Driving across the open terrain would have been difficult enough in the daytime, since it was pockmarked with boulders and sandpits, but at night without headlamps it was treacherous, which only made it more interesting. Ferguson had Thera pull the satellite photos from his pack as he drove, trying to dodge the worst of the obstructions. They had more than two miles of hardscrabble to get through before reaching a road to the northwest.
“Let me see that sat photo with this grid in it.”
“It’s two satellite photos,” Thera told him, reaching down to get them from the pack on the Land Rover’s floor.
“Point to where we are and where that other road is,” said Ferguson.
“Here and here,” said Thera.
He took the photos and held them on the wheel for a second, then tossed them back.
“All right. Let’s try this,” he said, pulling sharply off the road.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
“Friend of mine says that,” Ferg told her. “You Catholic?”
“What are you doing?”
“Shortcut. You Catholic?”
“Greek Orthodox, but I went to parochial school.”
“Good thing that didn’t come up in the job interview,” said Ferguson. “Would’ve disqualified you as a fanatic.”
“I heard you went to Catholic school yourself.”
“That’s what I mean.”
When he finally spotted the highway, Ferguson misjudged the depth of the ditch along the side of the road and nearly rolled the Land Rover trying to veer onto the pavement. Thera flew forward, barely keeping herself from slamming into the dashboard. Belatedly, she began fishing for the seat belts.
The Ford was behind them now, but with the road and terrain fairly open, Ferguson needed a strategic place to lay a trap. He’d spotted an intersection about three miles ahead on the map. He told Thera they would put the truck in the middle of it as if it had broken down, then shoot out the Ford’s tires when it stopped to see what was going on. After that they’d use the crossbow and tear gas routine again.
They were still about two miles from the intersection when a shadow loomed over the empty field to his right. Ferguson jammed on the brakes.
An airplane flying at very low altitude, no more than a few feet off the ground, passed over the roadway ahead.
Ferguson jumped out of the car. “Son of a bitch.”
“What?”
“Look.” He pointed in the distance.
“What?”
“You see that?”
“The airplane? Is it ours?”
“Nah. It’s a little Cessna thing. Or some Russian plane like a Cessna.” The plane continued on a straight line to the west, twelve or so feet above the ground.
“Back in the car,” said Ferguson, deciding they’d take the Ford anyway.
“You really think that was Khazaal?” asked Thera.
“Who else would be flying a plane at low altitude across the Syrian frontier?”
“Dozens of people,” she told him. “Smugglers, drug dealers, some other terrorist scumbags we don’t know about.”
“Nice try, but you’re not going to cheer me up,” said Ferguson. He stepped on the gas, going up over a hill and then down so fast that they went airborne for a moment. That gave him an idea. He hit the brakes and backed up, putting the car off one side of the road.
“All right. Out,” he told her. “Take off your shirt.”
“What?”
“Just to rip the sleeve,” he said, pulling open his pocketknife. “The left sleeve. Driver’s side. You can leave it on if you trust me.”
“I’ll do it myself, thanks,” said Thera, holding out her hand for the knife.
“Come on. We probably have less than two minutes,” Ferguson told her. “Open the door and lean out. When they stop and come over, drop the tear gas canister. I’ll be over there with the shotgun.”
“What if they don’t stop?”
“I’ll take out a tire with your crossbow. If they don’t hear a gun they’ll stop,” he told her. “And if they don’t we can always catch up to them in the Land Rover. But if you rip enough of that shirt off, they’ll stop.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Who’s joking?”
Ferguson trotted down the road. He had one shell with netting and flash-bangs, a large projectile with a very short range. It was tempting, very tempting, to load the grenade launcher with a high-explosive grenade and use it on the car; the Ford wouldn’t be armored. If anyone asked any questions, it would be easy to claim that the vehicle tried to run him down. No one would know any different. But
Ferguson barely had time to get his weapons laid out and set himself before the Ford came over the hill. It moved much slower than the Land Rover had. Ferguson steadied the crossbow then put it down as the vehicle skidded to a stop. Four men, all with small weapons, got out of the car.
Ferguson aimed the grenade launcher point-blank at the tallest of the men and fired. The launcher kicked up as the grenade shot off. He missed the man and hit the side of the truck, igniting the stun grenade and the micromesh net. Ferguson dropped the launcher and thumped two slugs from his shotgun into the men who were still standing, the thick plastic bullets pounding the back of their heads. He had to hit one of the lugs a second time before he fell. By then, tear gas had begun curling out of the Land Rover.
Thera scrambled back through the front of the truck, kicking out of the open passenger-side door. As she reached the ground, one of the men began firing an AK-47 in her direction. She huddled low, grabbing for her own gun. Whirling around, she saw one of the men crawling through the truck. He had a pistol; she fired her own gun point-blank into his forehead.
Ferguson ran to the far side of the Land Rover, grabbing Thera as she staggered backward, coughing from the gas. He pulled her away and gave her a water bottle to irrigate her eyes, then trotted back to the truck. Two of the men were writhing on the ground, one still holding his gun. Ferguson blasted each one in the skull and got the other man for good measure. Then he hit them with the syringes.
“You weren’t kidding about the gas,” said Thera when he got back to her. Tears were streaming from her beet-red face.
“I meant for you to put the mask on before you pulled the grenade,” said Ferguson.
“How?”
He pulled his off, then held it to his face. “You could have run back to the side. It’s all right. Men find it hard to resist a woman’s tears.”
“You’re on a roll tonight,” she told him sarcastically.
“Tell me about it.” Ferguson walked over to the car. Besides a half-dozen guns on the floor of the rear seat, he found a duffle bag filled with hundred-dollar bills.
None of the men were Khazaal. The night had been a total wipeout.
ACT III
They have shed the blood of saints and prophets, and thou hast given them
