Of the three shooters on the far side of the trail, the most difficult to hit would be the one in the center. Of all of them, Middle Man knew best how to hide. Ex-military or ex-terror vet. None of that Christian or Jihadi action for him; his god was terrain. It chose where he went, how he stood, and what he did. All that was visible of him was an edge of the right rear quadrant of his head. He was the one who might make that tenth shot necessary: the first round to get him exposed, the tenth—after Gordon had dispatched the others and changed magazines—to put Middle Man out of his misery. Gordon centered the sight’s kill dot on that spot, took a breath, let part of it out, and pressed the disruptor trigger on the rifle’s front hand grip. The charge down in the narrows exploded with a roar and Middle Man surprised Gordon momentarily by standing straight up in astonishment at the early detonation, exposing the upper third of his body. Nine shots and five seconds later the last echoes of the explosion still had not completely faded from the wadi. When they had, all was still down at the narrows.
Gordon ejected the empty magazine and loaded the full one into his weapon, pulling the bolt to chamber the first round. He placed the safety on, emptied his sandbag, disconnected and pocketed the disrupter, collected and pocketed the ejected brass and the empty mag. Getting up into a squat he noted the black scorpion had crushed the beetle it had been after with its claws and was preparing to pick it apart.
“Bon apétit,” he said to the insect as he duckwalked backwards from beneath the ledge, swishing the cloth of his emptied sandbag to remove the evidence of his passing. Once he was clear of the overhang, he stood, folded and pocketed the ochre-colored bag, slung his rifle, and climbed up to the head of the trail. Once there he paused and looked around.
The mesas reminded him a little of pueblo country, but without all the lights, casinos, strip developments, and golden arches. The sand sea dusting the edges of the plateau was almost lifeless. None of the wild sage, pinon pines, or junipers of New Mexico. Hunks of hazy gray-green glass littered the sands, though: part of the reason for Dr. Hussein’s expedition. As the gravelly surface of the plateau crunched beneath his desert boots, Gordon keyed his headset. “It’s all over, Doctor.”
A lengthy pause. “Things went well?” Dr. Hussein asked at last.
“No trouble,” answered Gordon.
“Nine dead?”
“They aren’t our dead, Doctor. That makes it a good morning’s work.”
Gordon knew that the geologist wanted to say what he had expressed before: that he wished Gordon would feel at least a little badly about having to kill—and having to kill so many. Gordon hadn’t the need, though, and couldn’t explain why to the satisfaction of those who thought he should.
“I called in my conclusions about the crater to Dr. Taleghani last night,” said Dr. Hussein at last. “I’ve just heard back from Site Safar. There has been an unfortunate development: one of the expedition members has been injured and needs to be replaced. Dr. Taleghani needs a special kind of bodyguard—good with languages. Tonight in fact. I suggested you.”
“What about you and your staff, sir?”
“Our work for the project is concluded. As soon as we arrive at the dig, Bethany and I will be returning to Cairo on the chopper. The rest of the staff will follow on the regular truck run. Pending your agreement, I said you would be excellent for what Dr. Taleghani has in mind. You are very quick with languages.”
“Thank you for the reference. If you’re firing me, I’ll need the work.”
“Have you ever met Dr. Taleghani?”
“Just in passing at the dig.” Gordon heard a Land Rover making its way from the camp to the head of the wadi trail. The vehicle came around a low hill and continued toward him. The sand-and-black-colored security car pulled to a stop on the trail in a cloud of dust at the edge of the plateau. “Here’s Captain Mansouri. Signing off, Doctor.”
The dust cloud moved slowly forward of the Land Rover, dissipating as it enveloped the vehicle and moved out over the wadi. The captain’s angry voice came from the vehicle, bellowing at the hapless driver once again that if the fellow would brake more gradually they wouldn’t have to eat so much of their own dust. The driver grinned and nodded. “Idiot!” Mansouri roared in Arabic as he climbed down from the vehicle and slammed the door.
He walked around the Land Rover and looked at Gordon. Mansouri always tried to make his comments to Gordon sound mocking, but it always came off as petulant. “Ugh, Chief Killum-Every-Damned-Body-In-Sight,” greeted the captain, insultingly using his take on American Indian pidgin English. Despite being a graduate of UCLA, the Egyptian security commander took every opportunity to insult Gordon in an obviously passive-aggressive display of inadequacy, as Gordon’s old college girlfriend the psych major would have put it. Mansouri was the commander of the joint Egyptian-Libyan security force that provided protection for the geological expedition to the Kebira Crater bisected by the Egyptian-Libyan border. He was a squat, powerfully built man wearing khakis, desert boots, and one of the wide-brimmed white straw hats favored by those in the expedition. His upper lip carried a thick black mustache, his brow a permanent frown. The stub of an unlit cigar was jammed in his mouth. He wouldn’t ask why Gordon didn’t call him before the fight. The subject had come up before. The captain had only himself and four men, none of whom were particularly proficient in marksmanship or combat. They needed to stay with the trucks and out of harm’s way. Still, it bruised the captain’s pride a mite.
“I take it, Crazy Horse, General Custer and the Seventh Cavalry lost again,” quipped Mansouri.
Gordon frowned and slowly shook his head, his arms folded high across his chest as he stared with hooded eyes into the endless wastes of the north cliffs. “Umm, Kemosabe.” He pointed toward the distant horizon with a flat hand, palm down, all fingers extended. “Scout see four white-eyes escape, Captain. All with AK-47s. Need you and long knives help Chief rootum out of rocks.”
Mansouri stood there, bug eyed, until he saw Gordon’s smirk. “You are as funny as cancer in an earthquake, Redcliff,” said Mansouri. “Hell, you could do standup in a damned graveyard. Chief Shecky Horse. You should have been at Little Big Horn, man. You would’ve killed ‘em.”
“You seemed to be complaining about me doing all the work myself, Captain. I thought the prospect of a little action might cheer you up.”
Mansouri’s face reddened. “My complaint was not having not enough to do, Redcliff. What bothers me is ... oh, it’s the monotony of your precision.”
“I’m too consistent?”
The captain raised an arm and pointed down the trail into the wadi. “I’ll go down there in a minute and what am I going to find, Chief? Any wounded? No. Anyone I can question? No.”
“Do you want prisoners to question, Captain? Guards, paperwork, medical facilities and personnel, provisioning, confinement? International incidents?”
Mansouri held up a hand. “You made your point. How many this time?”
“Nine.”
“Nine men drilled right through their coconuts. Am I correct?”
“Only eight, Captain. One was shot in the heart.”
Mansouri’s eyebrows went up. “What is this? Have you added a mad splash of abandon to your terminal artistry?”
“It was just the way things worked out. Fellow stood up. Fortunate for him.”
“Fortunate? I must hear this one, Chief. Tell me about this dead man’s lucky streak.”