The Night Ranger

Wells had seen that combination of panic and hopelessness before. Not in the jihadis. They seemed as willing to die as to kill. Some truly couldn’t wait to ascend to the heaven they were sure awaited them. Others viewed death almost dispassionately. Any man who’d fought in close combat knew that death came sooner or later. Kill or die was a myth. The truth was kill and die. And, whatever waited on the other side, death came with one unquenchable blessing. It ended the fear of death. Wells hoped he’d remember that truth when his moment came.

But civilians rarely viewed the void so calmly. Mark might be venal and corrupt, but he wasn’t a killer. His panic proved it. A killer wouldn’t panic this way. Wells found he couldn’t lacerate the cop’s body and soul further this night. He dropped the tire iron, grabbed his backpack. He fished in it until he found the hood that he’d carried from New Hampshire. “I’m not going to kill you. But I have to put this on you. Now.”

—

Mark sputtered beneath the hood as Wells turned the Cruiser around and drove east. He glimpsed the headlights of his pursuers to the north. Much closer now. His attack of conscience had cost him half his lead. Or maybe it had saved him. Maybe the Cruiser would have run into a ditch right away and the Kenyans would have caught him before he got to the dirt bike. At least this way he knew he’d reach it, if the wheel didn’t give out first. He had time for one last call. He found his phone, punched in a Montana number.

“Hello.” His son’s cool, assured voice. In the background: basketballs bouncing, sneakers squeaking on hardwood, a coach yelling, “Hands up! Up!”

“Evan. It’s John.”

“Let me get outside—” The noise faded. “We got these emails, pictures of Gwen.”

“I’m close, Evan.”

“You are?”

“You can’t tell the Murphys.”

“Why?”

“Promise you won’t. Not yet.”

“Okay. I promise. Is it the Shabaab who have them?”

“No. Which is good. I can’t tell you much, but I’m hopeful. It’s nighttime here, past midnight, and I’m hoping to get a look at them tonight. They’re in Somalia.”

“Like a raid?”

“Not exactly. I’m going in light—” An epic understatement. “Light and fast.”

“But you have backup—”

Wells smiled. Backup wasn’t exactly top-secret jargon, but he still enjoyed hearing the word from his peacenik son. “All the backup I need. Langley knows what I’m doing. They’re good with having me here. If I can’t get them out tonight, the agency and the FBI will probably reach out to the kidnappers to make a deal. Or they may bring the big guns for a rescue. Either way, at that point the Murphys and the other families will be told.” Wells was keeping Scott Thompson’s death to himself. Evan didn’t need to know about it yet.

“But right now, tonight, you’re going in alone? I mean, no other Americans with you? Not even the Kenyans?”

That’s my boy. Evan had focused on the very fact that Wells was trying to obscure. Wells wished he could explain that he had a member of the Kenyan constabulary with him, hooded and handcuffed and ready to broil.

“I’ll have eyes on me.” Or, technically speaking, optics. “It’ll be fine.”

“But it might not be, right? That’s why you called? In case it’s not. To say good-bye. Tell me again you’re sorry you were gone all those years. Give me a chance to say I’m sorry, too, for frosting you how I did. Oh Dad, I’m so glad we got to talk. Me too, son. Don’t get killed, Dad. I won’t, son. But if I do, I promise you’ll be the last thing I think of. A single tear rolls down both our cheeks. Cut.”

Wells didn’t know whether the irony was real or faux, a cover for deeper feelings that Evan couldn’t talk about yet. He did know that his son had just guaranteed that the word love would be found nowhere in the rest of this conversation. Yet Wells couldn’t blame him. They were strangers to each other. Wells couldn’t make them father and son in a few days, no matter what he did.

“I called to give you a heads-up. Good news coming. And work on that jumper. Your release has a hitch. You can get away with that in high school, not college.” In truth, the kid’s shot had looked smooth as silk the one and only time Wells had seen it.

“Thought you didn’t know anything about basketball.”

“As much as you know about special ops. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“A conquering hero.”

“I see a beautiful friendship coming. I’ll give the Langley tour. Nonclassified areas only, of course.”

“I get it, okay. That you’re only over there because I asked.”

“Wrong again, Evan. I’m not here for you. Or even the volunteers.”

“Why, then?”

“What Hilary said about Everest. Because it’s there.” Because this is all I do. Or ever will. Because if you take more than a few steps, you can never turn back. That’s what they don’t tell you at the Farm. Maybe they know it wouldn’t matter, that anyone ready to walk this path wouldn’t listen. Or maybe they don’t want you to know.

He’d have that conversation with Evan another day. Or never.

“And I’m not saying that so you won’t blame yourself if something happens to me. I’m saying it because it’s the truth. All right?”

“All right.”

Wells saw the dirt bike ahead. “Gotta go, Evan.”

“One last thing. Serious now.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t understand you. Don’t understand the Muslim thing. Or a lot of what you’ve done. But it’s time for me to stop pretending that I don’t want to hear about it.”

“When I get home. We’ll have time.”

“I’d like that. Don’t get killed, John.”

—

A gift Wells hadn’t expected.

He pulled up beside the bike. He closed his eyes and let himself feel nothing but the clean happiness in his heart. It might not sound like much, this irony-laden call. But after what had happened the year before in Missoula, it was a Hallmark card. He had a chance for a relationship with his son.

First he had to stay alive. And bring home the hostages. Evan’s goodwill would be fleeting if he survived and they didn’t. He imagined that conversation: Trust me, son, it happens. Best intentions and all that. Ever heard of the Bay of Pigs? Anyway, still hoping for a chat . . .

—

No. He could die tonight if he got them out safely, but never the reverse. He strapped the shotgun to his chest, his pack to his back. He grabbed a jerrican and slopped gas into the bike’s tank. These dirt bikes held four gallons at most. Even on pavement their full-tank range was under two hundred miles. In this trackless wild, Wells would be lucky to get one-fifty. Which would have to be enough.

With the tank full, Wells heaved the jerrican into the scrub. He grabbed the second can and circled the Cruiser at a radius of about eight feet, pouring out gasoline. When the can grew light in his hand, he poured the last of the gas into a puddle, stepped back, and flicked his lighter to the rainbow pool. A lustrous circle of flames swept into the night as Wells ran for the bike.

The blaze was a diversion, a gaudy trick. It would stop his pursuers temporarily as they focused on the Cruiser and the man inside. Under his hood Mark was shouting now, no doubt panicked by the heat. Wells heard him even through the Toyota’s closed windows. The worst night of the cop’s life. But he’d live.

Wells heard an engine rumbling behind the hill to the west. At least one vehicle had passed the T junction. Fortunately, the hill kept Wells hidden for now. He mounted the bike, started up. The engine rumbled to life. Wells turned away from the road and double-toed the bike into third gear to keep the noise down. He bumped along the faint track that followed a dry streambed south to the camp.

He planned to ride to the camp and steal an AK and all the magazines he could carry. Then he’d hole up. If he