From the corner of her eye, she saw him come at her and she twisted, cursing her own reaction. It happened quickly, even as Lucy snatched at her gun.
Burning, screaming agony exploded across her back and her belly as Saito was on her, pushing the blade in through a tiny gap in the plates of her body armour. She screamed and tried to pivot, but the pain was incredible, lighting her nerves on fire.
Her knees turned to water and Lucy crashed to the floor, falling next to Kaahi as the light in the man’s eyes faded. Grey fog crowded the edges of her vision, and dimly she was aware of Saito tearing her gun from her nerveless hands.
‘You will not die from this.’ His voice seemed to come from a great distance, echoing down a tunnel. ‘Unless you remove the blade, and then you will bleed out in under an hour.’ He was pulling at her gear, stripping her equipment. She swatted at him, felt a blow connect, but it was all so far away.
The pain became a tidal wave, and then blackness washed up over her.
TWENTY
They both reeked of spilled hydraulic fluid and the fixes they had cobbled together inside the Osprey’s fuselage looked like a mess, but finally Marc had been able to help Ruiz get the VTOL back to something approaching operable condition.
Marc climbed back into the pilot’s seat on the right-hand side of the cockpit and prodded at the keyboard next to the multifunction digital screen before him. He paged through sub-menus and found the diagnostic display he needed. Green status tabs illuminated one by one, and he blew out a breath. ‘We’re okay,’ he said aloud. ‘I think.’
He sensed Ruiz behind him, seeing the man’s reflection on the inside of the cockpit windows. ‘Piece of cake,’ said the mercenary, wiping grime off his hands, although his tone gave the lie to his response. ‘Just be ready to spin us up. The moment Saito gets back, we’re out of here.’
‘We can make it across the Kenyan border in a couple of hours –’ Marc began, but Ruiz spoke over him.
‘Job’s not done,’ insisted the other man. ‘Like it or not, you’re in this with us now.’
With the work of patching up the Osprey’s damage to keep him occupied, Marc had been able to put aside his enmity at working with the Combine operatives, but now he had a moment to dwell on it, his manner darkened again. ‘I don’t think so.’
Ruiz dropped into the co-pilot’s seat and glared at him. He pointed at the two body bags in the cargo compartment. ‘Byrd got himself killed in the house, and then we lost these on the way out. Mayer back there, he’s wounded bad –’
‘All the more reason to evac,’ Marc broke in.
Ruiz talked over him again. ‘And that asshole Ramaas is laughing at us. This don’t end here, you get me?’
Marc chewed on that for a moment. ‘Don’t try to tell me you’re going after Ramaas because you want some payback. You want him because the Combine want him.’
The mercenary snorted. ‘Yeah. You think anyone else has got the stones for the job?’ He gave Marc a withering look. ‘You and the woman thought you were gonna stop him? Don’t make me laugh.’ Ruiz shook his head. ‘That rich dick Solomon and all of his crew, you’re just day-players getting in the way. Oughta stay back, let the better men do what’s needed, you get me?’
‘Better men?’ Marc repeated, his ire rising. ‘The Combine is nothing but a bunch of bastards with more money than morals! You’re either too stupid to get that or you don’t give a shit!’
Ruiz sneered and got up. ‘Hey, you wanna die poor and righteous, be my guest. I want payback and I wanna get paid, so fuck everyone else.’ He walked away, muttering to himself.
A reply was forming on Marc’s lips, but it faded as he saw movement outside. A fast shape came bouncing across the football pitch from out of the darkness, and by reflex he grabbed for the pistol holstered on his thigh. He’d left his MP7 back in the rear compartment while the work of repairs had gone on, and now he wished he hadn’t.
Then Marc heard the low keening of an electric engine and knew it was Saito’s dirt bike returning. But something was wrong; the bike only had a rider and no passenger. He scrambled out of the gunner hatch behind the cockpit and went after Ruiz, who was already at the rear of the aircraft.
As Marc ducked below the Osprey’s wing, Saito was climbing off the bike, sharing a quiet word with Ruiz. The Hispanic merc’s expression became cold and he turned on Marc, raising the Vector carbine hanging on his shoulder strap.
Marc’s Glock pistol was already in his hand and he aimed it at Saito, ignoring the weapon that was coming to bear on him. ‘Where is she?’ He spat out the question.
Saito made no attempt to go for his own gun. ‘There were some complications.’
A rush of ice flooded through Marc’s veins. ‘You killed her?!’
‘No. She was alive when I departed,’ Saito replied. ‘Your friend is strong. She had a good wound. I believe that a woman of her resilience will be able to survive it. And if not . . .’ He paused. ‘Well, that would be unfortunate.’
‘If she’s dead, you’ll be next.’ Marc spat out the words, meaning every one of them.
Saito shook his head. ‘Killing her has no value to me. Alive, she will be a distraction. Something for Ramaas’s brigands to deal with while I position myself to take advantage of the situation.’ He glanced up to the night sky, as if gauging something unseen. ‘I could not have her close by, you must see that. She was too dangerous. An unpredictable element. But you, I do need. I require a pilot.’
‘Fuck you. I’m not helping you anymore.’ Marc’s mind was a churn of conflicting emotions. If Lucy was out there somewhere, if she was hurt, he had to reach her. He owed her no less. ‘Tell me where she is!’
‘The locals will have found her by now. But you should be more concerned about your own fate.’ Saito stepped around the bike, closing the distance between them. ‘And the matter of the Exile device.’
Marc kept the Glock aimed directly at Saito’s face. If he shot him, the Japanese mercenary would be killed instantly, but then Marc would perish a split second later as Ruiz opened fire in retaliation. Part of him wanted to do it, heedless of the consequences, and he had to stop himself from tightening his finger on the trigger.
‘Ramaas released a second demand to the world,’ Saito went on. ‘He has called a gathering on an abandoned drilling rig off the coast. He is planning to sell the weapon to the highest bidder and I need to be there.’
Marc never wavered, but inwardly he was racing to assimilate this new information. Saito had to be telling the truth, at least in some form. He needed Marc to fly them out of here, and as Ruiz had made clear, the Combine’s mission was far from over.
‘We are ready to depart?’ Saito directed the question to Ruiz, who nodded. He looked back at Marc. ‘Then this is how we shall proceed. You will drop that gun and take us out to the rig. You will assist us in completing our recovery of the Exile device and when that is done, you are free to go.’
‘Else I end you here and we do it the long way round,’ said Ruiz. ‘Your call, pendejo.’
‘Why the hell would I agree to that?’ Marc ground out the words. ‘You reckon I’d actually trust you?’
‘Because you know that you have no better option.’ Saito cocked his head. ‘We know where Ramaas is. Your mission is the same as mine. Find him. Are you going to abandon it for the woman?’ He paused again, considering something. ‘Do you think, if the roles were reversed, she would do the same for you? You know what is more important.’
A hideous, chilling kind of acceptance rose up in Marc’s thoughts, a realisation that Saito was actually right. Weighed against the threat represented by Ramaas and his stolen Russian nuke, Lucy Keyes was just one life. There was an entire city’s worth of potential victims out there right now, and if the warlord’s schemes were not stopped, a horrific death in nuclear fire was waiting for them.
‘If it will salve your conscience,’ Saito added, ‘blame me. Understand that I have given you no other choice in this.’
‘That’s how you people work, isn’t it?’ Marc’s reply was loaded with venom and bitterness. ‘That’s the Combine’s style. Find where people are vulnerable and squeeze.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the mercenary. ‘But ultimately, the decision is yours.’
‘Fuck you,’ Marc repeated, his anger crumbling into despair. The pistol in his hand wavered, and the muzzle dipped.
Ruiz saw his cue and spun his Vector carbine around, slamming the butt of the weapon into Marc’s head, knocking him down to one knee. The mercenary wrenched the Glock from his hand and then came back to strip the sat phone and survival knife from Marc’s gear vest.
Dazed, Marc spat out blood from a cut on the inside of his cheek and lurched back to his feet. He burned with humiliation, and as his hands contracted into fists, he wanted nothing more than to give in to his anger.
Saito saw it in his eyes and there was a flicker of concern on the mercenary’s face, there and then gone. ‘I imagine you are considering doing something dramatic and foolish. I would advise against it.’
Marc wanted to make a threat, to say something that would let him believe he wasn’t giving in without a fight – but there was nothing to be done. Saito was holding all the cards, and he hated himself for having to admit it.
And more than that, Marc knew that the moment the Combine mercs were done with him, they would discard him with the same callous disregard they had shown Lucy. But while he was alive, he still had a chance to do something. What that is, I have no bloody idea.
At length, he took a breath. ‘So let’s go, then. Sooner we’re done, the sooner I never have to look at you again.’ Marc took a step toward the Osprey, then stopped, as another thought occurred to him. ‘You said you left her alive.’
‘I did,’ Saito replied.
Marc smiled coldly as he found the smallest of victories in the moment. ‘Trust me, mate . . . You’re going to regret that.’
*
The pickup screeched to a halt outside the television station and Guhaad jumped down from the flatbed, shoving aside a youth toting an AK-47 who stood in his way. The young gunman was barely a teenager, and he blinked at the bigger man in confusion as his jaw worked on the ball of khat in his mouth.
‘Where is Kaahi?’ Guhaad demanded. ‘He isn’t answering his phone. And I don’t like to be kept waiting!’
The youth with the gun blinked again, and then pointed in through the doors of the TV station, toward a fretful-looking woman who had been waylaid by more of his comrades.
Guhaad strode into the building and the men he brought with him followed, sensing his annoyance and mirroring it in their swagger. The youths intimidating the woman saw him coming and immediately they ceased their games. All of them knew who he was and where he stood in the hierarchy of Ramaas’s organisation.
His mood had been fierce since his return to Mogadishu. He still burned with anger at the humiliation of being sidelined during the race from the bomb-maker’s home, and although the warlord had made nothing of it after they made their rendezvous to escape Dubai, Guhaad was convinced that others saw his actions as failures.
If anything, the lack of criticism from Ramaas made things worse. Guhaad knew that Zayd had not returned from his mission in Europe, and he knew that the warlord had given the other man a new and more important task to accomplish. Jealousy ate at him. Ramaas was planning something big, something dangerous, but he still deflected every question Guhaad put to him about it. He would not explain what was going to happen with the Russian bomb. The only conclusion Guhaad could draw was that Ramaas did not trust him with that information.
He fumed. He wanted Ramaas to understand he was just as capable as the cold-eyed sniper, but fate continued to conspire against him. Resentment simmered and his anger moved like water, searching for the path of least resistance. Guhaad loomed over the woman, directing it toward her. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Esme . . .’ She looked at the ground, fingers clutching nervously at the edges of her hijab. ‘I work here . . .’
‘Where is Kaahi?’
‘Upstairs.’ She pointed. ‘His office is on the third floor, but they won’t let me go back up there.’
‘Get out of my way.’ Guhaad pushed her back toward the cluster of youths, instantly dismissing her. He took the stairs at a pace until he reached the upper floors. The place was in disarray, but he ignored the mess. He didn’t care about what was happening here, only that Ramaas had told him to deal with Kaahi.
The resentment flared again. This was a job for someone less important, Guhaad told himself. Ramaas was mocking him with this little duty.
‘Boss?’ One of his men was at an open doorway, and his face was stiff with surprise. ‘I found him . . .’
Guhaad didn’t need to enter the room to know that Kaahi was already dead. He could smell the fresh blood in the close, unventilated office. He could see the pool of dark crimson soaking into the threadbare carpet around the man’s fallen corpse.
‘They cut on him,’ said the man at the door.
Guhaad’s eyes narrowed and he tried to imagine what had happened in the office. Someone with a blade had come here and ended Kaahi silently. Why? If the attack was some attempt to strike at Ramaas by killing one of the government men in his pocket, then it was a poor one. There were many more where Kaahi came from.
He looked down and saw that his boot was resting on another patch of bloody carpet. Guhaad refocused and picked out more spatters of red. A trail. He backed away a step and now that he knew what to look for, he saw a path of wet marks leading out of the office and down the corridor. At the far end there was a door hanging half open, leading to a fire escape stairwell. There was a smudge of crimson on the handle.
He found the woman collapsed on a landing halfway between the second and first floors. She was wearing a black coverall like those Guhaad had seen on American special forces soldiers, and there was a red-soaked scarf tied around her belly as a makeshift bandage. The hilt of a narrow dagger was wrapped in the wet cloth.
Her face was the colour of wet clay, filmed with sweat and drained by blood loss. Guhaad gave a grunt of surprise as he realised he knew her.
She tried to back away from him, but she was already pressed into a corner. He sized her up and waited for her to remember him too. After a moment, he saw the light come on in her eyes. ‘I didn’t think I would see you again,’ he grinned. ‘But maybe Ramaas is right. Maybe God does have a plan for all of this.’
The woman was tough, he could see that. She bit down on her pain and gave him a defiant look in return. ‘Sorry about . . . messing up your ride.’
He nodded. The American and the white man, the English who had been with her in Dubai, they had been responsible for running him off the road. This one, she had killed Bidar and left Guhaad for dead in a roadside ditch. He wondered about what he was going to do with the woman to repay that indignity.
‘You are a long way from New York City,’ he told her. ‘You came a long way to die.’
She eyed him. ‘You don’t know me.’
Guhaad laughed at that. ‘My Uncle Yarisow, he drives the taxi in Manhattan. I hear that accent when I talk to him on the telephone.’
The woman gave a pained chuckle. ‘Oh, yeah? Are you like him? Maybe you’re . . . . you’re for hire too?’
‘What is she saying?’ The rifleman standing behind Guhaad made a confused face.
‘Go down to the next floor and wait there,’ he snapped, the order coming from him before he thought it through.
His jaw stiffened. He knew exactly what the American woman was suggesting, and his first instinct was to take out his blade and slit her throat then and there – or better still, walk away and let her bleed to death.
But he did neither. She had the right mixture of arrogance and desperation in her voice, a tone that Guhaad had heard many times before. How often had he stood on the deck of a captured cargo ship or a rich man’s yacht, and listened
to some overfed Westerner saying the same thing? How much money to let me live?
He enjoyed the feeling that gave him, the control and the strength of it. The thrill of power made his resentment and disgrace fade. The American worked for important men, wealthy men. That was certain. So what harm would there be in taking a taste of that? Guhaad found himself liking the idea. Ramaas could busy himself with the Russian bomb and Guhaad . . . He could deal with this. He was capable.
And if it became a problem, he could simply kill the woman and dump her in the ocean.
He folded his arms. ‘You have something to offer me?’
‘Take me to . . . a doctor. Then the airport.’ She straightened up, wincing with pain as the knife in her gut shifted with the movement. ‘Half. Half a million dollars for a taxi ride.’
He grinned, knowing that he had her life in his hands. ‘No. Double it.’
‘Asshole!’ Her head lolled forward and she took a ragged, panting breath. ‘Shit. Shit, okay. A million. My people will pay that.’
‘If you are lying –’
‘I’m dying,’ she shot back. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. So we doing this?’
He nodded, and shouted out to the gunmen to come back up.
They carried her out to the waiting truck, and Guhaad told the driver that things had changed. Kaahi was dead, just as Ramaas wanted, but now something else had come up. They were going to see the old man, the dhakhtarka who lived down on the waterfront.
As the pickup’s motor turned over, Guhaad climbed into the flatbed and leered at the American woman in the dimness. ‘Don’t die on the way,’ he told her. ‘I don’t like to waste money.’
But she wasn’t listening to him. The woman was looking up into the night sky, as if she was trying to pick out something.
Guhaad heard a noise on the breeze. It sounded like a helicopter, but deeper and heavier, a rumble from powerful engines that faded off into the distance.
Despite the pain she was in, the American gave a weak smile. ‘Still alive,’ she said to herself.
‘We will see,’ Guhaad replied, and banged on the back of the pickup’s cab. The vehicle lurched forward and sped away.
Exile Page 37
