“What’s the target?” I bark.
He turns to me. Fleshy lips protruding from a dry beard. His mouth opens, as if to speak. I lean down close to hear him. But he only spits at me. Gross. I push the gun harder into his scalp.
“Incoming car carrying two guys, ETA three minutes,” says Caitlin, from the copter. “This is a mess, get over to me now. . . .”
“I’m bringing Imran with us,” I tell Caitlin.
“Li?” Caitlin asks.
There’s hesitation from London, which is all the permission I need. I yank Imran upright as the copter lowers down just outside the wall. Holding our captive between us, Hala and I hustle him outside and through the downwash from the helicopter blades, pushing us back like a small hurricane. But we get him to the door. With one arm useless, bleeding from his gunshot wound, Imran is not able to fight us off.
“Can you control him?” Li asks.
“Taking Jessie’s lead on this,” replies Caitlin.
Hala clambers into the chopper and hauls Imran up by the shoulders while I push him in from behind, with the gun thrust into his back. I follow him into the open door as the chopper starts to rise from the ground. Below us, a car screams to a stop outside the house, and two men jump out. They appear smaller and smaller to me as we take off and climb higher, but I get a glimpse of them opening up the trunk of the car and pulling out something large.
But I leave Caitlin to keep tabs on them—I have Imran to deal with. He watches us, focused, alert; not complaining at all about the injury to his arm. It’s bleeding everywhere and must be painful as anything.
“Put your good hand behind you,” Hala instructs.
Still facing my gun, Imran obeys. Hala pulls out plastic ties to attach Imran’s uninjured hand to the frame of the copter. But even as she tries to secure him, we both see something streak past the window and explode into the air just behind us.
“What was that?” I ask.
“They have a SAM,” Caitlin says grimly. A surface-to-air missile. I feel tension—even more tension—flood my veins.
“They’ll get a lock on us, those things are accurate . . . ,” I reply, stressed.
“I’m using ECMs,” she says. Electronic countermeasures can help confuse things, and there is another explosion, but also another miss. Hala glances at me in relief but now Caitlin makes a steep turn and banks upward—and in the back, we all tumble over each other. I’m on the floor of the helicopter, with Imran flung on top of me. Hala staggers up, looming above us, and grasps Imran by the collar to pull him off me.
“We’re out of missile range,” reports Caitlin from the pilot seat. “Okay back there?”
I don’t reply because even as Imran turns and gets up onto his knees, with Hala’s fingers grasping his tunic, I realize he’s pulled the dart gun out of my body holster. I kick my leg up at his hand, at the gun, but he turns and shoots it at Hala. Her eyes widen in shock before she collapses onto the floor, drugged.
Caitlin glances back at us, cursing under her breath. As Imran tries to turn the dart gun on me, she twists the chopper from side to side, throwing him off his feet. I’m tossed around too, but at least he can’t hit me with a dart. On the floor, Hala rolls around with the movement, out cold. I’m dizzy, but I aim a kick at Imran’s wounded elbow. That puts him in enough agony for me to find my footing, struggle upright, and hit him again, in the face. The dart gun drops, and Imran is on the floor between the tiny bucket seats. I’m on top of him in a flash, my knee on his chest, my hand squeezing his windpipe.
“What’s the target?” My face is right up against his. We’re both sweating, stressed. His blood is everywhere, making it tough to keep my grip on his throat. Time is passing, every second dragging us closer to some unknown attack, unknown lives ruined, untold fear spread. All of it is pain that I have to believe we could still avoid.
“You CIA pigs,” he hisses. “You think you will stop me?”
So, he’s assumed that we’re black-ops Americans. He literally snarls and then bites at my fingers, so I snatch my hand away from his bared teeth and use it to punch his eye. I cast a look toward the front of the chopper, checking on Hala. She’s still lying there, drugged.
“Torture is what you know,” he says, accusingly. “Nobody will torture me.”
“What do you want?” I ask, desperate to make him talk. “Freedom? Citizenship somewhere? I can arrange it.” Maybe he’ll believe me if he thinks I’m CIA. “But you have to tell me what Family First is targeting.”
Frustrated, I yank at his collar. I don’t want to hit him again. He’s already lost blood from the gunshot wound; I don’t need him passing out on me.
Imran stares at me for a long moment, then he breaks into a smile.
“I will tell you,” he says.
I wait, getting my breathing under control. Caitlin flies smoothly now, and my earpiece is silent as everyone in London waits. Only the soft chop-chop-chop of the blades of the helicopter and the dull throb of white noise in the cabin fill the space. Grasping Imran’s neck, I glance at the watch on my wrist. Twelve minutes to go.
“Two years ago, imperialists—women imperialists—came here to my village, to interfere in my culture. Sending girls to a school. Girls who should marry, look after families. Women have a sacred place in the family. . . .”
For crying out loud, will this guy just get to the point, already?
“That’s a great story,” I interrupt through gritted teeth. “Now, what’s the target?”
“Those imperialist women still educate girls,” he says, managing to smirk through the pain of his arm.
I hesitate. I’m assuming the
