Peter Howell skidded the stolen jeep to a stop and jumped out, running through the dust cloud he’d created to the Land Cruiser resting on its roof. The front and side, dimly lit by his one working headlight, were full of bullet holes and he hesitated before looking inside.
No blood to speak of and, thank God, no body. Just a couple of rusting AK-47s with missing clips.
He’d lost friends on ops before — in fact, Jon Smith was one of his last comrades in arms still aboveground. But the circumstances of the others’ deaths had been very different.
Now that the fog of vengeance had lifted, he could see clearly what he’d done. He’d jeopardized a mission that he’d given his word to carry out, he’d turned his back on the millions of people who could be victimized by the parasite, and, worst of all, he’d abandoned a man who wouldn’t have done the same to him.
Howell pulled back and searched for tracks, finally finding footprints in the dust at the edge of the road. He followed them for a few feet, seeing the stride lengthen. Smith was not only alive but in good enough condition to run. No thanks to him.
He jumped back into the idling jeep and floored it up the road. Its top speed wasn’t much more than forty — something he couldn’t confirm with any precision because there were only loose wires where the speedometer had once been. Fortunately, the one piece of electronics the vehicle’s late owner hadn’t pawned was the temperature gauge, and Howell managed his speed to keep it just below redline.
Almost a half an hour passed without a breakdown but also with no sign of Smith. Frequent stops confirmed that the footprints were still there but also that the stride was beginning to wander. Despite the darkness, the temperature was still hovering around one hundred degrees. Even Jon Smith couldn’t run for long in that kind of heat. No one could.
The jeep’s headlight continued to dim, and he concentrated on the tiny swath of illumination it provided, covering the brake with his left foot in case of a sudden obstacle.
It was a strategy that worked well for keeping him from snapping an axle but one that made it impossible to see the man aiming an AK-47 at him until it was almost too late.
Howell slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, sending him into an uncontrolled fishtail as the figure dove back into the jungle to avoid being hit. When the jeep finally skidded to a stop, the Brit jumped out, not bothering to reach for one of the weapons in the back. “Janani’s not going to be happy about what you did to his car.”
Smith didn’t acknowledge his attempt at a joke, instead dusting himself off and shouldering his rifle. His clothes were soaked through with sweat and his face still carried sooty streaks from the fires started by Sembutu’s air force.
“Jon, I—”
When he got within range, Smith slammed a fist into Howell’s midsection hard enough to lift him off the ground. The Brit sank to his knees and then rolled onto his side in the dirt, trying desperately not to throw up.
“Okay,” he said when he could breathe again. “I had that coming. But it worked out, eh, mate? It’d be a long walk to Kampala.”
“And that’s the only reason I didn’t shoot your ass,” Smith said, holding out a hand and helping him to his feet.
“Water in the jeep,” Howell said, and Smith limped over to it, reaching greedily for one of the bottles before jerking his hand back and retreating a step.
“What the hell is that?”
Howell came alongside and picked up Caleb Bahame’s severed head, looking into the half-closed eyes while Smith used his sleeve to clean the blood off a liter container.
“Just a little souvenir.”
“I think it could make keeping a low profile a little hard,” Smith said, pouring the water over his face and into his open mouth.
Howell frowned. “I suppose you’re right. But you have to admit it would have made a handsome ashtray.”
57
The sun had escaped the horizon and was now pounding down on the chaotic morning traffic outside of Entebbe. Mehrak Omidi swerved to prevent someone in a seventies-era pickup from passing him on the shoulder but then mentally reprimanded himself. Now wasn’t the time to let his frustration get the better of him.
A quick glance through the broken back window confirmed that the situation was still under control. Van Keuren and De Vries were bound and gagged in the truck’s canvas-covered bed, and Dahab was at the back flap watching for anyone following. Much of the power and grace the Sudanese had demonstrated in Bahame’s camp was gone, though. He was struggling to keep his balance in the swaying truck, and his immaculate robe was damp with sweat.
It was to be expected. Soon his usefulness as a host for the parasite would be over and he would have to die — a fate known to him since the beginning. He would be delivered into the hands of God a martyr.
“I see them!” Dahab shouted suddenly.
“What are you talking about?” Omidi responded, looking into one of the side-view mirrors at the traffic behind them.
The African’s English was limited and he jabbed a finger at the now closed canvas flap. “I see the white men!”
Omidi kept his eyes on the mirror but put a hand on the pistol next to him. There had been no outward signs of confusion. Had he simply not noticed their onset? Was the Sudanese becoming delusional?
Then he saw it: an open army jeep ten cars back swerving dangerously into oncoming traffic in an attempt to pass. Omidi wiped the dust from the mirror and concentrated on the image of the two men. It was impossible to make out individual features, but he felt a dull jolt of adrenaline when he cataloged their general builds, clothing, and hair color. It couldn’t be, but it was. Jon Smith and Peter Howell.
They tried to pass again, this time on the left, and were forced to veer back into the line of traffic by a gap in the shoulder that fell away into a ditch.
Omidi took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to quell the panic building inside him. He couldn’t fail now. Not when he was this close.
Ahead, he could see a plane rising into the air and arcing out over Lake Victoria. Entebbe was no more than twenty kilometers away, but his ultimate destination — a private airstrip where a jet was waiting for him — was well beyond that. Eventually, the men chasing him would leapfrog the cars in front of them — a maneuver he wouldn’t be able to match in the lumbering truck.
Omidi took his hand off the pistol and picked up a phone, dialing Charles Sembutu’s personal number. It was picked up almost immediately.
“Mr. President. I’m on the Entebbe road nearing Kisubi. Smith and Howell are behind me. I—”
“How is this my problem, Mehrak?”
Omidi tried to keep his voice calm and respectful. “I need you to intervene. They are driving dangerously in an open jeep. Have your police pull them over. Fifteen minutes is all I need.”
“I arrested and questioned Smith and Howell for you. But that wasn’t enough. I delivered them into your hands in the north country. But still this wasn’t enough. The fact that you failed to deal with them is—”
“And
“Then we have both honorably lived up to our agreements. I wish you good fortune.”
The phone went dead, and Omidi slammed it down on the seat. Coward.
A quick check of his mirror confirmed that the ailing jeep still hadn’t managed to pass and now there was steam rolling from under the hood. They were still moving, though, and the military truck would be easy to track.
