Hell's Choir (NICHOLAS SHARP THRILLER SERIES Book 3)

by Mark Mannock

  “That’s correct, Jack,” replied Jumaa. “The trouble is, you could search those slopes for years and never encounter a trace of our prey.”

  I was glad that Jumaa was optimistic enough that we were the predators and not the prey.

  “We’ll head to Napata then leave the highway and push toward the mountains. There is a man I must speak to along that route. I am hoping he’ll have information for us.”

  The Nissan’s wheels spun in the dirt as Jumaa sped back on to the tarmac and headed north.

  “Why does Riek use this territory as his base?” I inquired. “It’s a long way from Khartoum.”

  “That in itself is one reason,” replied our friend. “I think Al Fahad believes that the further he is from the central authorities, the safer he remains, but there is also another geographical purpose. We are drawing close to the Egyptian border. If events go wrong, he and his brothers can slip into Egypt. The Shararaa will have allies there.”

  “So, is this Batn-El-Hajar a traditional Islamic stronghold?”

  Jumaa laughed. “To be honest, the ‘Valley of Stones’ has been many things. Two thousand five hundred years ago, the Nubian kings and queens of Napata and Meroe built the pyramids in this region. Around 350 AD, when the Kingdom of Aksum invaded the area, the Meroitic Kingdom collapsed. Eventually three smaller Christian kingdoms replaced the Aksum. There are many Christian ruins in the territory. Move forward to the fourteenth century and Arab influence had grown throughout the valley. Islam became the predominant religion, as it remains today.”

  “Quite an evolving landscape,” I observed.

  “Yes, it is,” replied Jumaa. “I sometimes wonder if that’s another reason Riek spends so much time here. Maybe the fact that Islamic forces reclaimed the precious Valley of Stones from his Christian nemeses is a powerful motivation.”

  Ninety minutes later, we had left behind the sanctuary of the asphalt and were heading down a dirt road toward the distant mountains. The Nissan produced a plume of dust and gravel as we powered along. This was slower going, but Jumaa maintained a solid pace.

  As the trail weaved through the desert, we started our ascent into the foothills. “In about thirty minutes, I’ll turn off. I have a distant uncle, Ali Fake, who will help us. He is Muslim and well connected. He’s an old man now, but was once very influential in the government, although no one knows why he quit state service. If there are rumors of the Shararaa in the territory, he’ll know.”

  “Will he tell you?” I asked.

  “Yes, we may differ in faith, but we have blood ties. We are family. Ali Fake is a trader. It’s a role that gives him access to information. I hope he’ll also be able to provide us with some additional weaponry.”

  We had escaped Khartoum with only the rifles and ammunition that Greatrex and I had taken from the terrorists the previous day. Our shortage of firepower was troubling.

  “I’ll certainly feel more confident when we’re better armed,” added Greatrex. “It’s a shame we couldn’t arm up before we left the city.”

  “I’m certain my uncle will provide for us,” replied Jumaa. In reality, we had no other option.

  It took us closer to an hour before we swung off the dirt road onto a rough sand trail. Jumaa put the car into four-wheel-drive mode and ventured on. He seemed to know where he was going. After another twenty minutes, a solitary structure appeared on the horizon.

  “My uncle prefers to live and work in isolation,” said Jumaa. We had pulled up next to a low clay-and-stone construction. The building’s roof was flat and there were only two narrow windows exposed to the track. A four-foot-high mud wall surrounded the structure and the enormous yard on its southern side.

  “My uncle may be a little hesitant in the presence of two Westerners. I’ll go in on my own and talk with him, then call you to join me if all is well.”

  Jumaa climbed out of the car and strode up to the brick barrier. “Ali Fake, it is Jumaa Al Fadil” he yelled over the wall. “Come and speak with me.” He was greeted with silence. I was becoming nervous. “Uncle?” he called again. “It is Jumaa.”

  Finally, the small wooden door in the center of the building opened. Jumaa walked through the gateway and up to the opening. We saw him shake hands with someone and then disappear inside.

  Greatrex and I sat and waited.

  “I reckon we’ve done some pretty stupid things in our time,” he began. “But this just might be the dumbest of them all.”

  “If you mean attacking a terrorist camp on foreign soil with minimum intel, a couple of guns, and limited ammunition, I couldn’t agree with you more,” I replied. “It really comes down to choice, or lack there-of.”

  “Sometimes this Dudley Do-Right thing just gets annoying.”

  “And not for the first time,” I replied. “To be constructive, Jefferson Blake seems to be a principled man, and he is our vice president.”

  A grunt from the rear seat. “We’re putting a lot of faith in Jumaa,” Greatrex continued. “We haven’t known him long, and I don’t enjoy being this dependent on someone we barely know.”

  “I agree,” I said. “But what do your instincts tell you?”

  “That Jumaa is a good man.”

  “Mine too, plus don’t forget he saved our butts at the airport.” Then I added, “Let’s just hope that his resourcefulness will go the distance we need it to if we are to succeed here.”

  “Too damn right,” agreed Greatrex. Discussion over.

  Ten minutes later, Jumaa re-emerged from the house. He didn’t wave us in. He stood in the doorway, his back turned in our direction. We could hear snippets of the conversation, presumably with his uncle, as it became more heated. By the end, both voices were raised. I looked at Greatrex in the rear seat. He appeared alarmed and was reaching down to pick up his gun.

  “Just in case,” he said. The door of the building slammed shut and Jumaa returned to the car.

  “That did not go as well as I had hoped,” he announced.

  “No kidding,” said Greatrex.

  “I’m sure it will be all right,” Jumaa continued. My uncle informed me that word is, Atha Riek and his group are up in the mountains. He said they are being cautious and having minimal interaction with the locals. Even their supporters.”

  “Because they have Blake,” I suggested.

  “Yes, Nicholas, probably so. The problem is that whatever contact they have had with outsiders has been very threatening. Although my uncle has told me the most likely locations where we may find Riek, he wouldn’t supply us with weapons. He believes doing that would guarantee certain death to himself and his family. Hence the argument. He also declared he would have no Americans in his home, ever. I fear, Nicholas and Jack, that the atmosphere here in the north is changing. Before it was uncomfortable, now it is dangerous.”

  With that, Jumaa started the engine, reversed the Nissan into his uncle’s drive, and headed back the way we came.

  The car’s air-conditioning seemed to have no effect as the afternoon sun warmed the cabin well past the point of comfort. When we hit the original dirt road, Jumaa turned westward.

  “How far?” I asked.

  “We must travel for another three hours, at least. It will become slower going as we climb higher into the mountains. That, however, is not what is worrying me,” Jumaa announced.

  “I suspect what is concerning you, Jumaa, is what has been eating at me since we set off last night. If we do get ‘lucky’ and identify the general position of the Shararaa camp, how the hell do we approach it without being seen or captured?”

  Jumaa nodded.

  “And even if we manage that,” added Greatrex, “how do we grab the vice president and make it out in one piece?”

  “And therein lies the biggest issue,” I said. “Everyone involved in this whole damn situation is acting in God’s name. Atha Riek, his men, the Sudanese government, the West. Everybody seems to believe God is on their side. Go figure.”

  The shadows grew l
ong as we wound our way up through the hills. Gradually the track became steeper, narrower and more uneven. The landscape, bathed in the deep-blue hues of the mountains and the vast views across each valley, was breathtaking.

  I wondered if we would be alive to enjoy it on the way down.

  Chapter 11

  The intensity of the sweltering afternoon sun wore away at us, sapping our energy.

  After four solid hours, it was surprising when Jumaa stopped the SUV on a narrow track just before a blind corner. Having not encountered another car or even passed through any village for at least two hours, we’d pushed into the most inaccessible regions of the Batn-El-Hajar Mountains.

  “I fear my uncle’s directions were not explicit enough to be of help.”

  “Do we have any chance of locating the Shararaa out here or has this been a complete waste of time?” asked Greatrex.

  I observed our Sudanese friend. Over the preceding hour, he’d become quieter and his grip on the wheel tighter. His face now appeared drawn; his stress visible.

  “I’m sorry, Nicholas and Jack,” he said.

  As he climbed out of the vehicle, our guide seemed nervous.

  “Don’t worry, Jumaa, we’ll find a way,” said Greatrex, sensing he’d been too abrupt. “This was always a big ask.”

  I studied Jumaa’s face. An experienced sniper can generally read tells, the mannerisms that foreshadow a subject’s movements. I had a bad feeling about this.

  We clambered out of the car. The three of us stood on the roadway as Jumaa opened the rear passenger door behind me. Without saying a word, he reached down and grabbed the Kalashnikov from the floor of the back seat. He leaned back against the door.

  The stillness of the mountains was broken by the unmistakable growl of high revving engines.

  “What the hell…” was all I got out before two open-top Jeeps, one ahead of us and another behind, came sliding into view, their motors roaring. Jumaa raised the gun, pointing in the direction of the Jeep in front of us.

  “Fire, man,” I yelled. “Fire!” Jumaa just stood there, rifle aimed at the man jumping out of the passenger side of one of the Jeeps.

  Greatrex turned back to the Nissan to pick up the other gun, but Jumaa blocked his way.

  “Step away from the car and onto the center of the path,” came the instruction from the Jeep. Two sprays of automatic gunfire peppered the gravel at our feet. Greatrex and I backed up.

  At least a dozen of them spilled out of the two vehicles. They were armed and disciplined, surrounding us in seconds. Each man held a weapon. Each dust-covered, sun-soaked face bore a look of weathered grit. Warriors. They wore no uniforms, but one soldier can recognize another despite their civilian attire. I looked to the man closest to me, his eyes a swamp of contempt.

  This would not end well.

  Jumaa stood there, frozen. His gun raised. He didn’t fire, but neither did our assailants fire on him.

  Greatrex and I remained in position with our arms raised. There was one remaining passenger in the Jeeps. He opened the door slowly and stepped out, towering above his comrades as he walked toward Jumaa. Those around him remained silent in deference. He raised his weapon, stopping inches from Jumaa’s gun.

  “Fire if you want, Christian, but you can see how this will end.”

  Any confusion about what just happened dissipated when Jumaa replied. “Tell Atha Riek that Jumaa Al Fadil is here. This is my third and final appointment. I have brought the Christian invaders that I promised.”

  The terrorist gazed at Jumaa without reacting. His distant stare lasted for several seconds before a broad grin exposed his uneven teeth. Instantly, the hot afternoon turned ice cold.

  “Jumaa, I wasn’t convinced you would come,” countered the terrorist.

  With that, he lowered his weapon as Jumaa dropped his.

  “You received my message, then, Gataa?” said Jumaa.

  “Of course,” replied the other man. “We have been here waiting for the last two hours. Unlike me, Al Fahad kept faith that you would come.” His eyes arced up and down as he assessed his prisoners. “He will not be disappointed.”

  Jumaa’s face looked as relieved as Greatrex’s did crestfallen. Everything flipped so quickly that neither he nor I had time to process the outrage, bewilderment, and disappointment that now coursed through our veins.

  As the terrorists bundled us into one Jeep, a thousand thoughts rattled through my brain. How did we misjudge this man so completely? The signs had all been there. Jumaa’s knowledge of Riek and his group showed way too much depth for him just to be an innocent victim. The rescue from the hotel ran too smoothly, tracking the rebel band too easy. How did we not see that?

  I considered the contradictions. We’d killed several members of the Shararaa cell aboard Air Force Two. Perhaps Jumaa didn’t expect Jack Greatrex and I, two musicians, capable of such a lethal attack? That led to the death of the terrorist we interrogated at Jumaa’s house. Perhaps Jumaa’s whispering in his ear had been to tell the man that the rise of their cause necessitated his demise? Jumaa murdered him to gain our trust. Had he saved us from the Sudanese Armed Forces outside the palace for the same reason, or did he do it because he needed his hostages to come willingly?

  The Jeep clattered slowly along the deteriorating track. We climbed higher, edging further into the mountains. Sitting across from me, Greatrex appeared despondent. We’d gotten ourselves out of some tight situations in the past, but this was different.

  Despite the bleak outlook for our immediate survival, the betrayal dominated my concerns. Greatrex looked as though he felt the same. We’d trusted Jumaa Al Fadil. That had been a colossal mistake.

  Again, I rummaged through the last twenty-four hours. The visit to Jumaa’s uncle; that must have been to send a message to Riek, to forewarn him of our intentions and to arrange the ambush. The lack of additional arms available to us, clearly a set-up. Damn and hell!

  If anything Jumaa said rang true, it may have been the story of his brother-in-law’s death. I refused to accept that Awadia and Salim contributed to his deceit. But was I kidding myself?

  All too easily we accepted the tale of Jumaa’s liberation from Shararaa. It was now apparent that he’d still been in debt to Riek. Judging from the cordial response these terrorists showed Jumaa, he’d built up trust with the group as they waited for his bill to fall due.

  There remained no doubt in my mind that Greatrex and I were to be the ultimate payment on that account.

  The desert twilight cast long shadows as we heaved to a stop ninety minutes later. Our bodies were sore, and our minds fatigued beyond exhaustion. Perched high on a ridge, we looked ahead to a shallow basin surrounded by steep, arid hills. Through my dust plagued eyes, I perceived no sign of life at all.

  “We are almost there, infidels,” declared the terrorist seated in the front passenger seat. He then nodded to one of the two men squashed either side of Greatrex. The man raised his rifle. At first, I figured he would shoot one of us, but he pointed the gun to the sky and fired. Primitive but effective communication.

  As we crawled down into the lowland of the valley, the road evaporated. No one would find you out here unless they knew precisely where to look. We’d never had a chance.

  Eventually, as we rounded an extensive rocky outcrop, a sequence of tents, barbed-wire enclosures and vehicles revealed themselves. To the east, a precipitous embankment of granite rose above the makeshift community. Against its hard walls, several ladders led to what appeared to be caves.

  It was Osama bin Laden and Al-Qaeda all over again. Bin Laden and his people spent many years hiding successfully from US forces in the mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan. A complex array of changeable caverns allowed them to evade detection and extinction time and time again. Clearly terrorist groups learn from the successful modeling of others. Everything in the encampment could be dismantled and disguised in a matter of minutes while key personnel retreated safely to the caves.

&nbs
p; These guerrillas were experienced professionals.

  Our convoy drew to a stop. Dehydrated and exhausted, I remained pissed at the whole situation. I carried little belief that our mission would result in success. Hope morphed into despair. Betrayal does that to you.

  “Out,” commanded the terrorist beside me, supporting his orders with a jab of his rifle. Resistance was pointless. The big fella and I clambered out of the Jeep. Sometimes, if you know someone well enough, you don’t have to use words. Despite our enforced silence, a few exchanged glances said it all. We were both furious.

  Behind us, Jumaa climbed out of the Nissan. He took a minute to look both Greatrex and I up and down. He then shook his head and spat on the sand at our feet.

  “Take me to Al Fahad,” he commanded the leader of the group. “I have nothing to say to these infidels.” With that, the two men walked off toward the makeshift camp.

  I sensed Jack Greatrex’s venom as he glared at the receding figures. Greatrex is not a man who forgives easily… or forgets.

  My own anger kicked at me like a raging bull. How did we let this happen? Drowning in frustration, they hustled us to one of the cave entrances.

  “Up,” shouted the leading guard before shoving me in the back, pushing me up a makeshift ladder.

  “In.”

  Too many men with too many guns. We entered the cavern.

  The space appeared small, only ten feet deep. Two of our captors, equipped with their favored Kalashnikovs, guarded the entrance. We may have been going nowhere, but at least we could talk.

  “Don’t even ask me what I think,” said Greatrex. “I’m too pissed to contemplate anything but tearing that scrawny traitor in half with my own hands.”

  Jack Greatrex was not a man for whom the passage of time allowed for the dimming of emotions.

  “That self-serving prick deserves a slow and painful death for this,” he continued.

  I knew from experience that the best thing to do was sit and wait while Jack let off steam.