The Night Ranger

Mog. Trust me, trust him.”

Exactly the problem. But Wells feared that if he insisted on sticking with the hostages, Wizard might call the deal off. Anyway, if he had to, he should be able to handle Waaberi.

“He knows I’ll be using my phone.”

“Yah.”

“And you know that drone will be watching us the whole way.”

“Counting on it. That magic mzungu bird. It gon’ be fine, John Wells.” Wizard spoke the name like it was one word, Johnwells.

“Drive carefully.” Wells closed the armored door with a heavy thock. Waaberi waved him into the front passenger seat of the second Rover. Behind them sat a tall man, heavily muscled, with a scar that girdled his neck. Wells wished for his Makarov or Glock or even the AK he’d taken from the other camp, though rifles were tough to maneuver inside a vehicle. At least he had his knife, strapped to his leg. Wizard had taken his guns but never properly searched him. Sloppy.

—

The Rovers rolled out, mustered up with the five pickups and lone technical that had survived the Reaper’s bomb. Wizard had left only a couple stragglers as camp guards. The other sixty or so men sat or stood in the pickup beds, AKs slung across their chests. They wore pristine white T-shirts and white bandannas across their faces. They poked and yammered at one another, as high-spirited as seniors tailgating on a sunny fall Saturday.

Rangers or Talibs or Somalis, men readied themselves for battle the same way. They pushed fear from their minds until the fight was so close that the frank risk of death could be ignored no longer. Then they grew grim and settled. Until the shooting started. At that moment adrenaline and fear brought them to a place that no drug could, an extraordinary 360-degree awareness that only extreme athletes like free climbers glimpsed in civilian life. They went from high to low to the ultimate high. Then crashed as the battle ended and they were left to tally wounds and deaths. No wonder some soldiers turned into junkies, for war itself and afterward for cheap chemical highs.

Wizard ordered the technical to lead the convoy, then three pickups and the two Rovers. Two more pickups brought up the rear. They rolled out slow and steady. Waaberi drove with two fingers on the wheel. The Rover was in showroom condition inside, too, its leather polished, its air-conditioning strong. It made Wells want a bath.

The sun breached the horizon, its equatorial rays turning night into day with all the subtlety of a nickel slot that had just hit triple sevens. In the light the land was flat and empty, aside from the low hills where Wizard had set his camp. The rain had left pools of muddy water that were already disappearing, shrinking into the dirt.

The convoy moved east-northeast, almost straight into the sun. Wells raised a hand to shield his eyes, wishing for his Ray-Bans. But they were in his backpack, which he’d foolishly left in Wizard’s hut. He wondered if he’d ever see those glasses again. He missed them, and the woman who’d given them to him.

He reached for his sat phone, dialed Shafer. The call went to voice mail. Wells counted to ten, redialed. One ring . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . Finally, Shafer picked up. “Sorry. My internist says I have a generous prostate.”

“Tell me you’re joking, you left the room to hide from Duto or whatever—”

“Get to my age, you’ll see. I would literally have pissed myself—”

“Enough. Are you back?”

“I’m running back now. Just a sec.” Shafer sounded winded. He was old, Wells realized. Somehow in the last year Shafer had gone from late middle-aged to flat-out old. “I’m back.”

“You see us.”

“Yes. Count eight vehicles in your convoy.”

“I’m in the second Range Rover, sixth overall. Front passenger seat.” Wells leaned forward, waved.

“You’re waving. It’s a little lame, but yes. Hi, John!” This last in a mock-girlish tone.

“I guess the optics are as good as advertised.”

“Better. I can pick out every finger. The volunteers are in the other Rover?”

“Correct. Wizard’s driving that one.”

“You’re separated.”

“We’ll see if it’s a problem. But he knows he needs the Reaper to have a chance. Speaking of, how big’s the welcoming committee?”

“Last pass was ten minutes ago. We counted two hundred–plus armed men. AKs mainly, some RPGs. Twelve technicals.”

“Twelve technicals.”

“Correct.”

Too many. The heavy machine guns the technicals carried could tear up Wizard’s men in one burst. Even the armor on the Rovers could stop those rounds for only a few seconds.

“Give me the setup.”

“Main element has four techs side by side. At least one hundred men in that area. Two more techs spread wide to left and right. Four behind, a reserve element and also guarding against any flanking move by your side. Those four will need to be moved up to have an open field of fire. Pilot thinks he can disable the main element with the GBU, take out all four techs and maybe fifty percent of the men. More or less simultaneously he can fire Hellfires at two of the spread technicals, but then he’ll have to circle around to hit the other two.”

“So absolute best case, he takes six techs out right away, but at least two will survive that first round of fire.”

“Yes.”

“Then he’ll come around, take out the other two technicals that have an open field of fire. But after that he’s got no Hellfires left. So those last four technicals, the ones in reserve, Wizard’s going to have to deal with those on his own.”

“Any chance you can bring in additional Reapers? Or even the Pentagon?” Wells knew that asking for help ran contrary to everything he’d done in the previous twenty-four hours.

A profound silence followed. Wells wondered if Shafer had hung up. “Is that what you want now, John? Because that’s a little different strategy than we’ve been discussing.”

Now a new voice spoke. “We’ve informed the White House that you’ve found the hostages.” Duto. “They’re looking at putting a SEAL team in the air. And the Air Force is launching at least four MQ-9s”—Reapers. “But the minimum ETA is five hours.”

Too late, as they all knew.

“If we’d had a little more time. If you’d given us a little more time.”

“Miss you too, Vinny,” Wells said.

“Last thing,” Shafer said. “We’re considering ourselves cleared to drop soon as Wizard gives us a PID”— positive identification—“on Awaale. He knows what to do, right?”

“Yes. He asked you to give him at least one minute. He said he’s going to move a bunch of guys up after he meets with Awaale.”

“He say how? Because I can’t believe Red Team would allow that.”

“I didn’t ask.” But Wells realized that Shafer was right. He didn’t know how Wizard would get armed men forward when he was more or less surrendering to Awaale.

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll see it if it happens. So we’ll give him that minute, but he’s got to know that the bomb will be most effective when the other side’s all clustered up.”

“He knows.”

“And you know if things set up good, we’re not going to give you a heads-up. Be ready.”

“Fantastic tip. Where would I be without you?”

“I know why you’ve made it this long, John. You’re too big a prick to die.”

“Roger that. Over and out.”

Wells wondered if he ought to tell Wizard that they were headed for twelve technicals. But the Somali would go ahead even if Wells told him they were facing an entire mechanized brigade. He’d roused his men and he couldn’t back down.

Wells would just have to seize his chance when it came. And remember that his responsibility was to the hostages, not the White Men.