Suddenly, Wilfred shouted in Swahili. The bike stopped and someone yelled back. Wilfred yelled, in English, “Okay! I put it down!” Smart. Letting Wells know. The second bike sounded like it was at the far end of the compound, by the fourth hut. But were its riders dismounted? How quickly would they answer when Wells opened up?
More shouting from the first bike. A word leapt at Wells.
Time to move.
—
Wells slide-stepped to the edge of the doorway, peeked out. He saw Wilfred, on his knees, hands raised, a half-dozen steps from the first hut. The shotgun’s black barrel glinted on the dirt behind him. The bike was eight meters from Wilfred, fifteen from Wells. Its riders wore jeans and white T-shirts and those white handkerchiefs. A kind of uniform, Wells supposed. The rider looked awkwardly over his shoulder at Wilfred. The passenger sat crossways, both legs on the near side of the bike. Now he was yelling something, bringing his AK around—
Wells stepped into the doorway, raised the pistol, fired. No warning, no hesitation. Two shots. Aiming center mass. Nothing fancy. Wells was ready for the Glock’s kick this time. The shots caught the kid high in the chest, pushed him backward. He sprawled off the back of the bike and thudded to the earth, already dead. The rider reached for his AK, tried to unstrap it, but then seemed to realize he wouldn’t have time and let go of the gun and grabbed for the handlebars—
Wells pulled the trigger of the Glock three more times. The pistol jerked. Blood painted the rider’s shirt. He sagged forward over the handlebars. His head sank and his hands reached down like he was trying to make peace with the earth. For a second the bike stayed upright, the kid’s weight balanced fifty-fifty even in death. Then his left leg sagged and the bike tipped with him—
Wells knew he was no longer a threat, forgot him, turned for the second bike. Hoping that the men on it would make the fatal mistake of riding forward to help their buddies. Or just take off for reinforcement. He’d settle for that. He and Wilfred could grab the first bike, ride back to the Land Cruiser. Instead the men at the other end had jumped off their bike. They hoisted their AKs, their faces half hidden under their kerchiefs, their rifles swinging toward Wells—
Wells spun away, knowing he had no time to return fire, that he could only go to ground, get inside the hut. Though he wasn’t sure if these mud bricks would do much against AK rounds.
Then he heard the Makarov behind him, three quick shots, its bark lovely and familiar even if Wells wasn’t pulling the trigger. Wilfred joining the action, coming up with his hidden pistol. On the far side of the compound, someone yelped in pain. Wells turned back toward the door and fired two quick shots, not aiming for anything, just trying to get the enemy fighters wavering between him and Wilfred instead of focusing on a single target and unloading with the AKs. Two and three and two. Seven shots fired now, plus the three at the hyena. Wells was thankful for the Glock’s nineteen rounds. With the Makarov, he’d be reloading right now.
He peeked through the doorway. The fighter on the right had taken a bullet to the right shoulder, his gun arm. His AK dangled low. As Wells watched, he jammed his right elbow into his stomach to brace the rifle and fired a wild burst aimed half at Wells and half at Wilfred. Lottery shooting. A round slapped the corner of the hut behind Wilfred, but nothing more.
The fighter on the left was more dangerous. He dropped to one knee and focused on Wilfred, his left elbow propped on his left knee, the butt of the rifle hard against his right shoulder, his head tilted as he squinted over the AK’s crude but effective sight. The classic shooter’s position. He was looking into the sun, which made the shot tougher. But less than a football field separated him and Wilfred. Trained shooters were plenty accurate with an AK at that range. Wells saw all this in a fraction of a second, those years of close combat experience, knew Wilfred was in trouble—
“Down—” he yelled. Spent cartridges flared from the AK, glinting in the sun. Wilfred grunted in Swahili. Even without looking at him, Wells knew he’d been hit. Bad. Wells took his own shooter’s stance, knowing that if he didn’t take the guy down, he and Wilfred were done. Wilfred would be wounded on open ground, Wells pinned in the hut. The two bandits would kill Wilfred without too much trouble, then focus on Wells. So, really, now or never. Wells reminded himself that the Glock would kick harder than the Makarov and—
From behind the huts came a low growl that grew until it split the air, a wall of sound as overwhelming as a jet engine. Only one animal dared announce its presence in so lordly a fashion. The hyenas knew, too, the enemy they hated even more than man had come to steal their feast. As the roar wound down, Wells heard them gobbling and cackling in dismay—
But Wells forced the lion and the hyenas out of his mind, made himself focus on the man with the rifle.
That drilled bricks two feet to Wells’s right. Wells didn’t duck or dive. No point. He had as clear a chance as he could hope. He would make good with this pistol at long-gun range or die trying. Arms steady. Don’t overgrip. Let the weapon do the work. He moved the Glock a fraction of an inch to the right, fired. Didn’t wait to see whether the shot was true but fired again—
The fighter must have fired back just as he was hit. An AK round swept over Wells’s right shoulder close enough for him to feel the punctured air it left behind. Another tore through the mud brick beside the doorway. Across the field Wells saw the Somali stumble, hands fumbling over his belly like if he just pressed down hard enough he’d straighten himself out, put the skin and muscle back together—
But now the other shooter, the one Wilfred had hit in the shoulder, was running at Wells, legs pumping, AK on auto, locked and closing. Wells had no choice but to dive out of the doorway, hope the kid shot himself out of bullets before he got too close.
He rolled down onto the hard-packed dirt inside the hut and twisted himself against the wall as AK rounds gashed through the rough bricks. Then Wilfred’s Makarov popped three times and a body thumped down.
Wells stood, walked out. The fourth shooter was face-planted in the dirt, his AK sprawled over his head. Wells didn’t know where Wilfred’s shots had caught him, but they’d done the trick.
“Saved you,” Wilfred said, his voice fluttery. He lay on his back, unmoving. No wonder the fourth shooter had ignored Wilfred. From across the compound he probably looked dead. Wells ran for him. His jeans were two different shades now, light blue for his left leg, blue-black for the right. Wells knelt beside Wilfred’s right leg, found the denim soaked through with blood.
“I got you here and I’m getting you home.”
Wilfred cleared his throat.
“Yes.” Wells had a sat phone, but calling the agency wouldn’t do any good. Even if Shafer got through to Nairobi right away and convinced the station chief to spend thousands of dollars to medevac a Kenyan it didn’t know, the station wouldn’t have a chopper ready to go. It would have to find one willing to fly at night to the Somali border. Plus they were more than three hundred miles east of Nairobi, which meant the helicopter would have to refuel at least once on the way out, twice more on the return. It wouldn’t get Wilfred back to Nairobi for close to twelve hours, long past midnight.
Better to get to the Land Cruiser and then drive for the Saudi-financed infirmary in Bakafi, the village they had passed on the way down. With luck, the clinic would have a bush doctor who could stabilize Wilfred enough to keep him alive overnight. If not, they’d have to drive for the hospital that Medecins Sans Frontieres ran in Dadaab.
—
From behind the huts, the lion bellowed again. Wells scrambled for the shotgun. He didn’t think the lion would attack, not until it scattered the hyenas, but the thing sounded like it was six feet tall. Wells had been on bloodier battlefields, but nowhere closer to a true state of nature. No reinforcements were coming for either side, no medevacs, no police, not even any curious locals. Only the lion and the hyenas, pacing and watching and waiting for darkness.
“He wants fresh meat,” Wilfred said. “That’s me.”
“With a side of fries.” Wells laid down the shotgun and ran for the third hut, where he had stowed his pack before the shooting started. On his way back, he detoured for four bottles of water from the first hut. He handed one to Wilfred.
“Drink.” Wilfred dropped the bottle, trying to unscrew the cap. Wells picked it up, opened it, shoved it back
