the front seats. Waaberi’s body shielded Wells from the pistol and blocked the guard from moving his arm any further—
“Stop—” Wells yelled in English, the word simply a diversion. Before the guard or Waaberi could wriggle away, Wells reached down with his left hand, pulled the knife on his right ankle. Waaberi tried to push back, but Wells was braced against the dash and pinned Waaberi against the guard. Then with his left hand he lifted the knife over Waaberi and down onto the guard’s right shoulder. His left hand was his weak hand, but Wells kept stabbing, deepening the wound with each cut. He twisted the knife and the guard screamed and blood spurted onto the Rover’s pristine cream-colored leather seats. Now the guard’s right hand was useless and the pistol wasn’t a threat.
Wells didn’t want to kill these men, they weren’t his enemies, but he didn’t see any other option. He shoved Waaberi aside and raised the knife again and slashed crossways across the guard’s neck. The bright red arterial blood pumped out, and Wells suddenly found himself back on that mountain in Chechnya. The guard shrieked and tried to squirm away and raised a hand to his neck, but the blood kept coming through his fingers, too much blood, fountains of it.
Now Waaberi reached down into the well of the backseat, scrambling for the pistol the guard had dropped on the passenger-side floor. Wells followed him into the second row and switched the knife into his right hand and pushed Waaberi down against the blood-slicked leather with his left. Waaberi lifted the pistol—
And Wells raised the knife and buried the blade in Waaberi’s back, nearly between the shoulder blades, cutting his spinal cord in one vicious stroke. Waaberi didn’t scream. His body twitched and went soft and his bowels and bladder loosened and death filled the car. Wells pushed off him and twisted back to the driver’s seat, and as he did, he heard someone yelling. The guard who’d been outside the other Rover was just a few meters from the passenger-side front door. He lowered his AK—
Wells twisted the key in the ignition and the Rover’s engine rumbled to life. The guard stepped forward and pulled the trigger. He was so close that Wells saw spent cartridges pouring from the rifle. Wells could do nothing except wait for the 7.62-millimeter rounds to tear him up—
He’d forgotten the Rovers were armored. The window cracked into a spiderweb but didn’t break. The door beneath it didn’t even dent. Wells put the Rover in reverse, gunned the engine, spun the wheel left. When he’d turned so that the SUV faced the guard, he stopped and jammed on his seat belt and shifted into drive and floored the gas pedal. The guard fired until he had no rounds left and flung himself out of the way. Wells let him go, didn’t even try to clip him. He wanted the other Rover, which was broadside to him.
He accelerated across the mud. As he closed in, he saw Owen clawing at the second Rover’s driver from the backseat. Wells corrected his course, aiming for the vehicle’s engine block. Then the driver shook free of Owen and the vehicle leapt ahead. Wells leaned back in his seat, held the wheel loose, waiting for contact—
And smashed the other Rover side-on, metal crunching metal, glass tearing. Wells jerked against his seat belt and flew at the steering wheel as the airbag popped to embrace him. The corpses in the second row rolled forward and smacked into the front seats and somehow, a joke of physics, Waaberi’s right arm wound up in the center console like he was reaching out for the radio.
The airbag deflated. Wells took stock. His seat belt had bruised his chest and he’d banged his left arm into the window, but otherwise he was fine. With the armor the Rover weighed more than three tons, and its engine block, its stiffest and heaviest piece, had taken the brunt of the impact. Its hood was crumpled and its grille smashed, but Wells thought it would survive long enough to get them across the Kenyan border.
The other Rover was more seriously damaged. The driver’s door had caved, pinning the driver against the steering wheel. He was moving, feebly, but Wells didn’t think he’d survive without trauma care, which wasn’t available within a thousand miles.
Somewhere in the black smoke on the opposite side of the field, two technicals exploded. The Reaper pilot must have fired his last Hellfires at the Dita technicals back there, rather than the ones that Wizard’s own technical had disabled. Smart. The White Men were winning this fight almost too quickly. Wells and the hostages needed to go before Wizard found out Wells had killed his men and played demolition derby with his precious Range Rovers.
Wells stepped out, ran around the other Rover just as the rear passenger door swung open. A trickle of blood drooped down Gwen’s forehead. Her eyes were dull, concussed.
“Over there. Now.” Wells pointed at the other Rover. She walked unsteadily toward it. Wells reached inside, helped Hailey out.
“Owen’s stuck,” she said. “Really stuck.”
“Get the bodies out of the other Rover. I’ll handle him.” Wells stepped into the backseat. Owen’s left leg was pinched by the rear door. Wells looped Owen’s right arm around his shoulder. They were face-to-face, nearly touching. The kid’s breath stank of ten days without toothpaste. His cheeks were pale, lips set.
“My leg,” Owen said.
“This is gonna sting.”
Wells braced his left foot against the back driver’s-side door and pressed, using Owen’s trapped body as leverage. Owen screamed like a fire alarm in Wells’s ear. The door gave and Wells felt Owen come free. He kicked with every fiber of muscle he had and—
They slid across the seat. Wells lifted Owen out. His left leg from midcalf down looked even worse than Wells had feared, a bloody pulp. An amputation for sure.
“It’s fine. Just don’t look.” Wells carried Owen to the other Rover. The bodies of the Somalis lay on the ground.
“Get in,” Wells said to Gwen and Hailey. He half expected them to argue. The backseat of the Rover was bloody as a slaughterhouse. But they stepped inside without complaint. Wells set Owen in the front seat.
“Lucky me,” Owen said. “Shotgun.”
The keys were still in the ignition. Wells reached for them. The Rover’s engine grumbled, hesitated.
“Oh, come on,” Hailey said.
“Please,” Gwen said. “Please.”
Wells killed the ignition, tried again with the briefest flutter of gas. The engine kicked into life. Wells put the Rover in reverse. Metal screamed and tore.
Then they were free.
EPILOGUE
Wells knew the media storm they would face when they came back to the places that called themselves civilized. As he bounced the Rover toward the border, he helped the hostages unkink the story of the past twenty-four hours. Of course, they were welcome to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, he told them.
But as far as he was concerned, no one needed to know Owen had killed a guard. Or that Wells had made a deal to help their kidnappers attack another militia in return for their release. Simpler was better. The United States had found where they were being held and bombed their camp as a CIA team helped them escape. Simple. And almost true. Not entirely false, anyway.
“A team,” Gwen said.
“A small team.”
“You’re sure about this.”
“Reporters don’t need the details. You’re heroes. Let the world see you that way.”
“Reporters? People are paying attention to this?” Hailey said.
Wells glanced at her, wondering if she was joking. But, of course, she didn’t know. “It’s the biggest story in the world. I’m not exaggerating. Pays to be pretty.”
“What about you?” Gwen said. “What will you tell the reporters?”
Wells rubbed his thumb against his fingertips, flaking off dried blood. “Better if they don’t see me at all.”
He checked the rearview mirror, wondered whether Wizard would give chase. For now, anyway, the mirror was empty. He edged down on the gas. The Rover’s engine churned and bits of metal and glass shook loose from the grille. Even so, Wells thought they would reach the border.
