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

by Mark Mannock

  I ran around to the front of both cars. The Land Rover had its keys still in the ignition, and it took me all of five seconds to hot-wire the Jeep.

  “Where’s Blake?” I asked.

  “Once we got here safely, he went back to help. I assumed he was with you.”

  “Shit,” it appeared the vice president wasn’t much good at following orders either.

  “Into the car now, everyone,” I yelled.

  “What about Blake?” asked Greatrex.

  “You guys get going, take these people out of here. I’ll go back for him.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “No, you need to drive, now move the hell out of here.”

  Damn it all.

  Suddenly, a rattling spray of bullets pounded the Jeep’s tailgate. I whirled, firing a burst blindly into the darkness. I tried to fire again, but all I heard was the click of an empty chamber.

  Like ghosts in the blackness, four figures appeared out of the shadows. They all had automatic rifles pointing at the women and children.

  “Put your weapons down now.”

  It was Atha Riek.

  We’d come so close.

  There wasn’t much to say. No negotiation would get us out of this, we had no choice but to drop our weapons. I glanced behind me. The youngsters were crying, their mothers staring helplessly at the terrorist who had been their captor for so long.

  If I was going to die at this moment, it wasn’t going to be without a fight, but I just couldn’t figure out where to begin.

  The man on Riek’s left carried a heavy wound in his shoulder. I hoped I’d done that. The two terrorists on his right looked unscathed. From his furrowed brow and twisted grin, it was clear Riek was pissed.

  “Nicholas, please comfort that young girl to your left.” Jumaa’s voice sounded more agitated than conciliatory.

  About a foot behind me a small girl, around six years old, was sobbing. I appreciated Jumaa’s intent, but I didn’t want to make the child into a target any more than she already was. Then I figured it out. Nicholas Sharp: slow on the uptake.

  I edged to my left. Before I had taken a second step, Jumaa pulled the knife from his belt and hurled it. The blade hit Atha Riek in the stomach, blood pouring from the wound as he lurched backward. The terrorist’s surprised offsiders gaped before reacting.

  The big fella had also foreseen Jumaa’s intentions; before the two terrorists on Riek’s right got off a shot, Greatrex dived to the ground, swept up his gun and cut them both down in a burst of automatic fire. I heard the familiar hollow click as he ran out of ammunition. It didn’t matter. I lunged forward and grabbed Riek’s remaining man in a headlock, punching into his wounded shoulder repetitively. Within a few seconds, the pain rendered him unconscious.

  Before I was able to pick up the terrorist’s weapon, more gunfire echoed close by. Atha Riek was standing, clutching his stomach with one hand, his Kalashnikov with the other. He was staring fixedly at Jumaa who was lying against the Land Rover’s front wheel, his upper leg now a bloody mess.

  Riek risked a glance at me. “You reach for that gun Sharp and ten children plus that traitor will be dead by the time you touch it.” He spat the words as he eyed up Jumaa’s helpless frame.

  Greatrex grunted in disgust but could do nothing either except shield the kids. His wide eyes glowed with hatred.

  There was nothing I could do at all.

  Riek took a deep breath, wincing in pain. “Jumaa Al Fadil, you’ll be the first to die. No God, yours or mine, will provide sanctuary for a traitor like you.” He spat out the words through gritted teeth as he aimed his gun at Jumaa.

  “Do not talk to me of betrayal, you filthy animal.” Jumaa spoke with force and conviction, although clearly struggling for breath. “You speak of God as though his cause is your cause. You have no cause.” Our Sudanese friend paused. From his drawn skin and semi-closed eyes, it was clear every word he spoke came at a cost. “Across our land, men and women have united for peace. Muslims and Christians alike, all good people, all speaking with a solidarity that you will never understand. You have betrayed them all. Every day I am haunted by the death of my brother Aathif. You betrayed his wife, his son, our entire family when you took his life for the sake of your own power. Don’t you dare call me a traitor. Amashi al-nar—go to hell!”

  “Quiet,” responded the terrorist leader.

  Jumaa took a deep breath, his features relaxing. He looked relieved to have spoken his peace as he prepared himself for a certain death.

  Al Fahad smiled, his cold eyes showing the empathy of stone. “Be gone,” he growled as his finger tightened on the trigger.

  The shot rang through the silence, everyone gasped.

  The terrorist’s stony look was cast in frozen permanence as his eyes rolled back in their sockets. A geyser of blood erupted from the side of his head as he fell to the ground.

  “I never did like bullies,” said Jefferson Blake as he lowered his gun.

  Chapter 19

  The two packed vehicles descended the treacherous mountain trail with care. Greatrex had either blown up or disabled the terrorists’ remaining transport. In the back of my mind I was acutely aware of the Shararaa stationed around the rim of the valley, and wondered what means of transportation they had access to – they would have heard the blasts, even if they didn’t know what was going on yet.

  I drove the roofless Jeep while Blake rode shotgun. Greatrex drove the Land Rover behind us. Our greatest worry was Jumaa, who was laying down in the back of the Jeep. His leg had been bandaged as best we could, but he was losing a lot of blood. We’d need to find him medical attention soon. His wife, Salima, was nursing him, while his son, Ibrahim, looked on. Their pursed lips and wrinkled brows were a picture of concern.

  Our nerves drawn tight, we approached the entrance to the valley. This was the spot where the terrorists had signaled our arrival and communicated through gunfire. They would be on alert, but would they act without their leader? Driving with our lights off made our progress difficult, but there was no point in advertising our presence.

  Blake had his eyes peeled to the ridges, looking for any sign of movement. So far, he saw nothing.

  “Maybe the lookouts returned to the camp when they heard the shooting and explosions?” suggested the vice president.

  “It’s possible,” I said, “but we haven’t encountered any on the track. I don’t reckon there are too many alternative roads around here. If we make it clear of the valley, we’ll need to turn on the lights and go for it. Jumaa will not last the distance at this rate.”

  Just as I was starting to feel some level of confidence, we rounded a sharp corner to find a pickup parked across the track. No one was in the vehicle or in sight. This was a trap.

  “Eyes up,” I shouted.

  There was little time to make a decision. The terrorists would expect us to stop. It would be the natural thing to do.

  “Hold on,” I yelled as I floored the gas pedal.

  We rammed the back fender of the pickup ahead. It was the lightest section of the vehicle and easiest to move. The grille guard on the front of our car impacted loudly on the pickup. After the initial thump, the other vehicle slid awkwardly across the track toward the cliff.

  We were halfway through the maneuver when the first gunshot rang out. It was Greatrex. I flicked on the lights just as an enormous man with a Kalashnikov stepped out from the shadow of rock just in front of us. I raised my now reloaded gun over the windscreen and fired. He fell forward onto our hood before bouncing off and sliding under our wheels, his groan audible.

  More firing sounded behind us before Jefferson Blake sprung to his feet, aimed his gun and pulled the trigger. To my right, I saw one of our would-be attackers, who had been hiding on the other side of the stationary pickup, stumble backwards and cascade over the lip of the cliff.

  Metal screeched as we scraped the side of the terrorist vehicle, now tottering on the precipice. I braked hard, then floored the
gas pedal once more. The contact sent the terrorist’s pickup toppling down into the valley. The explosion was audible as it hit the rocks below.

  I gunned it out of there.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled over to check on our passengers.

  “I think there were only three of them, including one I tapped on the hill,” said Greatrex. “We didn’t take a hit.”

  “I hope that’s the last of them,” I responded. “Lights on and traveling as fast as we can from here on in, for Jumaa’s sake.”

  Greatrex nodded. We clambered back to our vehicles and pushed on.

  As the desert sun rose over the peaks, the flaring orange beams of sunlight struck like lightsabers over the blue hue of the mountains. This was magnificent country. If we hadn’t been fleeing from a night of bloodshed with terrorists barking at our heels, it could have been a stunning moment.

  But the only beauty I was appreciating as we thundered down the tracks was the fact we had survived the night and been able to rescue our innocents.

  “We need to decide soon, Mr. Vice President. Do we try to cross the border with the women and children or find them a secure refuge in-country before we leave?”

  “I’ve been contemplating that very thing, Nicholas. I’m not convinced there’s a decision to make,” Blake responded.

  I knew where this was going.

  “There is nowhere safe in Sudan for these people,” he continued. “Atha Riek may be dead, but his group had a very broad reach. We’ve cut off the head of the serpent, but a fresh one will emerge. If for no other reason than revenge, they will come after these families. We have to get them out.”

  “To the US?” I asked.

  “Yes, somewhere we’re able to protect them. I’ve got contacts in the government, you know.”

  Blake grinned. I laughed. It had been a while.

  “Okay,” I responded. “First step, we need to get Jumaa some decent medical treatment. He won’t survive the journey without hospital care. If he lays up for a few days, we can send someone back in to pick him up.”

  “I understand there is a hospital in Wadi Halfa. That’s on the Nile, close to the Egyptian border. We could bug out from there, although I’m unsure how far it is.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I reckon we drive for another couple of hours, get our bearings, and health check Jumaa,” I replied.

  “Now I don’t want to rain on our parade, but have you got any ideas regarding a way to contact our government en route?” asked the vice president.

  “Yes, sir, Jack Greatrex has an idea about that.”

  Jefferson Blake turned to look at me. “You two are very resourceful. What you’ve done tonight has been impressive.”

  “Thank you, sir, but don’t under value your own contribution.”

  Blake smiled.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “you’ve met my father. It seems to be in the blood.”

  We drove on in silence.

  Two hours later, I pulled the Jeep over to the side of the track. Greatrex did the same with the Land Rover . We had traveled most of the way down the mountain range and the road was becoming easier. That meant we could gain some speed.

  I walked to the Land Rover and opened the rear door. Unexpectedly, Jumaa’s face smiled back at me. I’d assumed he would be unconscious.

  “Salima is an excellent nurse,” he announced. “She has stopped most of the bleeding. I have been out for about an hour and a half but am feeling better now.”

  Salima spoke in haltering English. “Despite my foolish husband’s words, he needs blood soon. The bullet must come out and the wound cleaned if we are to avoid infection.”

  Jefferson Blake appeared behind me. “Would the hospital in Wadi Halfa be adequate?”

  “Yes, sir, it would,” she responded.

  “Jumaa, how long will it take us to get there?” I asked.

  “The journey should take several hours. I’ll be fine, but we must be cautious.”

  “In what way?” asked Blake.

  “Al Fahad will have sympathizers all over this area. Some civilian, and I fear to add, some in the government. We cannot trust anybody, no matter what uniform they wear.”

  Jumaa painted a bleak picture. We must rely on ourselves until we make it out of Sudan.

  I walked back to the Jeep where Greatrex was attending to the women and children.

  “We have a surprise,” he said, pointing at one passenger, whose face was partially covered by a blanket.

  As the rug was cast aside, the features that emerged were male.

  “What in God’s name…” I began. As I spoke, I reached into the front seat for my gun.

  “No, no, not what you think, Nicholas. This is Salah Bahri. The young lady next to him is his daughter, Thiyiba.”

  The man and the girl both looked up and smiled.

  “In a sick twist,” Greatrex continued, “it was Salah’s wife who was taken by the Shararaa while he was held hostage with the women. He doesn’t know where she’s gone, but says the terrorists were explicit in saying they needed a female, despite Salah offering to go in her place.”

  “Let’s store that information and move on,” I said, masking my surprise. “Jack, will you be able to get a signal here?”

  In a moment of genius, Greatrex had discovered a long-range satellite communications system in the terrorist’s armory. He’d confiscated it.

  “I’ll give it my best shot,” he replied. “The top of that outcrop looks good,” he said, pointing at a bunch of rock around fifty yards north. “I’ll wave if I get a signal.”

  As Greatrex moved off, Vice President Blake came over. “I can’t just call up and say ‘Jefferson Blake here.’ No one would believe me, no matter what code word I used. Do you have someone reliable in Washington you communicate with?”

  “Yes, sir, you could say that. Our man on the street is retired Marine General Devlin-Waters.”

  “My God, Colin!”

  “You know him?”

  “Know him? He saved my life in Iraq.”

  “Well, he may be about to do it again, sir.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Greatrex waved from the top of the rocks. I made my way up to him.

  “The General is coming online.”

  I grabbed the bulky headset from the big fella and waited. It took three minutes before I heard the familiar voice of our former leader.

  “Nicholas?”

  “General.”

  “Do you have Blake?” Straight to the point.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank God. Now listen carefully. There’ve been some developments.”

  Ten minutes later, we’d made it back down to the road. I had no idea what I would say, or exactly how I would say it.

  After making sure Jumaa was all right, I motioned for the big fella and Jefferson Blake to step to one side.

  “Okay,” I began. “There’s a lot of news. First, we will need to make our way into Egypt for our military to extract us. The Chinese are still blowing hot about crossing their air blockade, and no one at the Pentagon has the wherewithal to take them on in the present circumstances. Temporary travel papers are being drawn up in fictitious names for our charges,” I nodded toward the families.

  For the first time, these people might be able to allow themselves a little hope.

  Jefferson Blake interrupted my thoughts. “What do you mean by ‘in the present circumstances’, Nicholas?”

  There was no fooling this man, not even for a second.

  “Well, I’m unsure how to say this, sir, but I have some tragic news.”

  I paused, but there was no way around it.

  “I’ve been informed that two hours ago President Carlton died of a massive heart attack.”

  “Oh my God,” said Blake.

  “Shit,” said Greatrex.

  “The media has just been told. They’ve also been informed that the vice president is in transit from Sudan.”

  Silence.

  “So,” I looked a
t Jack Greatrex as I spoke. “I may as well spell this out. We are in hostile foreign territory being pursued by very pissed terrorists while being charged with the safety and extraction of twenty innocent Sudanese civilians and…” I could hardly get through the words… “the president of the United States of America.”

  “Shit,” said Blake.

  Chapter 20

  Several hours later, our exhausted convoy hit the outskirts of Wadi Halfa, the small town appearing like a mirage rising above the desert sands. The buildings were predominantly single story and made from mud, stone, and brick, and there wasn’t a blade of grass in sight. The only respite from the dirt roads and sand dunes was the calming waters of Lake Nubia on our left as we turned onto what appeared to be some sort of main street.

  I pulled the Jeep over; Greatrex did the same with the Land Rover. A few locals watched on, their curiosity piqued. The big fella joined me as I opened the Land Rover’s back door for what I hoped was the last time to check on Jumaa.

  Our Sudanese friend seemed drained. His eyes were half closed, and his breathing labored. There was no question of him being able to complete the journey out of Sudan with us.

  “I’ll be all right,” he said, pausing for a breath every couple of words. “Salima will guide you to the hospital. They’ll do what they need to. Do not worry.”

  Five minutes later, we stopped outside Wadi Halfa’s one and only hospital and wondered if we had made the correct decision. The building was compact and looked run-down.

  “Stay here,” I instructed Vice—no—President Blake. We needed to keep him from view as much as possible. Every wacko with a grudge against the US government would have seen his face on television or social media over the last few hours, and Greatrex and I weren’t the Secret Service.

  The spartan cleanliness of the facility surprised me as I walked through the front doors.

  A tall man with broad shoulders wearing medical scrubs and a stethoscope around his neck appeared out of a side door.

  “Mr. Sharp, I presume. I’m Dr. Mageed. We’ve been expecting you.”