, death. Charles Sembutu,
