Bahame’s men in unfamiliar terrain was unlikely in the extreme. Particularly with time running out so much more quickly than they imagined.
“You remember our agreement?” Bahame said as Omidi started toward the cab of the truck. “You will give me whatever the woman discovers.”
“Of course, my good friend. We fight for the same thing. The freedom of our countries.”
That seemed to please the African, and Omidi accepted his hand, counting on the darkness to hide his disgust. Bahame put his own desires before those of God — something he would be made to pay dearly for.
The Iranian climbed into the truck and started the engine, putting a hand through the open window in a respectful salute as he pulled away.
Bahame glowed red in the taillights and Omidi waited until his image disappeared from the side mirror before pulling out a small GPS unit and switching it on. The signal would transmit the coordinates of Bahame’s camp to a Ugandan military force waiting some two hundred kilometers to the southeast.
In a way, it was regrettable. Smith and Howell didn’t deserve the quick death that he was giving them. No, they deserved to die like their countrymen soon would: insane and bleeding.
51
Jon Smith had taken over holding the lock and Howell was sawing again, though they both knew their time had run out. The infected woman hardly moved anymore, even when their eyes met through the spattered plastic. She’d be dead soon, and that meant the parasite killing her would need a new host.
Footsteps became audible in the passageway and Howell shoved the blade down the back of his pants as they moved away from the bars. A moment later, Bahame and the team he’d so meticulously trained to shuttle people in and out of the cells appeared.
“I’ll allow you to choose who goes in with her first, Doctor. You or your good friend Peter?”
Howell just shrugged. There was no way he was going to spend the last few hours of his life lying in a muddy cage losing his mind. He would undoubtedly choose to go down in a futile last charge. The question in Smith’s mind was, would he do the same? The thought of a few quick rounds to the chest had become strangely comforting over the time they’d been imprisoned there, but he was a survivor by both nature and training. Could he knowingly run straight at the barrel of a loaded AK-47?
“I’m sorry,” he said, clapping Howell on the shoulder. “I think this may have been one adventure too many.”
The Brit smiled. “I told you men like us don’t get old. We just—”
The unmistakable
Another explosion sounded and Smith threw his arm in front of his face as part of the ceiling collapsed, kicking up a choking cloud of dust that temporarily obscured everything around them. He lunged for the bars, hoping they’d been loosened by the blast, but Howell yanked him back just as the woman who had been imprisoned next to them collided with the rusted steel.
“Watch your eyes and any cuts!” Smith yelled as they pressed against the back of the cell in an attempt to stay clear of the blood running down her outstretched arm.
It took only a few seconds for her to determine that they were out of reach, and she turned, rushing through the haze toward the other men in the chamber. Bahame had fallen and was just getting back to his feet when he saw her coming. One of the guards and the boy were already gone, and the last man was going for the passageway when Bahame grabbed his arm and spun him into the woman. A joyful screech erupted from her when they collided — the sound of endless, unbearable frustration finally being released.
The young guard cried out to Bahame as she flailed at him with crushed hands, but the man he revered as a god was already disappearing up the passageway.
The rumble of the fighting outside was suddenly lost in the deafening static of a rifle on full automatic and bullets ricocheting off stone. Smith and Howell both dove to the ground as the guard finally managed to get control of his weapon and press the barrel to the woman’s chest. She jerked wildly as he pulled the trigger, finally going limp and sliding to the ground.
Smith jumped to his feet and rammed his full weight against the bars. Despite the considerable damage to the cave, they didn’t budge.
“Hey!” he called to the blood-spattered guard staring down at the woman’s body. The desperation in his eyes was powerful enough to be visible even through the swirling dust. Powerful enough to use.
“Hey!” Smith shouted again, trying to get his voice to rise above the sound of the escalating battle outside. “Do you speak English?”
The young man looked at the passageway leading out and then back at Smith. He gave a short nod but otherwise seemed paralyzed.
“I’m a doctor. You heard Bahame say it himself. This isn’t magic. It’s just an infection. I can cure you.”
“You…You can help me?” came his heavily accented reply.
“Yes,” Smith lied. “You just need to let me out.”
The man looked up the passageway again, unsure what to do.
“Bahame ran like a woman. You saw the fear in him. He has no power over this. I do.”
Western medicine commanded a substantial amount of respect with most Africans, and fortunately for him this man was no exception.
“Get back,” he said, aiming his rifle at the lock and firing a controlled burst. Smith kicked the door and took a deep breath of the thick air. They were out. Probably only to die in the fighting outside, but at least they’d go down swinging beneath an open sky.
The guard trained his gun on him and nodded toward the medical instruments strewn across the ground. “You do it. You cure me.”
“I need—”
“No more talk!” he shouted, aiming his weapon directly between Smith’s eyes. “You cure me now. I want to go home. To my village. To my family.”
A blast came a little too close, and Smith ducked involuntarily, looking up at a wide crack opening above them. They didn’t have time for this.
He dropped to his knees and rummaged around, finally turning up a syringe. When he stood again, he saw that the man was so preoccupied by the thought of ending up like the woman at his feet that he hadn’t noticed Howell slipping silently up behind him. The Brit had decided to minimize any bloodletting by opting for a softball- sized rock in place of the saw blade. Smith fussed with the syringe, keeping the attention of the young man as Howell closed in.
Then it was over. The guard, who had undoubtedly been kidnapped by Bahame as a child, would never go back to his village. He would never again see his family.
Smith scooped up the dead man’s gun and followed Howell into the passageway. It took only a few seconds to reach the mouth, and they pressed themselves to opposite sides, trying to make sense of the chaos beyond.
Three helicopters were visible, lit by the flash of their cannons as they mowed down everything in their path — trees, fleeing soldiers, children. The fighter planes that had carried out the initial rocket attacks were retreating south, but Smith wasn’t convinced they’d seen the last of them.
Broken, burning bodies were everywhere, and, suddenly leaderless, the surviving soldiers scrambled for open crates of weapons that they seemed unclear how to use.
Smith crossed to Howell and shouted over the din. “We need to find our truck. Omidi’s got enough of a head start that it’s the only thing fast enough to catch him.”
