The point man ran out and peered around the corner of the building. A couple of minutes passed before he pumped a raised fist several times, signaling all clear.
“Let’s go,” Yosef said, glancing up and down the street to make sure it was empty. The vehicle backed quietly into the road and the column continued its march toward the harbor. Yosef tapped his chin. About three more miles to the warehouses that lined the west side of the port area. Months ago, when the government renewed its offensive against growing terrorism, Yosef had developed several scenarios around sprinting the president to safety. They were just planning exercises in the privacy of his room. More to ensure his survival and escape, as he had been ordered to do when he accepted this mission, than for the president. Good thing he never submitted them. They would have found their way into rebel hands and, by now, they would either be dead or prisoners. The milk truck had been a pleasant discovery after exiting their underground escape route from the palace. Yosef didn’t know how long the batteries would last, but it wasn’t much further to the harbor. It was just dangerous.
Yosef knew his life was worthless if caught. They would shoot him and the Guardsmen. Him, for being an officer, and them, for being members of the infamous Palace Guards.
President Hawaii Aineuf, if captured, would remain alive only long enough to quell fighting by government forces; then, once the country was firmly in the hands of the rebels, his life would be forfeited also. Quietly, to disappear in some far region of Algeria — the Sahara was a big wasteland that had swallowed thousands without trace. He touched the pistol strapped to his side. No, Aineuf would not fall into FLA hands.
Ten minutes later the point guard raised his hand again.
“Stop the vehicle, Omar,” said Yosef to the corporal driving.
The Guardsman motioned Colonel Yosef forward. Yosef ran down the street, where the man crouched at a corner behind a telephone junction box installed flush against the side of the building.
“What is it?” he whispered.
The Guardsman pointed up the connecting street to where a large opened-back military truck was parked. Surrounding the truck were rebels, herding civilians into the back of it. Arguing and crying could be heard coming from the captives.
“What are they doing?”
“I heard English and French from the civilians, man colonel,” the Guardsman replied.
A rebel shouted, “Search the buildings and see if there are more Westerners hiding there. I count twenty-eight and there are supposed to be thirty-two. Twenty Americans, ten French, and two British. Come here,” the voice demanded.
The rebel leader walked over to a male captive.
“Where are the others?” he screamed.
“Bloody hell! I don’t know,” a posh English voice replied.
The rebel leader jammed the barrel of his gun hard against the forehead of the man.
“This is the last time I ask. Where are they? There are twenty-eight others here I can ask, so unless you answer, your life is as useless as the two over there.” He moved the gun long enough to point to where two bodies lay on top of each other.
A woman in the back of the truck spoke up, her voice shaken.
“I’ll tell you. Don’t kill him, he doesn’t know, he’s English and the missing are Americans.”
“Veronica, don’t,” the Brit said.
Two rebels leaped onto the truck bed, pulled the American woman to the tailgate, and shoved her off. She threw her hands out as she landed hard on her knees in front of the rebel leader. A cry escaped as she toppled sideways, her knees and hands torn and bleeding. The leader, lips curled, moved the barrel of his pistol to the Englishman’s chest and pushed him roughly away.
The British captive stumbled and fell, whereupon the rebels began kicking the older man as he struggled to his feet.
Like a ball tossed between a circle of players, they herded him toward the tailgate where eager hands of the captives in the bed of the truck pulled the old man on board. The Englishman’s eyes searched for the American woman.
“Oh, Veronica,” he said, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
She looked up from where she crouched on all fours.
Their eyes met and she mouthed, “Michael, I—” A nearby rebel kicked her hard in the stomach and her breath whooshed out; he continued to kick her, but less violently, giving the American time to regain her breath.
Yosef pulled his pistol. He tapped the Guardsman twice on the shoulder and put his mouth near the man’s ear.
“Go bring up everyone but Corporal Omar and two others. Tell the corporal to stay with the president.”
The Guardsman nodded and took off running.
Yosef motioned to the point man on the right side of the road.
“Where are they, woman?” the rebel shouted.
Veronica tried to stand, but a rebel behind her put his foot on her back and shoved her roughly back down onto the cobblestones.
“The Americans left here over an hour ago,” she said, her voice wavering in fright. Looking up, expecting to be hit again, she eased off her knees.
“They got restless and struck out on their own. They were oil riggers, drunks, and we were glad to see them go.” She reached up and wiped the blood from her lips.
The sound of flesh on flesh reached Yosef as the rebel leader leaned over and slapped her. The slap knocked the woman flat onto the street.
“Don’t lie to me, infidel! No one has left the premises since this afternoon. You don’t think we have been watching? You think that the Algerian people are your friends? You are a stupid bitch.”
“Don’t hit me,” she screamed.
“I’m an American!”
“I’m not going to hit you, you American bitch,” he snarled. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head up off the street.
Unexpectedly, she reached up and, with a wild scream, pulled her sharp fingernails down both his cheeks, ripping the skin down both sides, drawing blood.
The rebel leader punched her, knocking her head down against the road. With a quick motion he rammed his pistol against her head, drawing a groan from his hostage, and pulled the trigger.
“You Americans disgust me.” The shot echoed off the silent buildings, mingling with the cascade of distant gunshots and explosions. The civilians in the truck began a renewed round of screaming and crying. The rebel leader pulled his scarf out and wiped his cheeks.
“Damn, bitch!” he said, seeing blood on the cloth. He fired two more shots into her back.
He swung the gun toward the captives.
“Shut up! Or I will personally kill every one of you!” he screamed, his face contorted in anger. Two of the hostages held the British gentleman by the arms as he fought to go to the side of his dead American lover.
The Guardsmen from the milk truck ran silently up to Colonel Yosef. Counting the colonel, there were ten of them. Omar and the two staying behind made thirteen-not much for an offensive operation.
“We need to get across the intersection without them seeing us,” Yosef said to Sergeant Boutrous. Another shot came from the direction of the truck. The screaming of the captives took on a new intensity. The berserk FLA commander had killed again.
“Sir, they are killing the hostages,” the point man said, pointing toward the truck.
“I know, but if we stop to help, then we compromise our position.”
“Yes, sir, but if we don’t, then the FLA will massacre those people. People we could save.”
Yosef looked toward the scene again. The FLA commander continued to scream and while Yosef watched, he pointed his pistol into the crowded bed and fired again.
Yosef took a deep breath.
“Okay. For all the wrong reasons we are going to engage this force. I counted twelve rebels. The Westerners are on the truck. We are going to go in, do the job, and get the hell out of here as soon as we can.”