Wizard felt his lips spread into a smile. “Gon’ have to take that chance, mzungu.”
24
Wells lay prone eighty meters from the sentry post, covered in dirt soft and sticky as toffee. Through his night-vision monocle, he saw Wizard peering down the hill. Wells wasn’t worried. Even with a scope, seeing him through the rain and the scrub would be tough. Without it, Wizard had no chance, not as long as Wells stayed still.
His plan had worked. He had judged Wizard as a young, reckless commander who would want to see what had happened to his sentry firsthand instead of staying in camp. Wizard had obliged. And for whatever reason, he’d brought only two men with him. Now, even downslope, Wells had a huge tactical edge. Thanks to the scope, he could take out the three Somalis while they shot blindly into the dark. The men in camp would hear the firefight. But before they could respond, Wells would retrace his steps to the dirt bike a few hundred meters south. In the darkness and confusion, he could easily outflank his pursuers, enter the camp from the northwest.
A perfect plan. Just one problem with it. By the time Wells reached the camp, Gwen and Hailey and Owen would be dead. A few minutes before, after the Reaper dropped its bomb and Wells choked out the sentry, Wells called Shafer for an update. Neither man needed to comment on the irony of the fact that Shafer, halfway across the world, had the better view of the camp and the technicals.
“At first it looked like panic, guys running everywhere. Then they clustered up. I’m guessing your man gave a pep talk. A bomb would have taken most of them out. My pilot figured three-quarters KIA or seriously wounded.”
“Leaving the other quarter to skin Gwen alive.”
“Why we gave peace a chance. What’s your next move?”
“Hunker down, get him to come to me. He’ll see that I’m here, what the Reaper’s done. Now that he knows what he’s up against, he should want a deal.”
“And if not?”
“And if not, I’ll take him out.”
—
Wells had been half right. Wizard found the sentry right on schedule. But he wasn’t ready to bargain. Not at all. And Wells feared that the camp was close to anarchy. The attempted escape had changed the mood of Wizard’s men. They were furious that these wazungu had killed one of their own. If Wells killed Wizard, they might tear the hostages apart.
Wells saw only one option. To give up his ideal tactical position. To come to his feet, throw down his weapon, and put himself in the tender hands of a Somali warlord whom he’d been taunting most of the night. Shafer and Anne would tell him he was mad to surrender voluntarily. They’d tell him to back off, wait for the Deltas or Duto’s team to show.
But Wells didn’t think he could afford to wait. The situation was too unstable. Plus Wizard had already demonstrated a kind of good faith. He’d refused to sell the hostages to the Arab, made sure his men didn’t punish them for killing their guard. Now he sounded under his bluster like a man looking for a way out. A face-to-face meeting might convince him. Wells hit redial on his phone. Through the scope he saw Wizard shake his head, a
“I’m downhill from you. Almost straight south. Less than a hundred meters.”
Wells saw Wizard’s head tilt as he tried to see in the dark.
“I’m going to stand and put my hands in the air. Do me a favor, don’t shoot me.”
Wells clicked off, reached out to push himself up. Then stopped.
In his night-vision viewfinder, a stick was twisting across the hill above him, maybe seventy feet up. It hadn’t been there a few seconds before. It pulled itself into an S-curved shape, turned toward Wells.
Not a stick. A snake.
Wells kept still as it slithered his way, expecting that it would turn, change course. He couldn’t tell if it had any idea he was there, if it smelled him or sensed the heat of his body or saw him with its beady little eyes, but it headed directly for him, sliding under the bushes and along the muddy earth, long and sinuous and moving faster than he expected. When it was about twenty feet away, Wells saw it with his uncovered eye. Six feet long, not much thicker than a rope, with a narrow head and brilliant bright green scales, nearly neon in their intensity. Wells didn’t understand the coloring, it seemed impractical, but he had bigger problems at the moment. He knew nothing about African snakes, had no idea whether this one was poisonous. Best to assume it was.
His phone buzzed. Wizard. No doubt wondering why Wells hadn’t stood. Wells didn’t want to answer, but he feared if he didn’t, Wizard would shoot blindly down the hill and upset the snake. Wells brought the phone to his ear an inch at a time. The snake seemed to sense the motion. It stopped, shifted its green head side to side. It was no more than ten feet from Wells now, close enough for him to see that scales on its belly were lighter, a washed-out greenish white.
“No more tricks, mzungu. Get up.”
“There’s a snake.” Wells barely breathing the words. Before him, the snake spread its jaws, displaying two stubby fangs.
“Snake?”
“Bright green.”
Wizard said something in Swahili. Then, in English: “That a mamba. Bad poison. Don’ move, man.” He hung up.
Wells held himself just so, willing his breath to slow. The mamba lowered its head and slithered toward Wells, so close now that he could hear it rustling over the mud. It moved with a surprising elegance, a single sleek motion, no wasted energy from arms and legs. Wells seemed to remember that snakes were naturally frightened of humans and preferred smaller prey. But what if it saw him too late, or rubbed against him, and felt threatened?
He closed his eyes, hoping the darkness might relax him, quiet his breathing. It didn’t. He needed to see where the mamba was going, what it was doing. When he opened his eyes, it was hardly a foot from him, a green jewel in the night, so close he could make out each scale on its head. Its forked black tongue slid from the tight slit of its mouth and flicked up and down, like a judge about to pronounce a guilty verdict.
Wells’s pulse thudded through his neck. Yet some part of him couldn’t help but be impressed with this unfathomable, beautiful creature. Such a tiny brain, and yet it survived. A purely instinctual beast. It felt hunger, thirst, pain. Possibly fear. But no pity or anger, no joy or love. What could it make of him? It had to know he was here. This close it would sense the warmth of his body.
The mamba flicked its tongue one last time and zipped to his left, under his arm. Wells thought it might touch him, brush his cheek. He feared his control would break if it rubbed his face. But it slithered by—
Then turned and slid across his back, over his shirt, a living rope pulsing over him, only his thin wet cotton shirt between its scales and his skin. He imagined a bad gangster movie:
Wells waited a few seconds and then turned himself carefully onto his left side and watched the mamba slither away through the viewfinder. When it disappeared, he pushed himself up, pulled on his pack. He unstrapped his AK and held it over his head as he walked up the hill. He tried not to wonder whether the mamba had friends in the vicinity.
Above him, Wizard yelled in Somali. The other two men stood and put their rifles on him as Wizard walked to meet him. “Put the AK down in the mud, we got plenty more.”
Wells did. Wizard stopped a few steps away. He was short, with wary eyes and the lithe muscles of a gymnast. He had a pistol strapped to his hip, a knife sheathed to his calf.
“The pack, too. Take it off, I carry it.” Again Wells complied. “You the American.”
“Name’s John. You’re Wizard.”
“That is so. Little Wizard.”
“Came a long way to see you, Little Wizard.”
