Running Dark

by Jamie Freveletti

  Vanderlock focused his attention on the panel before him. Landing the plane appeared to be taking all his concentration. Emma stayed silent, letting him work. They dropped lower and lower. A single runway cut into the sand came into view. Vanderlock aimed for it.

  They bumped once before the plane settled into a fast taxi. Vanderlock lowered the flaps. The resulting drag pushed Emma against her seat belt. Near the end of the track sat several pickup trucks with men gathered around. Sunlight glinted off the guns slung over their shoulders. Their images flashed by as the plane shot past. When it seemed as if they would fall right off the runway, they stopped. Vanderlock worked some switches, and the propellers slowed. He turned to her.

  “Welcome to Mogadishu. Also known as ‘Baghdad by the Sea.’”

  24

  VANDERLOCK THREW OPEN THE DOOR AND SPUN BACKWARD. Men swarmed at the entrance, each one yelling at the other and jostling for position. They hoisted themselves into the plane, competing to be the first inside. They clawed at the sacks, hauling them onto their shoulders. A Toyota pickup pulled parallel to the opening, and the men flung the khat into the truck’s bed. When the flatbed was full, the truck tore off, its spinning wheels flinging bits of dirt and stones into the air. Another vehicle pulled into place, and the men kept the sacks somersaulting out. The plane shook with the frenetic activity. Sunlight filled the aircraft’s interior, and along with it came a wave of heat. Emma stood but remained pressed against the back of the copilot’s seat to stay clear of the frenzied men.

  A skinny Somali fought his way into the cabin. He wore a T-shirt and dirty green cargo pants, and he carried an open clamshell mobile phone in one hand. A necklace with a carved antelope head swung on a rawhide string tied around his neck. Emma stared at it, trying to recall where she’d seen it before. The memory danced around in her head, but she was unable to pin it down. The man’s face twisted in anger as he shoved at the workers. He shrieked, “Shit, shit, shit!” interspersed with words in a language that Emma assumed was Somali. Behind him came a young soldier whom Emma guessed to be no more than nineteen, perhaps twenty. He wore jeans and black Nike basketball shoes. An ammunition belt encircled his waist, and two more crisscrossed his chest, covering the logo on his T-shirt. Emma noted that out of all the men, he was the only one in jeans. An AK-47 hung from a strap on his shoulder. Skinny Man stepped up to Vanderlock.

  “Shit—” he said, and followed up with some more words in Somali.

  Vanderlock shrugged and replied in the same language.

  Skinny Man turned his eyes to her, not with interest but with menace. Emma pressed back against the seat. Her foot hit the locker holding the guns. She pulled up a mental picture of them nestled in the case and wished she were holding one now.

  Vanderlock began speaking again in Somali, but the young soldier interrupted him.

  “You should speak in English. It is the only language you know well enough to be understood.” The young soldier spoke in American English with no accent. Emma gawked at him. He caught her surprise and sneered at her.

  “Yes, lady, I’m American. Like you?”

  Vanderlock snapped out a sentence in Somali. The young man gave him a disgruntled look but subsided a bit.

  Skinny Man jerked his head at Emma and turned back to the door. A worker carrying a large sack of khat blocked the exit. Rather than let the worker toss his burden and move out of the way, Skinny Man shoved him right between the shoulder blades. The worker yelped and fell out the door, landing face-first on the truck bed, the khat sack still on his back. The others continued heaving the sacks despite the fact that their colleague lay in the line of fire. Emma heard him grunt as two fell on him. He extricated himself and leaped out of the truck. He threw a look of pure hate at Skinny Man as he loped back to the plane’s door.

  Vanderlock moved next to Emma and bent to whisper in her ear. “Abdul wants us to step outside.”

  “Who is he?”

  “That skinny one. He’s a paid lackey for a warlord named Mungabe.”

  Emma heard Abdul scream, “Shit!” and didn’t understand anything else that came after.

  “How many times is he going to say ‘shit’?” Emma asked.

  “It’s the only English word he knows. The khat is late this morning. These guys are a little strung out.”

  “Why does he want us outside?”

  Vanderlock shook his head. “I don’t know, but it can’t be good. Normally I don’t leave the plane. I let them unload, and then I fly away as fast as possible, because every minute wasted degrades the khat.”

  Emma flipped open the toolbox and hauled out the AK-47. “This thing loaded?”

  Vanderlock looked alarmed. “Don’t wave that around. These guys carry an entire arsenal with them. One aggressive move and they’ll blow us apart. That’s a last resort.”

  “They’re not going to see it,” she said.

  “Shit! Shit!” Abdul was shrieking again, though at whom Emma couldn’t tell.

  She looked closer at the weapon, unfolded the butt, and flipped the firing switch to automatic.

  Vanderlock raised an eyebrow. “I thought you couldn’t shoot.”

  “I can’t. I know how to use the firing switch and depress the trigger. But in semi I can’t hit a target to save my life.” Emma pointed the gun downward and slid it behind their bodies, propping it up against the backrest of the copilot’s seat.

  “At least if anything happens, one of us can reach it,” she said. The young soldier came back into Emma’s line of sight through the door. He stood on the far side of the truck.

  “Abdul says get out here. Now.”

  The last vehicle peeled off from the plane, and the workers jumped after it, one by one, until only Emma and Vanderlock remained inside. Emma cut a quick glance at the remaining sacks. She estimated that 50 percent of the shipment was gone. The men had unloaded two and a half tons of khat in fifteen minutes.

  “Are we going outside?” Emma spoke in a low tone.

  “No way. Abdul can come to me. I’m not leaving my plane.” Vanderlock settled next to her, leaving his left arm flush with hers. Emma felt sweat beginning to form wherever their skin touched. The physical contact with him was somewhat reassuring. That and the knowledge that he was armed and she was within reaching distance of the AK-47. Abdul marched up to stand next to the young soldier. He yelled again.

  Emma felt Vanderlock’s body go rigid. He reached under his shirt and pulled out his gun in a leisurely motion. He held it in front of him, nose down, for a second, chambered a bullet, and then lowered it to his side. All his actions were in slow motion and performed while he kept his eyes on Abdul. Abdul snapped the cell phone closed in a dramatic gesture. Emma heard the metallic click as he did it.

  Vanderlock put out his hand and said one word. After a short pause, Abdul reached into his pocket and removed a small cylindrical object. He tossed it through the open door. It landed on the floor and rolled toward Vanderlock, stopping against the side of his boot. It was American money, rolled and secured with a rubber band. Vanderlock reached down, grabbed the money, and shoved the bills into his pocket.

  Abdul barked out another order and jerked his chin at her.

  Vanderlock shook his head and spoke in Somali. When he was finished, he removed the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and used his lips to pull out a smoke. He managed the maneuver one-handed, because his other hand still held the gun. A look of pure fury washed across Abdul’s face.

  “Shit—” He spit out a sentence. Bits of foam collected at one corner of his mouth flew in all directions as he spoke.

  “What did he say?” Emma said.

  “He wants you to go with him. He heard a rumor that you work for Banner. He intends to drag you before Mungabe for questioning.”

  Emma’s heart began to race. “What did you say?”

  “I told him you were my latest girlfriend. We met in Dubai on vacation, and you wanted to fly with me.”

  “Does he believe th
at?”

  “He’s not sure what to believe. My reputation is to change women fairly often, but that’s not what’s holding him back.”

  A bead of sweat ran along Emma’s spine, stopping at her waistband. She kept her eyes on Abdul and her voice low. “What is, then?”

  “Banner’s reputation. He knows that Banner wouldn’t let an operative travel alone, with me, and apparently unarmed. It’s making him hesitate. That and the fact that you’re a woman.”

  Abdul yelled a phrase. Within seconds the workers surrounded the open door. Two aimed at them from the ground, while three others hoisted themselves back into the jet. One shoved a gun tip into Emma’s ear. The metal felt hot rather than cold, as if it had just been fired. A muscular man, his head wrapped in a white turban and his beard dyed bright orange, stepped next to Vanderlock. He shoved a rifle up under Vanderlock’s jaw. Vanderlock kept his own pistol lowered at his side.

  Emma pressed against the copilot’s seat, but there was nowhere to go. She felt a portion of the metallic outline of the AK-47 against the back of her right thigh. Between the worker jamming the rifle into her ear canal on her left and Vanderlock flush against her on the right, she doubted she could maneuver it into firing position in the time she would need. She froze, waiting. She could smell the worker’s sweat coupled with the odor of cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes. The warm, fetid air inside the plane blanketed her, and rivulets of her own sweat poured down her face. The only sound in the cabin was the tapping noise made by a large fly that bounced against a side window, trying to get out.

  No one in the jet spoke.

  Abdul talked into his cell phone while keeping his eyes on them both. His gaze flicked to Emma. He lowered the phone and spoke to the soldier in rapid-fire sentences. The young man nodded and gave Emma a contemptuous look.

  “What’s your name?” he demanded.

  “Emma Caldridge.” She was proud to hear that her voice sounded normal, almost calm. “Where did you live in America?” She was equally proud to hear that her voice did not shake during the longer sentence.

  The young man preened. “Minnesota. My parents fled Somalia and ended up there. I’ve returned to work among my people to drive the Ethiopians out and restore Somalia to its prior glory.” His eyes held the fire of a convert.

  “You said you were American. Are you naturalized?” Emma wanted to keep the soldier talking about himself and keep the subject off her.

  It didn’t work. Abdul barked out a sentence before the young man could respond. “He wants to know if you work for Banner and his company, Darkview,” the soldier said. Emma tried to shake her head but succeeded only in driving the rifle tip farther into her ear.

  “I do not,” she said. The soldier translated for Abdul, who conveyed the answer to whoever was on his phone. Abdul listened to his caller for a moment and snapped out another sentence to the soldier.

  “Why did you come here?” the soldier asked.

  “She came to be with me.” Vanderlock spoke before Emma could.

  “Why did you bring her?”

  “Why do you think I brought her?”

  The soldier made a disgusted sound. “You should keep your mind on business.”

  “Man does not live on business alone. Unlike everyone here, I don’t chew the khat, so I can still get it up.”

  The young soldier straightened. “The khat makes you strong!”

  “The khat makes you impotent,” Vanderlock said. He switched to Somali. The men holding the rifles began protesting, appearing to argue with him. Emma admired his quick thinking. The topic reinforced the idea that she was there as a girlfriend and not as an operative but did it in a way that was far more effective than his bald assertion earlier.

  Abdul yelled one word, and they all subsided. He pointed to a pickup truck parked behind him and started walking away while still talking on the phone, as if the matter were closed. The man holding the gun to Emma’s ear pushed her forward.

  “You’re coming with us,” the soldier said.

  Emma’s mouth went dry. She slid her right hand behind her and wrapped her fingers around the stock of the AK-47. She’d raise it once she was clear of Vanderlock’s body. Vanderlock yelled in Somali to Abdul, who halted and turned around. The man pushing Emma ceased his shoving. Emma waited, her fingertips still on the gun stock behind her.

  “Let me repeat that in English so everyone here understands,” Vanderlock said. He gave the soldier his own contemptuous look. “You take her and I won’t fly. The khat will be late. Mungabe can explain to Jamar why detaining one unarmed woman was worth spoiling a three-ton shipment.”

  Abdul sent Vanderlock a considering look. He spoke into his cell phone, lowered it, and pointed at Vanderlock while rattling off a sentence.

  “Kill her and I still won’t fly the plane,” Vanderlock responded in English.

  The young soldier snorted. “Then we’ll kill you.”

  To Emma’s profound surprise, Vanderlock laughed. “No you won’t, smart-ass. I fly twenty-five tons of khat a week. You kill me and the three warlords that depend on me will hunt you, Abdul here, and even Mungabe down and throw all your corpses into the ocean to be eaten by the bottom feeders.”

  Abdul snapped an order to the young Somali. He kept his eyes on Vanderlock while the young man translated. Abdul gave Vanderlock a furious look before consulting with whoever was on the other end of his cell phone. After a moment he clicked it closed. He spit out a response to Vanderlock and waved at the guards, who released their hold on Emma. They moved to the entrance and jumped down. Emma slid her entire hand over the AK-47’s stock but held it next to her leg.

  The workers reached up and slammed the door closed. Vanderlock bolted it into place and turned to her.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.

  25

  VANDERLOCK REMAINED SILENT THE ENTIRE TIME THE PLANE climbed. Emma sat in the copilot’s seat, the AK-47 still in her hand. She stared out the window, thinking about what had transpired and wondering who had leaked her identity. She would have bet that it wasn’t Roducci. Perhaps a worker at the Nairobi airstrip with connections to Somalia? But they had spoken in English, and Emma didn’t think any of the cargo crew could. Vanderlock sighed as they reached cruising altitude. He reached into the green duffel and pulled out a silver flask that was dented on one side.

  “Open it, will you? I need a drink. And you can put away the gun. Nothing they can shoot will hit us up here.”

  Emma closed the folding butt and returned the weapon to the toolbox. She unscrewed the flask’s cap and handed it back. He took a huge swallow and offered the flask to her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Whiskey.”

  She took a drink. Her throat protested, she coughed once, and her eyes watered. She shivered as the liquid followed a path to her stomach.

  “Not a whiskey drinker?” Vanderlock said.

  “That would be correct.” Emma gave the flask back to him. Within seconds she felt the alcohol’s warming effect. “Actually, that’s nice.”

  Vanderlock gave a soft chuckle. Then he sobered and shook his head. “I should have asked for two grand.” He took another swallow and drew a deep breath. “You okay? That was close.”

  Emma nodded. “I’m more worried about your reputation.”

  Vanderlock shot her a surprised look. “I do well, but you’re top of the line, so I’m pretty sure it’s still intact.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not that reputation. I’m concerned that they’ll be suspicious of you from now on.”

  A pensive look passed over Vanderlock’s face. It was clear he understood the risk.

  “Abdul’s been there one year. The last guy Mungabe used got blown up making an IED. He’d been in the position all of six months. If I keep my head down, there’s a very good chance that Abdul will get himself killed and the whole situation will be forgotten.”

  “What about Mungabe? I assume he was on the phone?” />
  “Mungabe’s nuts. Certifiable. But he’s almost forty. Guess what the average life span is for a man in Somalia.”

  “Well, in the States I would say late seventies. In Somalia…maybe sixty?”

  “Forty-six. So Mungabe doesn’t have much longer to go either.”

  Emma shook her head. “How do you live like this?”

  Vanderlock swallowed some more whiskey and gave her an incredulous look. “How do I live like this? Lady, you just flew into the most dangerous city in the world, unarmed, in a plane loaded with drugs.” He pointed the top of the flask at her. “People who live in glass houses.” He took another swallow and handed her the container.

  “Oh, what the hell,” she said. She drank some more.

  “You act like it’s a bad thing to drink whiskey.”

  Emma wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The second shot succeeded in getting quite a good buzz going. She felt all her muscles relax and her jaw unclench.

  “Whiskey is bad. I’m an ultra runner. Alcohol puts you off your game.”

  Vanderlock thought about that for a moment. “You ever run the Comrades?”

  Emma sighed. “Just a day”—or was it hours?—“ago.”

  “Greatest footrace in the world. I used to watch it on television when I lived in South Africa.” Vanderlock’s voice was filled with pride. “I heard about the bomb. Whoever did that should be shot. Figures you’d be at that one.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’re trouble. Or trouble follows you. Either way. Take your pick.”

  “Maybe I run toward trouble.”

  Vanderlock nodded. “That’ll work. But if you’re going to keep it up, you’d better learn to shoot. You need someone to teach you.”

  Unbidden, an image of Cameron Sumner flashed in her mind, coupled with a feeling of longing. She tried to toss the feeling aside, but the whiskey’s effect left her brain fogged and her discipline lacking. Instead of controlling her emotions, she felt like she wanted to cry. She shoved the flask back at Vanderlock.