by Lynn Ames
“Yes?” Vaughn scrubbed a hand over her eyes and blinked. The vibration of the cell phone against her hip had awakened her from a fitful sleep.
“Elliott, you’re going to owe me forever.” Sabastien sounded impossibly smug.
“I’m sure. What do you have?”
“A likely location. At least, I think it is.”
“Okay.” Vaughn sat up and searched for a pen.
“There’s a U.S. AID food distribution warehouse about ten miles northwest of Timbuktu. It hasn’t been used in several years.”
“What’s around it?”
“Nothing. The nearest neighbors appear to be at least three miles away. The facility was used during the last big drought to supply the Malians with food and water.”
“In use recently enough to be in good repair, but vacant long enough to be forgotten by most,” Vaughn said. “It’s perfect. Give me the coordinates.”
Sabastien did.
“I assume you’re using Google Earth?”
“Among other sources, yes.”
“Can you zoom in close enough to tell me what’s around it? Is it desert? Are there other buildings? Are they going to be able to spot me from a mile away?”
Vaughn heard the clicking of keys.
“Looks like the best approach might be from the north. The main door faces east. Hmm…not much in the way of shelter, although there are a few small outbuildings where I assume the AID workers stayed while they were there.”
“I don’t suppose you could find a blueprint of the facility, could you?”
“Elliott, Elliott. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I can. The bigger question is how I’m going to get it to you.”
Damn. He’s right. Vaughn cracked her knuckles as she considered the problem. “Jackson, how far are we from Timbuktu?”
“Perhaps two-and-a-half hours. Maybe a little less. I will stop soon to put more petrol in the tank.”
Vaughn looked out the window. They were surrounded by desert on every side, without a sign of other civilization. It was unlikely that she could get an Internet connection anywhere out here, and she didn’t want to take a detour that would add time to the trip. “You’re going to have to talk me through it, Sabastien.”
“Damn, Elliott. Okay. Give me half an hour. I’ll call you back.”
In the front passenger seat, Justine stirred. She stretched and looked around. “What’s going on?”
“Sabastien pinpointed a likely spot where they could be keeping Sage.”
“Excellent. Where is it?”
“A U.S. AID distribution center ten miles northwest of Timbuktu. It’s been standing vacant for a few years, and it’s isolated with the exception of a few outbuildings that he thinks look like temporary living quarters.”
“Bingo,” Justine said. “Where are we now, Jackson?”
“On the way from nowhere to somewhere.”
“Very funny.”
“Sadly, it is true. I will stop here and let you stretch your legs for a minute while I refill the tank. Out here, only a fool doesn’t travel with his own supply of petrol.”
“I’m very glad to know you’re not a fool,” Justine said fondly.
“You are safe out here, Vaughn Elliott. We would see anyone coming long before they would see us.”
“Good to know. Justine, help me organize the things we’re going to need.” Vaughn waited for her to get out, then unfolded herself from the small jump seat. She jogged in place, trying to restore the circulation in her legs.
“Sorry about the cramped accommodations,” Jackson said over his shoulder as he filled the tank.
“I’ll live,” Vaughn said.
“That’s the plan, champ.” Justine playfully punched her shoulder.
Together they walked to the back of the truck and lifted the bed liner. Underneath was a cache of weapons and accessories—rifles, shotguns, pistols, revolvers, night vision goggles, long-range scopes, silencers, Kevlar vests, and enough ammunition of various kinds to supply an entire army.
Vaughn picked up the parts of a rifle and expertly assembled them into a whole. “A Steyr. The assassin’s ultimate tool. Very nice. Jackson, you’re scaring me a little, my man.”
“You never know what you might need in any given situation. Some wise person once taught me that.”
“Wise, indeed,” Vaughn said and smiled. She remembered exactly when, and under what circumstances, she had given Jackson that advice. “I’m pleased that you took the recommendation to heart.”
Justine removed three vests, two more rifles, a hunting knife, fifteen ammunition clips, a Glock, a Sig Sauer, and a .38 Special. “Jackson, were you preparing for war?”
“I hoped not. Certainly four or five Tuareg will be no match for us.”
“Assuming there are only four or five of them, with no local backup and no Company presence,” Vaughn said. “I find that hard to believe, especially if they know I’m coming. At the very least, I would expect that Torgensen will be pissed as hell that he missed me and eager to finish the job.”
“How do you know he’s not still chasing his tail in Bamako?”
“He’s too smart and too experienced for that. I think we have to assume the worst possible scenario and prepare for that. If we’re wrong, I’d rather be wrong on the overkill side, pardon the pun.”
“Agreed,” Justine said, loading the selected hardware behind the driver’s seat.
“How about if I drive for a while so you can get some sleep?” Vaughn asked Jackson. “You’ve got to be exhausted.”
Jackson handed her the key. “I would not mind a short nap. All you have to do is follow the road.”
“Such as it is,” Vaughn mumbled. In truth, the road was nothing more than hard-packed dirt, barely distinguishable from the surrounding desert.
“Wake me up before we get to Timbuktu. I know a way around the city.”
“Okay.” Vaughn slid into the driver’s seat and adjusted it for her height, while Justine squeezed herself into the jump seat.
“Grab my briefcase, will you?” Vaughn pointed to the floor underneath Justine’s feet. See if you can find anything on Sage’s blotter page that I missed. There’s a file folder with the names of every embassy employee if you want to try to cross-reference some of them.
“Got you.”
Vaughn started the engine and drove off. With any luck, they would have Sage, safe and sound, before the day was over.
Torgensen paced in the waiting area for his flight. Malians seemed to have no regard for schedules. The flight was scheduled to take off two hours ago. No one at the airline seemed the least bit concerned about the delay. Valuable time was slipping away. He had no idea how far behind Elliott he was, but he fully intended to arrive before her. Assuming she didn’t fly.
Washington had checked the manifest of the only other flight to Timbuktu that day. Unless she was using an alias, Elliott wasn’t on it. Torgensen himself questioned the ticket agent at the counter. No one matching Elliott’s description boarded any domestic flight that day.
Unless the intel was faulty, even with the flight delay, he should still be able to beat her to Timbuktu. Not only that, but he had the added advantage of knowing exactly where he was going.
Presumably, she was on her own. The Company had raided the apartment of the scrawny little geek who sent Elliott the McNally file. It was empty and looked as if someone had left in a hurry. He was on the run, Torgensen was sure. Like all geeks, he most likely was terrified. There was no question he would be more interested in saving his own scalp than in helping Elliott.
“Sir?”
“What?”
“We are ready to board the plane now.”
“Good.” Torgensen collected his bag and slung it over his shoulder. In a few hours his job would be done, and he could get out of this God-forsaken country.
Sage took a sip of water. She estimated that several hours had passed since the food delivery. In the intervening time, she hadn’t heard so much
as a footfall outside the door.
Although she knew it was useless, she braced her feet against the wall and yanked one more time with all her might on the chain. Neither the iron ring nor the chain budged. Renewed shockwaves of pain radiated from her shoulder, even though she had used only her right arm in the effort. She hissed and panted, trying to catch her breath and simultaneously clamp down on the cry rising in her throat. As she slumped back against the wall, tears streamed down her face. “Vaughn will be here any minute. She knows what happened and she’s coming for you.” Wanting with all her heart to believe it, Sage repeated the mantra several times.
Nassir Bahim was tired and irritable. He hated being ordered to do things. He was Tuareg, proud descendant of generations of warriors who ruled the desert. Nassir spit on the ground as he thought about his dealings with Ambassador Dumont. There was a time, many years ago, when they were both young and idealistic. Nassir had respected Dumont. He believed that Dumont cared about his people. Not any more. Dumont changed—he’d become hard and ambitious.
Nassir’s father was the leader of his people. Dumont was the political officer at the U.S. Embassy. His father encouraged Nassir to sit in on their meetings, which he did. It appeared to him then that Dumont had a genuine interest in the venerable history of the Tuareg and a respect for their heritage.
When Nassir’s father became gravely ill, Nassir turned to Dumont, appealing to him to help get prescriptions that were unavailable in the desert. Dumont came through, supplying needed medicine and even bringing a doctor out to examine the patient, despite the fact that Nassir wasn’t able to pay for either the doctor or the medicine. In the end, Nassir’s father died anyway.
Still, Nassir was grateful to Dumont for his extraordinary efforts on his father’s behalf, and pledged to him to return the favor if ever Dumont needed anything. So when Dumont called him to seek his help several weeks ago, Nassir felt he had no choice but to say yes. Honor demanded it. He was, after all, bound to Dumont for past good deeds.
What he was about to do—what he already had done—would have disappointed his father, he knew. But his father wasn’t here, and Nassir’s word was his bond. He would complete the jobs, erase the debt, and be done with it.
When they were on the outskirts of Timbuktu, Vaughn shook Jackson. “I need you to take over the driving.”
Jackson rubbed his eyes and sat up, yawning. “Right.” He got out and went around to the driver’s side, switching places with Vaughn. As he put the truck in gear, he asked, “Any word from your man?”
“Yeah, he called while you were sleeping. Sabastien says we want to approach from the north—there’s a side entrance that opens into a hallway. The nearest office is around the corner, so the area may be unguarded.”
“That makes sense.”
“Once we get inside, there are several storage rooms, some larger than others. I figure they’re holding Sage in one of the smaller rooms on the west side of the building.”
“I hate to be the one to mention this, but what if we’re wrong? What if this isn’t the right place?” Jackson asked.
Vaughn’s pulse jumped as doubts she’d been holding at bay made themselves known. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, and cleared her throat.
Justine cut in. “Sabastien has checked out every likely hiding place in Tuareg territory. None of them offers the kind of privacy and security that this one does. Vaughn is right—this is where Sage is. I’m sure of it.”
“We will know soon enough,” Jackson said. “It is only a few miles from here. You realize, if we take the truck in, we will be spotted long before we ever arrive.”
“I know.” Vaughn chewed her lip. “The best scenario, of course, would be to go in after dark.”
“Darkness is several hours away,” Jackson said, pointing out the obvious.
“No kidding.” Vaughn said. “Chances are whoever is coming will be here long before then.”
“Perhaps we can do something about that,” Justine offered.
“What do you have in mind?”
“What if the man never gets there? Or is at least delayed?”
“I’m listening,” Vaughn said.
“Jackson, I know you routed us around the city. But I assume we’ve joined up with the main road now, right?”
“Yes.”
“Is this the only road out of town?”
“No, but to get where we are going, it is the most direct, most accessible route.”
“I noticed a tool box in the back. I don’t suppose you have any nails or screws in there, do you?”
“I believe I just might.”
“A flat tire would be most inconvenient, wouldn’t it? It might take an hour or more to repair.”
“It might at that.”
“It’s not a guarantee,” Vaughn said. “And what if he has already arrived? Or if Torgensen has? Tuareg man may not have flown, but I’m betting if Torgensen is coming, he did.”
“He would’ve been carrying weapons,” Justine reminded Vaughn.
“I recognize that, but it’s a domestic flight. This isn’t the States. He probably wouldn’t have any trouble carrying a cache on board. Would he, Jackson?”
“Possibly not.”
“Okay, say you’re right and one of them beats us there,” Justine said. “It still wouldn’t hurt for us to lay down some nails.”
“If he isn’t ahead of us, which I think is unlikely, he would be a sitting duck, as you Americans say. We could wait and take him out.”
“We can’t kill just anyone who happens onto this road. I imagine he’s not the only Tuareg with a car,” Vaughn said.
“We would lay down the nails and keep going,” Justine said. “By the way, even if Torgensen flew, he would have to drive from Timbuktu. He’d pass through this way too.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
Jackson stopped the car, and Vaughn and Justine jumped out. Within minutes the road behind them was littered with nails and screws and they were on their way once again. They would find a place to park the truck out of sight a mile or so before reaching the facility and go the rest of the way on foot.
Vaughn closed her eyes and leaned her head back as they bounced along the last few miles. Her heart was hammering in her chest. They had made so many assumptions to get here. What if they were wrong and it cost Sage her life? No. You can’t think like that. This is no time for second-guessing. She tried hard to set her emotions aside and listen to her gut. Her gut told her that Sage was here, and that she was still alive. She prayed that she was right.
The plane had barely come to a full stop before Torgensen was out of his seat. He would pay a local to borrow a car outside the airport. All that remained was for him to find someone interested in American cash and then to drive the last short distance. The end was in sight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nassir got out of the car and brushed out the sleeves of his robe. He had stopped only twice during the drive, and his body felt stiff. A brisk walk around the exterior of the facility got his blood flowing again. The warehouse really was ideal. It was isolated, with excellent sight lines. As a result, it required a minimal number of guards, which suited Nassir just fine. The fewer people involved, the better.
As he reached for the front door, the barrel of a rifle poked out at him.
“Identify yourself.”
“It is I, you fool. Nassir. And why are you guarding the front door from inside? I told you I wanted at least one man outside at all times. In fact, I would like a perimeter set up. We may be having an unwanted guest.”
“Yes, sir.” The man opened the door wider to admit his leader. “I will get the perimeter set up immediately.”
Nassir fell into step alongside him. “No, I want to meet with everyone first. Gather them in the conference room and let me know when you are ready.” Nassir peeled off and disappeared through a door along the corridor. He was intimately familiar with the layout of the building, having selected it himself f
or the detention center.
The room was spare—concrete walls and floor, bare walls except for a detailed map of Mali, and no windows. The furniture consisted of two metal folding chairs, a metal desk, and a more comfortable chair. Nassir settled behind the desk and folded his hands on the smooth surface. During the long drive, he had managed to avoid thinking about the precise details of his mission. Now that he was here, there were decisions to be made.
He saw no need to make the girl suffer. She was nothing more than a pawn in this American’s personal jihad. The question was, what method of death would be the most humane? A bullet to the head? A knife to the heart?
“Sir? We are ready.”
Nassir waved the man away on a sigh and rose from the chair. Dumont might have been in a hurry to be rid of the girl, but Nassir did not feel the same urgency. After all, she was not going anywhere.
In the conference room, Nassir stared at the faces of the eight men sitting around the table. He had hand-picked them for this assignment. Like him, they were all descendants of warriors. Unlike him, they were not born to lead, only to follow. Their participation had been neither coerced nor required, and yet Nassir felt a strong sense of responsibility for their involvement. Damn you, Dumont.
“We have had a change in plans.” He met each of their eager gazes in turn from a standing position at the head of the table. “There are complications I could not have foreseen. What must be done must be, but I will not compel you to be a party to it. If, after you hear what I have to say, you choose to leave, no one will blame you. I will not blame you.” Nassir paused for effect. He could see the unease in their body language.
“I am with you.”
“You have not yet heard what I have to say. I think you would be wise to wait.” Nassir smiled indulgently at his younger cousin. The young man had been following him around like a puppy dog since he was a little boy.
“It does not matter—”
Nassir cut him off with a gesture of his hand. “As you know, originally we were asked only to detain the woman and hold onto her for a specified amount of time. Since then, there have been new developments. Our assignment has changed. Now, the woman must die.” Again, Nassir looked at each face. For emphasis, he added, “At our hands.”
