“I told you who I am, and why I am here. I need nothing else.”
“Two of us will come,” said the tall one, trying to save face with the others.
Amara might have challenged this, but decided he didn’t want to waste time. “Move, then.”
The tall one got into the cab; another man climbed into the truck bed, squatting on the tarp. They drove through two more switchbacks, watched by guards crouching near the rocks. As Amara turned the corner of the last curve, he spotted a small fire flickering in a barrel ahead. Men were gathered around it, warming themselves. The stripped shell of a bus stood behind them, crossway across the path. Amara slowed even further, easing toward the roadblock in an almost dead crawl.
The man in the back of the truck yelled at the sentries near the fire, telling them to move quickly because an important Brother had arrived on a mission. Even so, they moved in slow motion over to the bus. The vehicle had been stripped of its engine and much of its interior, its only function now to slow a determined enemy. The men put their shoulders and backs to the front and pushed, working the bus backward into a slot in the rocks. They held it there as Amara went past, then slowly eased it back in place.
Amara pulled the truck to the side of a small parking area just inside the perimeter. Vehicles were not allowed any farther; the way was blocked by large boulders, protection against vehicle bombs. He took the laptop from beneath the seat and got out of the truck.
“You will guard the contents below the canvas with your life,” he told the two men who’d accompanied him. “If they are even touched, you will be hanged, then fed to the jackals.”
Even the tall sentry had no answer for that.
Amara turned and held his hands out.
“You will search me, then take me to Brother Assad,” he told the approaching guards. “And be quick.”
Chapter 8
Less than three minutes after Melissa ran back inside the clinic, bullets crashed through the windows. By then she and Bloom had barricaded themselves inside one of the examining rooms with the patients who’d been inside.
Melissa hunkered down behind the desk they’d pushed against the door as a truck drove past outside. There were shouts and a fresh hail of bullets. She reached down and rolled up her pant leg, retrieving her 9mm Glock from its holster.
“That’s not going to do much,” said Bloom, a few feet away. Two patients, a mother and four-year-old daughter, were huddled next to her. The other patients, both teenage women, both pregnant, were at the far end of the room, crouched down behind the overturned examining table.
“It’s better than nothing,” said Melissa.
She took out her sat phone, forgotten in the rush for cover. There were two missed calls. Before she could page into the directory, the phone rang. She answered quickly.
“What the hell are you doing in that building?” demanded Danny. “Why wasn’t your phone on?”
“It was on,” she told him. “The volume on the ringer was down. I couldn’t hear.”
A round of bullets blew through the building. Two or three whipped overhead. One of the women screamed. Another was crying.
“What’s your situation?” asked Danny.
“We have four patients in here, three women and a child. What’s going on outside?”
“They’re shooting up the town,” said Danny. “Where in the building are you? I can’t get a good read.”
“The back examining room.”
“Stay there. One of the trucks is coming back.”
There was fresh gunfire at front. This time, though, none of the bullets was directed at the clinic. The Sudan First gunmen were driving through the area, firing indiscriminately.
“All right,” said Danny. “They’re moving south. Are you all right?”
“So far.”
“We’re coming for you. Is there a basement?”
“No.” She’d already decided this was the safest room in the building.
“Don’t do anything until you hear my voice.”
“Sure,” she told him.
Danny closed the connection.
“She’s nothing but trouble,” said Nuri. “I told you. And this Bloom. If she’s really a washed out MI6 agent—”
“Not now, Nuri,” snapped Danny. “Boston, Flash, you’re with me.”
Danny left the tent, trying to control his anger as he strode toward the Mercedes. The truth was, Nuri was right — even if he should’ve kept his mouth shut about it.
Boston and Flash hustled behind him, humping two ammo-laden rucks apiece. Beside their SCAR assault rifles, Boston had an M-48 squad-level machine gun.
They piled into the car. Danny started the engine and was about to pull away when Nuri grabbed the back door.
“I thought you were staying,” Danny said.
“We better hurry — there are two dozen men coming by foot from the Sudan First camp.”
Chapter 9
Amara’s escorts eyed the laptop nervously. The case was more than large enough to hold a charge of plastic explosive powerful enough to take out a good portion of the small cluster of buildings that served as the nerve center of the camp.
He’d shown them that it worked; beyond that, Amara could offer no other assurance. He held it under his arm and walked with them to the small hut where Assad lived and worked.
Assad had served an apprenticeship in Iraq and was one of the older members of the Brotherhood, respected for his experience, though not completely trusted by all because he had been born in Egypt. He and Amara had not been particularly close before this assignment, and in fact Amara suspected that Assad was not the one who chose him.
Assad’s cousin Sayr served as his aide and bodyguard. He was standing outside the house, and put up his hand as Amara approached.
“You’re back,” said Sayr. “You’ve taken your time.”
“I drove night and day,” answered Amara. “And ran two blockades.”
Sayr pointed to the laptop. “That is not allowed in the hut.”
“This is why I came,” said Amara, holding it out.
“It’s not allowed inside. I’ll take it.”
Amara hesitated, but turned it over. There was no alternative.
“Be careful,” he said. “It has a program on it that’s important. Do not even turn it on.”
Sayr frowned at him. Amara wondered if he even knew what a program was — unlike his cousin, Sayr was not particularly bright.
One of his escorts knocked, then opened the door to the small building. Assad sat in the middle of the floor on a rug. There were pillows nearby, but no other furniture.
“I have returned, Brother,” Amara said, stepping inside. “I have eliminated the Asian as directed and returned with the computer and the guidance system.”
Assad nodded. He stared blankly at the rug, seemingly in prayer, though it was not the time to pray. Finally he looked up and gestured for Amara to sit.
“The Asian is dead?” Assad asked.
“As you directed.”
“He was an evil man,” said Assad. “But a useful one.”
The door opened. Sayr entered and walked over to his cousin, stooping down and whispering in his ear. As he straightened, he shot Amara a look of disdain.
“Very good,” said Assad, his gaze remaining on Amara. “Fetch us some tea.”
Sayr gave Amara another frown, then left.
“How strong is your belief?” asked Assad. “If it were necessary to sacrifice yourself, could you do it?”
A shudder ran through Amara’s body. A true believer was supposed to be prepared to sacrifice himself for jihad, accepting death willingly for the glory of the Almighty. But it was a complicated proposition. It was one thing to be willing to die in battle, and quite another to accept what Assad seemed to be asking: deliberately sacrificing himself.