All Things Considered finally completely died, and she flipped off the radio, turning her attention fully to Jon Smith. He still hadn’t responded to the message she’d left, and a more insistent call to USAMRIID had once again gotten her nothing but the party line — Colonel Smith had taken personal leave and was unreachable at this time.
Her friend at TSA had come through, tracking Jon to Cape Town, South Africa. Interestingly, just the continent the late Brandon Gazenga had built his career around.
She had a plane reservation for tomorrow, made under an alias the CIA knew nothing about. A girl could never be too safe.
The road turned steep and she pressed the accelerator to the floor again, barely maintaining forty miles an hour as patches of snow began to appear in the trees. Honestly, a quick trip to the Cape wouldn’t be a bad change of pace. She despised being cold and most likely she’d find Jon lying on his surfboard catching rays. Heck, maybe she’d pack a bikini and stay on a few days.
Or maybe not.
Their relationship was one of the few things in life she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around. Fate constantly threw them together, usually along with a few near-death experiences and a soul-wrenching personal disaster or two. As close as they’d become, she wasn’t sure how many more meetings they were both going to survive.
As Randi crested the hill, the engine began to lose power, lurching weakly and finally cutting out as she rolled the tiny Chevrolet onto the shoulder. A few twists of the ignition key produced precisely nothing. Not even dash lights.
The stupid thing had less than ten thousand miles on it and not so much as a scratch in the paint or a chip in the windshield. After spending the last year on a camel that spit on her every time she got within ten feet, was a little reliable transportation too much to ask?
Knowing from experience that there was no cell reception, Randi got out and looked down at the hood for a moment before reaching into the back for her gym bag. It was four rolling miles to the house, with temperatures just below freezing under a partly cloudy sky. A nice jog, a cup of tea, and a quick call to AAA or an hour digging around in an engine that was probably suffering from an unfathomable computer glitch? Not a terribly hard decision.
She was searching for her shoes when the Honda she’d passed earlier pulled in behind her.
“Car trouble?” a man in his early thirties said, throwing his door open and leaping out with a level of enthusiasm that suggested former Boy Scout.
“Yeah, but I’m okay. I just live up the way.”
“We’d be happy to give you a lift.”
“I appreciate it, but honestly I could use some exercise.”
The very pregnant woman in the passenger seat struggled through her door and waddled around in front of the bumper. “We can’t just leave you out here in the cold.”
“Really, I’m fine. I—”
Neither of their movements was fast or coordinated enough to cause alarm, but suddenly both were holding pistols aimed at her chest.
“If you could hand over your Glock, I’d be grateful, Ms. Russell.”
She didn’t move, examining both of them carefully. Their position was perfect — far enough from each other that she couldn’t engage both at the same time and lined up in a way that they had her in a cross fire without putting themselves in danger of hitting each other. The woman was now standing in the slightly crouched position of an expert marksman, apparently no longer affected by her “pregnancy.”
Whoever they were, they were good — even by her standards. Also, they were well connected. Not only did they know the brand of firearm she carried, but it seemed likely that they’d used the OnStar System to shut down the Chevy. Those codes weren’t given out to every carjacker with an e-mail address.
Randi slowly pulled the gun from the holster at her back, silently cursing her stupidity. Being in the States with most of her long list of enemies half a world away had dulled her edge. Not a lot, but apparently enough to get her killed.
“Move away from the car, please.”
As she did, a woman she hadn’t seen emerged from the backseat of the Honda and started toward her. They were about the same size, with exactly the same clothes and hair. Randi watched as she got behind the wheel of the Chevy and turned the key. It started right up and she immediately sped away.
Based on that, it seemed unlikely they were just going to execute her. And every moment she was still breathing was a moment she could escape. If they put her in the car, they’d be close enough for her to use the knife she still had. It was a slim chance, but it was all she had.
“Looks like you could use a lift,” the man said. “But first, why don’t you give me the blade you keep strapped to your thigh.”
46
Mehrak Omidi awoke to the sound of cheering and exited Bahame’s command tent, where he had retreated to escape the jungle’s insidious biting bugs. Young soldiers had crowded around an old pickup, and he was forced to climb onto Bahame’s podium in order to see the two unconscious white men in the back.
The mob kicked and spit on them as they were dragged toward captivity and, soon, death. Charles Sembutu, for all his fearsome reputation, had proven to be an old woman where the Americans were concerned. He had ignored every opportunity to get rid of Smith’s team, and when they’d finally gotten too close, he’d continued to refuse to act — instead calling Omidi with their position and washing his hands of the matter.
The lights of the pickup flickered off, revealing a dim glow approaching through the trees. A moment later, an extravagant four-wheel-drive vehicle came skidding into camp. Caleb Bahame leapt out, ignoring the adulation of his soldiers as he pulled a woman across the front seats and out the driver’s door.
Omidi stepped forward, his gaze moving from the tangle of blond hair to the face so unconvincingly trying to portray courage. The Ayatollah’s continued insistence that they release the parasite on the anniversary of the victory of the revolution had seemed impossible — even with their top biologists working around the clock. And his unwavering belief that God would provide a solution had seemed dangerously naïve. But Omidi once again found himself humbled by the aging cleric’s wisdom and faith.
He leapt from the podium and retreated to the blackness at the edge of the jungle, unable to take his eyes off the woman. The doubts he’d had about their plans and his fears regarding the American intelligence agencies were suddenly gone. God had made his presence known, and now the success of what lay ahead seemed almost preordained. Sarie van Keuren, the person most qualified to stabilize and weaponize the parasite, had been delivered to him.
Jon Smith opened his eyes, watching the vague shapes around him slowly coalesce into a stone ceiling, rusted bars, and primitive lab beyond. He still didn’t have the strength to get up, and he let his head loll toward the motionless body of Peter Howell next to him.
“Peter. Are you all right?”
The blow to the back of the old soldier’s head had been vicious enough that Smith suspected he might never wake up.
“Peter. Can you—”
A low moan came from the man and then something that may have been words.
“What? Did you say something?”
When he spoke again, his voice had gained strength. “The easiest fifty grand you ever made…”
Smith hadn’t quite managed to sit fully upright when a piercing scream sounded. The jolt of adrenaline didn’t do much more than amplify the pounding in his head, and he scooted instinctively away from the bars, scanning for the source of the terrible sound.