“You’ve been harder to get ahold of than usual, Mario. Everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine. We have a job?” Gomez sounded as calm and deadpan as ever.
“We have a job. Can you get up here in three days?” Brannigan was staring at the wall, his eyes slightly narrowed.
“Easy. We had some issues down here, but everything’s under control now.”
Brannigan’s frown deepened. “Anything you need help with? I can get in touch with Drake.”
“No. Like I said, it’s all under control.” He might have heard an echo of Gomez’s faint, wolfish smile, about the most expression he’d ever seen on the man’s face. “I’ll be there.”
Brannigan hung up, his eyes still narrowed. I wonder just how many bodies are currently attracting the buzzards down there in New Mexico?
***
Erekle “Herc” Javakhishvili scanned the scrub-covered flats around Kitengela as the eastern horizon began to lighten. He wasn’t visibly armed, but the AKS-74 in his pack was still within easy reach.
Tom Burgess, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail, his salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, joined him, opening the driver’s side door of the ancient Land Rover. “Any sign of them yet?”
“Not yet.” Javakhishvili kept his eyes out as he climbed in and Burgess started the truck.
At first glance, especially here in Kenya, the two men might have been mistaken for brothers. Both lean and rangy, both with long hair, and both white men in a decidedly black part of Africa. “Is David coming?”
“He should be along in a couple minutes.” Burgess kept the engine running, though he kept the gears in neutral. “Father Metaxas wasn’t all that happy about this little expedition.”
“Because we’re doing it, or because we’re bringing David?” With the door shut, Javakhishvili pulled the Kalashnikov out, flipped the stock open, and set it on the floor under his feet. He wanted to have it handy if this went badly.
“Because of David. You know Father Metaxas.” The priest in charge of the St Anastasius of Sinai Mission had no particular objection to the two trained soldiers of fortune stepping in to protect his flock. But he was fiercely protective of that same flock, and David Kinyanjui was barely into his teens.
Kenya wasn’t the safest place to grow up, though, especially a mere two hundred miles from the Somali border. Al Shabaab and other jihadi groups had made far too many inroads, despite the Kenyans’ efforts to curtail them.
And it had been David who’d learned about the impending attack on the mission in the first place.
Running footsteps came up from behind the vehicle, and Javakhishvili glanced in the rear-view mirror. David skidded to a halt next to the rear door, pulled it open, and jumped in.
“Grab that bag in the back seat.” Burgess jerked a thumb toward the duffel he’d shoved in there earlier as he put the Land Rover in gear. “But it’s only for a last resort situation, you understand? You’re still staying with the vehicle.”
David reached into the duffel and pulled out the old AKMS. It had clearly seen better days, but while Javakhishvili often called himself the “Shady Slav”—in fact, that was his callsign among the mercenaries who called themselves Brannigan’s Blackhearts—there were limits as to just what he could find.
The boy might only be thirteen, but both Javakhishvili and Burgess had taught him well. They’d taught as many of the men and boys of the small Eastern Orthodox parish as had been willing to learn. He checked the chamber, keeping the muzzle pointed down at the floorboards, then rocked in one of the two magazines, racked the bolt, checked the chamber again, and then flipped the selector lever up to “safe.”
Burgess had already started them moving. If what David had overheard was true, they didn’t have much time.
It was a short drive. David had known one of the young men who were their targets. And he knew where the young man lived.
The farm lay about five miles southwest of Kyumvi. Burgess parked the Land Rover in the shade of an acacia tree about half a mile away. They’d gone without headlights for the last couple of miles—there was no cover and no place to hide for miles out there. Leaving David with the vehicle, the two men pulled out their rifles and started across the plain.
They covered the distance relatively quickly. The sun was almost up, and they turned south first, so that they could approach the farm with the sun at their backs. Javakhishvili wondered briefly if they had enough time, but he’d had enough experience with these kinds of jihadis that he doubted that they’d get up early just to go slaughter some Christians nearby.
Apparently, a visiting imam had condemned the presence of the Eastern Orthodox mission, and David had overheard one of the boys at a nearby soccer field bragging about what he and several of his friends were going to do to the “cross worshipers.” And that they had powerful friends bringing them the weapons to do it with.
Now, Burgess and Javakhishvili crept up on the low wall around the farm, weapons at the ready. So far, they’d heard and seen nothing to suggest that they’d been detected.
Reaching the wall, Javakhishvili crouched beneath it, rising just high enough that he could peer over the top.
Two Toyota Hiluxes sat in the yard, facing the gate on the other side. Figures were beginning to move around, several of them converging on the trucks. And they were all armed. He counted three AKs, two G3s, four M16s, and a Sterling submachinegun. No RPGs or PKMs, at least not in the open.
He crouched back down, thinking hard. They couldn’t just let the attack happen. Even if they were dug in at the church, innocent people were going to get hurt. But two men against ten didn’t make for good odds, even with the element of surprise
