The three men continued down a short hallway, where they met Dan just as he came down a ladder from the roof. Brad and Dan each took hold of Milo, and Zack led the way as they tried to put some distance between themselves and the last point of contact with the enemy.
"One for Five," Zack called into his headset as he warily moved through a long sundry store that apparently took quite a bit of heavy machine gun fire. All around papers, woven baskets, ceramic pottery, everything in the room, was shattered or shredded.
"One for Five. How copy, Five?" Nothing. "One for Five. Spence?"
The team's headsets were silent.
Court entered the thatch-roofed dwelling, cleared it with his Glock in under five seconds. The walls were primarily burlap, and a fifty-five gallon drum had been pounded flat to use as a door. Treads from tires had been worked in with driftwood, plywood, and other refuse material to augment the burlap on the walls.
The inside was dark and sweltering, the air still and thick, an absence of the smells of food and smoke from cooking fires that made the American assume the owners had been gone awhile and were not coming back soon. He wiped away some cobwebs, kicked at some trash in the corner to make sure no one was hiding there and nothing dangerous came slithering out, and then used his knife to cut holes in the fabric walls to provide light and draft.
He had lucked into finding this hide. After Hightower's last transmission, the Gray Man had decided to not go all the way up to the marshland as he'd originally planned. Instead, he wanted to be closer to Suakin in case he needed to get back there to help extract Whiskey Sierra. So he pulled off the main road, wandered aimlessly down a lonely dirt track, passed a few donkey carts and one small village, looking for any place to park the car and find a few minutes' peace. The abandoned dwelling was surrounded by high grasses and was barely visible from the road, and immediately he knew it would do, although the grasses looked like they would certainly be full of all sorts of poisonous snakes and angry insects.
Gentry holstered his weapon and carefully retraced his steps back to the Skoda to get his human luggage out of the back.
Oryx was awake and alert. His eyes were wide and filled with alternating signs of relief, disdain, and a bit of drug-induced contentment. He'd downed the entire bottle of water and somehow even managed to get his undershirt ripped off of his body. His white shirt was literally clinging to him, soaked with sweat. His large bald head dripped.
The trunk had already begun to smell like death.
"You are not with the American government," Oryx proclaimed as he was led towards the dwelling. "The way you executed that man. The way you hit me, threw me in the trunk. The talk of money and assassination. These are not the actions of an American serviceman."
"Nope."
The president stopped and turned. "You are a soldier of fortune."
Gentry pushed him forward. "After expenses, I'm really more like a soldier of the middle class."
"I know who sent you to kill me."
"Do you?"
"Of course. It's obvious. Who has both the resources to pay you and to plan this, and hates me enough to set this in motion? Those American actors who are so against me and have so much money. I have seen them on television for years, speaking to your congress, making movies of lies that they call documentaries. I knew some day these infidels would make an attempt on my life."
Court wasn't in the mood for chit-chat. The barb in his back was causing all his muscles to seize and cramp in pain; even walking was difficult now. As they approached the open doorway, he said, "That's right. I'm gonna be a primo player in Hollywood when this is done. Fucking star on that sidewalk and all that shit."
"And I also know who sent you to kidnap me." His voice trailed off at the end, as he stopped at the entrance to the tiny structure. "Where are we? What is this place?"
"Keep going."
"What are you going to-"
Court struck him soundly on the side of the head with the butt of the gun. The big man staggered, turned to the shack, and began walking forward with no more questions. Once inside, he continued to the center of the dimly lit room, and then he turned around. Gentry could see his confusion.
"You are working with Bedouins?"
"Shut up."
Abboud shook off his confusion and began a sales pitch. Court had expected nothing less. "I can arrange to pay you more, more than you are getting to do this, I assure you."
"Shut up."
"Not money from Sudanese banks, no. I have accounts all over the world. Friends in the West and in Asia. This could be a larger monetary event for you than you now realize. You can just double what you are being paid and I will see-"
"Shut up and listen!" Court holstered his pistol again, the agony showing in his face as he reached across his body and gingerly removed his backpack by unbuckling the shoulder straps. Then he began working on his brown shirt, tearing at it with grunts and winces. After several tugs it tore free, and he stood bare-chested in the dim shack. "I need you to help me get this out."
"The arrow?"
"No, the coffee stain on my crotch. Yes! The arrow!"
The president's thick eyebrows rose. "What if I do not agree to help you?"
"I will kill you."
Court could see the gears turning in Abboud's brain. The crafty man knew his kidnapper needed something from him. He was now trying to find a way to play it to his advantage.
"What will you do for me if I do help?"
"I won't kill you. Yet."
That slowed the gears down a bit.
"What do I have to do?"
"I am going to lie on the ground, facedown. I need you to put your foot in the center of my back, grab the arrow just behind the head, and pull it out of the bone."
There was a flicker of fresh light in the president's eyes, and Court Gentry knew exactly what he was thinking. "You will want to drive the arrow into my back or neck when you pull it out. If you do this, you better find the place on my neck that will kill me instantly, because I am going to roll over and shoot you sixteen times if you don't."
"Why sixteen?"
"Because my gun only has sixteen bullets. Remember, I gave you a lot of dope back there in Suakin. You are slower than you think, you are weaker than you think, and right now, you are not half as smart as you think you are. You need to consider your actions very carefully before trying anything stupid, because I swear I will blow off your fucking nuts and watch you flip around till you bleed out if you don't succeed."
Silence hung in the air like the cloying heat. Oryx's face showed the unpleasant mental image dancing in his head.
Finally, Court asked, "Are you ready to try this?"
President Abboud paused a long time. Finally he said, "This will be extremely painful for you."
"And that's a problem for you, why?"
"You may think I am trying to kill you when I am only trying to help."
"I will expect pain in my back, where the arrow is. If I feel pain anywhere else, then the president of Sudan will lose his balls. That means no more little baby despots for you. You understand?"
Abboud nodded. Court drew his pistol and worked his way slowly to his knees, then onto his stomach. The arrow was into his scapula. It would not come out easily, and when it did, Court knew he would bleed considerably. He had a small trauma kit with him but no real way to dress a wound he could neither see nor reach, and having the president of Sudan bandage him just seemed too damn weird to bear.
And while Oryx's drug-induced lethargy and diminished capacity worked to Court's advantage as a kidnapper, it certainly did not benefit him as a patient. For all he knew, big Bakri Abboud was going to fall on top of the arrow instead of pull it out, and thereby pin Court to the floor of this shit hole shack like a butterfly in a bug collection.