by Dana Haynes
“Her,” he gestured toward a girl who was maybe twenty, or maybe a little older. “And two others. One each. Don’t care who.”
The private spoke fluent Arabic but with a Riyadh accent. He stepped forward and spoke slowly, keeping his orders rudimentary. “Attention, please. The United Nations checkpoint is overrun with refugees. They need to start getting people through as quickly as possible. We need to take three of you now. Everyone will be reunited at a British camp over the border.”
Jane Koury was still half asleep. The ringing in her ear had faded but her head still ached. Three soldiers entered the barracks, threw on the lights, and were talking, but their accents were weird and she was having trouble following.
Something about a British camp over the border?
There were no British camps anywhere near the Balkans, Jane knew. She must have misheard.
The soldier who spoke pointed to her and made a get-up gesture. Maybe he’d figured out she was English?
She tried standing and felt her gorge rise. You’re concussed, you daft cow, she chided herself. The room spun.
Amira was standing, too, so Jane put an arm around the girl’s shoulder. Another refugee boy, one of the Afghans, stepped forward after toeing on his ragged Chuck Taylor trainers.
The soldiers moved to escort them toward the door.
Amira pulled back. She grabbed Jane’s hand and yelled, which set off the spinning in the room and the dental-drill headache over her right eye.
Amira said something. What …
Mohamed!
One of the guards scooped Amira as if she were a rolled-up sleeping bag and made for the door.
Another grabbed Jane by the upper arm.
“No wait …” She tried to clear her head. “Wait, we—”
The guard shoved her toward the door.
“No! I can’t. Mohamed, he’s—”
The guard cuffed her on the back of her head.
Jane went to one knee and dry-heaved.
Amira screamed as the soldier carried her under one arm out the door.
Jane was lifted to her feet and escorted roughly.
“Wait … we’re with a boy …”
The soldier who spoke Arabic said, “I understand. You’ll be reunited. It’s okay.”
A small truck pulled up in front of the barracks. The Afghan boy and Amira were ushered, none too gently, into the back.
“No, wait! Mohamed! I have—”
The guard put hands under Jane’s armpits and hefted her easily into the back of the truck.
Amira screamed.
The soldier raised the tailgate of the truck, then whacked the brace twice with an open hand.
The driver put the truck in gear.
C48
Fiero hissed, “We hold.”
A small truck with the logo of Ragusa Logistics had pulled up in front of Barracks Three. Soldiers had entered the building and now emerged with three of the children; two girls and a boy, all dusty and disheveled. The younger girl with her arm in a cast howled in fear. They were hustled into the small truck and two soldiers joined them. A third soldier and the original guard remained.
Fiero peered into the night and recognized the soldier. It was their old pal Llumnica, the same guy they’d captured in the Loire Valley in France.
The truck spat gravel, heading back onto the main road.
Agon Llumnica held a walkie-talkie to his lips and spoke in Serbian or Armenian; Fiero couldn’t tell the difference. Didn’t matter: he was calling ahead to the gate to alert them that the truck was heading their way.
Fiero grinned wolfishly. She touched her ear jack. “Keeper: Good to go?”
Finnigan said, “Give me sixty.”
“Change of plan. We’re taking the barracks now. Striker: subdue the base, please.”
Fekadu said, “Confirmed.”
“Midfielder: deaf and blind, please.”
Lo Kwan spoke from elsewhere in the base. “Confirmed.”
Fiero made a come-here gesture to the men behind the oil drums. McTavish moved forward quick-like. Bianchi did not. McTavish started to repeat the gesture but Fiero stopped him. Her message was clear: either the Italian followed orders or he didn’t, but he didn’t get to pick whose orders he followed.
After a beat, the Italian dropped his rifle to his side and squat-walked to join them.
Fiero covered her voice wand, speaking only to the two of them. “Corporal with walkie. We need him. Guy at the door is expendable. McTavish has him.”
Bianchi hissed. “I thought I saw someone back—”
She said, “Try not to piss yourself. Let’s go.”
She swung her carbine over her shoulder, the strap cross-body, and drew her SIG. She stepped around the corner of the barracks and advanced, the guys behind her. They were now only five paces from the soldiers, who were chatting with each other. The guard laughed. Corporal Agon Llumnica spotted Fiero, and his brain took a moment to realize who he was seeing, here at his nice-and-safe base. She stepped past the guard and jammed her SIG into Llumnica’s face, barely two inches from his nose.
She heard McTavish deck the guard a pace behind her. The man’s head ricocheted off the barracks wall and he bounced into McTavish’s arms, as limp as a rag doll.
Fiero had been watching the keys in the guard’s hand; they hadn’t gotten around to relocking the barracks.
She used her free hand to reopen the door. Corporal Llumnica started to speak and she used the gun to bop him on the bridge of his nose—not hard, just enough to shut him up. She grabbed his lapel and shoved him into the barracks. Then, following as he stumbled inside, Fiero drove the sole of her boot into the side of his knee. Llumnica crumpled.
McTavish hauled the unconscious guard in her wake and dumped him on the floor.
Bianchi scooped up the man’s fallen rifle and entered, closing the door behind them.
Fiero went to her haunches and took Llumnica’s gun and walkie-talkie. The refugee kids were awake, most of them sitting on cots or standing next to them, eyes wide.
“Be calm.” Fiero spoke Arabic. “We’re not here to harm you. Please stay calm.”
A girl with a patch over one eye, who was all of fourteen, said, “Who are you?”
Fiero offered the girl a warm smile, aware that she wore all-black fatigues and carried firearms. “We’re here to get you out. Tell everyone else, would you please?”
She turned to Agon Llumnica. “Hi. Remember me?”
“How the fuck did—”
She clocked him in the ear with the side of her gun, just enough to get his attention. “I’d like nothing more than to shoot your cock off, Corporal. Do as I say, and you’ll rob me of that joy. You understand?”
He nodded, eyes wide.
“Good. We’re stealing your refugees. Why should your corrupt major make all the profit? Our commander wants a slice of this sweet pie, too. Money enough to go around. Yes?”
It had been Finnigan’s idea to play the role of the competitor. Appear to be an invading force, and the soldiers of Operating Base Šar might suffer from an onset of late-stage patriotism. Appear to be criminals ripping them off, and they’d be less likely to risk their own hides in an all-out battle.
The corporal glared at her. “Fucking bitch. The whole thing in France—”
“That’s right. We needed the Serbian kids’ buyers. Now, we’re—”
Something rattled in the mess hall, like a pan on a cabinet. A shadow flitted across the double doors.
Bianchi raised his silenced carbine.
McTavish reached him first, a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt shoving the gun an inch to the left.
Bianchi fired. The sound suppressor huffed.
The bullet blew a hole as big as a bagel through one of the dining hall doors, six inches fr
om the head of Mohamed Bakour.
C49
The guy who jogged into the motor pool and grabbed the small truck hadn’t bothered calling anyone on his walkie-talkie. He’d just hopped in and rolled out. Finnigan took that as a good sign.
He pulled himself out of the lube/oil/filter pit. The soldier had veered toward the back of the shop and Finnigan headed that way now, finding what he’d missed first: a pegboard with keys. He grabbed the one that matched the Scania with the Ragusa Logistics logo. He dashed to the big door and hit the red button. The door began to rise. He climbed into the truck, turned over the ignition, and saw the fuel gauge bob over to full.
He rolled out of the garage without a care in the world. New York boys don’t know the ins and outs of human trafficking and white slavery. But stealing a car? Bitch, please.
He tooled up to the row of barracks. A guard had been posted at Barracks Three, but now wasn’t. Fiero and the guys were inside. He let the truck roll to a halt with only a light tap of the brakes; no way of knowing how squeaky the brake pads were on this big boy.
He halted beside Barracks Three.
The door didn’t open.
Fiero grabbed Mohamed by both shoulders. He looked like he was a breath away from having a heart attack.
“It’s all right. He didn’t mean to. You’re okay.”
The kid looked around at the wakeful refugee children, and the strange soldiers. He peered at two of the bunks, empty except for a backpack. “Where’s Amira?”
“Amira?”
If anything, the boy’s eyes grew wider. “Where’s Amira? Where’s my sister?”
Fiero cursed herself. She’d sacrificed three of the refugees to separate the enemy. The sister likely was among them.
“Listen. The soldiers took three of the children. Are you listening to me?”
The boy nodded. She could see him working to master his fear, even though his body was rigid with it. Impressive kid.
“We know where they’re going. Okay? We’ll get you all out of here. We’ll catch up to them. Okay?”
The boy gulped but then nodded once more. “We are from Homs. Amira and me. We do not know where our parents are. They were with us but …” He shrugged. “We are traveling with a British girl.”
Fiero frowned. “British?”
Mohamed said. “Woman. British woman. Jinan. She is very brave. She is gone, too. I think she is protecting Amira. I went to find food. I left them.”
“You did good,” Fiero said and gripped his shoulders tighter. “Do you hear me? You did good.”
Mohamed raised one skinny arm and pointed at Bianchi. “That man tried to shoot me.”
“That’s because he’s not a very good soldier. But the big man with the beard is.”
“He’s your leader?”
“I’m his leader,” Fiero said. “We’re going to get everyone out. Are you ready to help me?”
Finnigan drummed on the steering wheel. He checked his watch.
He heard the squeak of a door hinge, well off to his left. A Kosovar soldier stepped out of the admin building, an unlit cigarette to his lips, lighter halfway there. He saw the idling truck.
Finnegan casually reached down and wrapped his hand around the grip of his 9 mill.
The soldier threw the cigarette into the dirt and marched his way. He swung a carbine off his shoulder, the gun rotating like the pendulum of a clock. He made it another three steps and shuddered, went to one knee, and landed on his chest. He made no effort to block his fall, his cheek flopping into the dirt.
In his earpiece, Finnigan heard the Ethiopian in the guard tower. “Bravo down, inner courtyard.”
Fiero’s voice answered. “Copy that. Coming out.”
The barracks door opened and McTavish led the way. He popped open the canopy in the back of the truck.
Fiero came next, escorting very young and very frightened children. Two by two, McTavish and Fiero helped them into the truck, the teenagers in turn helping the younger ones get settled. They just kept coming: two by two by two. Everyone remained quiet.
Fiero touched her ear jack. “Striker, give us thirty, then evac.”
Fekadu said, “Roger.”
Bianchi emerged from the barracks last, gun to his shoulder, leading with it, checking left and right and rotating gracefully on his lead foot.
Someone, somewhere, shouted. The voice was Slavic and a little panicky. Finnigan couldn’t tell where it came from.
“Musliman deca! Oni—”
The voice stopped abruptly.
Fekadu said, “Second Bravo down. He came from the perimeter fence. Lights coming on in the admin building.”
Fiero climbed into the passenger seat next to Finnigan and spoke into her mic. “Striker, evac now.” She turned to Finnigan. “Go.”
More men were yelling. More windows lit up. Fiero rolled down her window. McTavish popped one of the stays on the side of the truck, creating an aperture under the tarp on the driver’s side. Bianchi took up position at the rear.
The windshield directly in front of Finnigan’s face cracked in a starburst pattern. He instinctively ducked but kept driving, upshifting from first to second.
Fiero said, “You drive like my grandmother.” Finnigan grunted and hauled on the wheel. “My mother’s mother,” she amended. “You know. The one who’s been dead for five years.”
McTavish fired a single shot to the left. Bianchi let loose a rapid blast on full auto, straight back.
Finnigan vectored for the gate. The red-and-white-striped barrier arm remained down. A bullet pinged off the door frame, inches from his shoulder.
McTavish responded on full auto.
They curved around the communications building and Finnigan jammed on the brakes. The kids screamed in horror.
Lo Kwan dashed from the building and, with Bianchi’s help, hurdled onto the tailgate and landed in the back. Fiero said, “Got him.”
Soldiers came running around the building, firing.
Finnigan gunned the engine.
The cell tower atop the communications building exploded, the shock-flash of light sending monster shadows throughout the courtyard. The coming soldiers ducked, throwing arms up over their heads, fearing an aerial assault.
The cell tower began collapsing, one leg disintegrated. Fiero had asked for deaf and blind, please. Lo Kwan had delivered.
The truck’s rpm climbed near the red zone as Finnigan smashed the Scania through the blocker arm at the gate.
Fiero, McTavish, and Bianchi laid down suppression fire as the truck roared into the night.
Fiero turned to Finnigan and nodded. She touched her ear jack. “Striker?”
Fekadu sounded out of breath. “I’ve reached our truck. Rendezvous on the highway.”
“Well done,” she said and turned to say something reassuring to one of the Muslim boys behind her. The kid appeared to be about fifteen and was the least panicked of the refugees. He and Fiero spoke in Arabic, then the boy turned and spoke to the other children. They began to calm down.
Fiero sat forward in her seat. “Nice driving.”
“How many did we get?”
She did a quick headcount. “Sixteen. And three to go.”
“Sorry?”
She had removed her rucksack and thrust it into the space between her long legs. She withdrew their satphone and tapped in the unlock code. “Three others were taken. My young assistant here is Mohamed. His sister and an English girl are among the missing. They’ll be heading to Belgrade.”
Finnigan blinked at the road through the star-shaped crack in the windshield. “English?”
Fiero shrugged.
“We were heading to Belgrade anyway,” he said. “Guess we just have to get there faster.”
“I’m calling Shan now.”
Finnigan drove. Be
hind them, they could hear Mohamed calming the other children. Now that they were on the highway, McTavish and Bianchi stowed their weapons out of sight.
With a single honk, the stolen laundry truck from Sarajevo pulled up next to them. Fekadu waved from behind the wheel, then fell back and tucked in behind the Scania.
Throughout, Fiero kept the satphone to her ear. A kilometer passed under their wheels. She made eye contact with Finnigan.
“No Shan?”
She shook her head. “That’s a complication. He was going to get a World Court envoy to get us across the border.”
A sign drew closer. In both English and Cyrillic, it announced fifteen kilometers to the Serbian border.
C50
Serbian Border
The smaller Ragusa Logistics truck pulled up to the border crossing and picked the northernmost gatehouse, the one designated for military vehicles, police, and other first responders.
Lieutenant Krasniqi climbed into the back and drew his Glock sidearm. He showed it to Jane, Amira, and the Afghan boy. “Shhhhhh …”
They sat huddled together, their eyes on the slow-boil smile of the lieutenant. Jane’s headache had dropped to tolerable levels. She noticed for the first time that her backpack was missing. And, with it, her British identification and her passport.
She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
It was going on 3:00 a.m. and a Kosovar border guard jogged slowly out of the office toward the gate. He recognized the Ragusa Logistics logo. He circled around to the driver’s side, where the private handed him an envelope of euros.
“Have a pleasant journey!” he laughed, and unlocked the gatehouse, hitting the switch and raising the barrier.
The truck rolled into Serbia.
One hundred yards ahead lay identical gates and gatehouses, staffed by Serbian soldiers.
The private reached for the second envelope of euros. He’d made the trip enough times to separate the money for the matching guards—on both the Kosovar and Serbian sides—before arriving.
