them back for much longer.
Why the hell aren’t they using the tear gas? What the hell are they waiting for? The restraint being used by the South African Police Service and Johannesburg Metro PD didn’t make sense to the former marine, especially after what had just transpired. The police officers knew exactly whose motorcade had just been attacked; that was the whole reason they were conducting crowd control to begin with. Looking over, he could see that the majority of the officers forming the wall were dressed in full riot gear: composite helmets, chest protectors, black rubber batons, and clear convex shields. They knew what they were up against, so why hadn’t the captain authorized the use of nonlethal deterrents?
Whysall remembered his earlier concerns, thinking it appeared he’d been right all along. The police captain’s loyalties seemed not to lie with the president, but with the official who had just been convicted. It would explain why the attack had been allowed to take place. Whysall wondered if someone had been given the wrong information-if they had been told that Zuma would be in the last vehicle-or if the man who had thrown the bomb had just made an error in timing.
Somehow, he doubted that it had been a real attempt on the president’s life, as it was all but guaranteed to fail. But that didn’t change the fact that he and Stiles were now dead in the water-stuck with a disabled vehicle, no clear route of escape, and a hostile crowd numbering in the thousands.
Reaching forward, Whysall grabbed the handset and pushed the transmit button, hoping that the radio still worked, praying the police could somehow restrain the mob, and silently doubting that they had even the slightest chance of surviving the next few minutes.
At that precise moment the four remaining vehicles in the president’s convoy were racing east on Pritchard, approximately one kilometer east of the courthouse. Kealey had seen the explosion in the rearview mirror, but he’d ordered Flores to keep going. While he’d wanted nothing more than to stop and assist the men in the last vehicle, he had not been willing to risk so many lives-his principal’s above all-without knowing the specific nature of the threat. He’d seen only a bright flash behind him, and it could have been anything, though the resulting shock wave had been severe enough to convince him that the vehicle carrying Whysall and Stiles had probably suffered a crippling blow.
He had been trying to raise the two men without success, which could mean only one of two things: either the radio had been knocked out during the attack, or the men in the last vehicle were too badly injured to respond. Kealey could only hope it wasn’t the latter. Doing his best to ignore the commotion in the backseat, he placed a second call to the pilot of the Bell helicopter buzzing 500 feet over the incapacitated SUV. He had already ordered the pilot to maintain his position above the parking garage, where he would be able to keep watch on the developing situation.
“Air One, what’s happening down there?”
“Copy, this is Air One… I can’t see any movement inside the vehicle, but it doesn’t look like the officers on the ground can hold these people back for much longer.” There was a brief crackle of static, followed by an unintelligible exchange. “Uh…Greenwald is asking for permission to engage, over.”
“Negative,” Kealey snapped. Bruce Greenwald was the shooter on board the helicopter, a graduate of the U.S. Army’s famed Sniper School and a former marksman with the Los Angeles Police Department. He’d retired from the LAPD two years earlier with the rank of sergeant. He was a good man and a true professional, but Kealey could easily see things getting out of hand if he gave the sniper a green light. Besides, shooting into the crowd would only work to further enrage the protesters, placing the stranded Blackwater men at greater risk. “There’s nothing to engage. Are those people even armed?”
A brief silence. Kealey could picture Greenwald scanning the crowd through his gun scope, searching for any sign of a lethal weapon and probably hoping to find one.
“Negative,” came the reluctant response.
“Okay, Air One, tell him to hold his fire. Let me know if the crowd gets to the truck, over.”
“Will do. Air One, out.”
Kealey immediately tried to raise the stranded vehicle again, but there was still no response. They were now moving south through the business district, towering skyscrapers on either side of the busy street. The congestion had forced them to slow down, but Flores was skilled at finding holes in the traffic, and they were rapidly approaching the M2. As a blue sign flashed by, Kealey caught sight of the white lettering, realized they had missed their turn, and instantly turned to face the driver.
“What are you doing?” he demanded. “I told you to head for Marshalltown. You’re going the wrong way.”
The Gauteng Provincial Government Building was on Simmonds Street in Marshalltown and located less than two kilometers west of the Johannesburg High Court. After a quick check of the map in the glove compartment, Kealey had decided it was the best place to get Zuma and his aide secured before going back for Stiles and Whysall. Normally, he would have dropped the South African leader at the nearest police station, but some inner instinct warned him against that idea. According to the pilot of Air One, the SAPS units in front of the courthouse had yet to use nonlethal deterrents on the rioting crowd, which gave Kealey reason to think that at least some of the officers- and possibly even the captain in charge-were loyal to the man Zuma’s testimony had essentially buried in the high court.
Flores was shaking his head. His mouth was set in a tight line, and beads of perspiration were running down his dark, weathered face as he skillfully navigated the busy midtown traffic. “We’re not going back there.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know the rules. If something goes down, we get the principal clear. That’s what we’re doing. Stiles and Whysall are on their own. There’s no sense in risking four to save two.”
“Fuck that,” Kealey snapped. He knew the Honduran was referring to what he had learned at the training facility in Moyock. Blackwater policy was “to get off the X,” or move out of the target area as fast as possible when a vehicle was hit in an ambush. In other words, it was every man for himself. But Kealey had no intention of adhering to that particular policy. “I don’t know or care how they ran things in your army, Flores. There is no way I’m leaving those guys behind. Turn this truck around right now.”
Flores swerved hard to avoid a red Opel that had braked to a sudden halt in front of them. He gunned the engine as they shot through an intersection, horns blaring behind them. The entrance ramp to the M2 was just a few hundred meters away, and from there, Kealey knew, it was a fast, straight run to Pretoria. There was just one more intersection between them and the highway, and once they hit the ramp, there was no turning back. The 2 men stranded outside the courthouse-the two men he was responsible for-would be as good as dead.
“No,” Flores repeated. His heavily accented voice was hard, and it seemed to leave no room for argument. “No way. We’re getting out of here, and that’s final. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? I don’t give a shit about the things you did with the CIA, Kealey. This isn’t the Agency, and you don’t have any real authority here. You can’t make me-”
The words died in his throat, and he reflexively took his foot off the gas. The three lead vehicles jumped ahead immediately, as though the invisible chain that linked them had suddenly been cut. Kealey had drawn his Beretta 92FS and was now holding the weapon to Flores’s left temple.
“Turn around,” he said evenly. He was oblivious to the stunned silence in the backseat; his steady, uncompromising gaze was fixed entirely on the man sitting next to him. “We’re going to Marshalltown, and then we’re going back for our guys. Turn around right now, or I’ll shoot you, kick you out of this fucking truck, and do it myself. Do you understand?”
Flores hesitated, his mouth working silently. His eyes were still fixed on the road ahead, but it was clear that he was thinking about just one thing: the gun currently pressed to his head. Both men were lost in their own private standoff, oblivious to the traffic around them, the delayed shouts of fear and confusion in the backseat, and the fact that the three lead vehicles had already hit the M2 and were essentially out of the picture.
Although Flores had taken his foot off the gas, they were still rolling forward. When they were halfway through the intersection, a blur to the left caused Flores to turn his head instinctively. Before Kealey could react, another vehicle plowed into theirs, crushing the truck’s left front fender and knocking them out of their lane. The armored Land Cruiser lurched to the right and traveled another 20 feet before slamming into the rear end of a minibus. Kealey snapped forward in his seat, the belt tightening over his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. His right hand banged against the dashboard, and the Beretta slipped out of his grasp. Everything seemed to go black for an instant, a strange silence settling in the aftermath of the accident.
