Running Dark

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.

“Take it, I’m done.”

“It’s just as well. Hargeisa’s right ahead. Close it, can you?”

Emma capped the flask and tossed it into the open duffel.

“What the hell is that?” Vanderlock said.

Emma glanced out the windshield. In front of them, a huge column of black smoke billowed into the sky. At its base Emma could see flames. Whatever was burning, it was big.

“Is that Hargeisa?” Emma asked.

“That’s not only Hargeisa, that’s the airport.” Vanderlock flicked a switch and started speaking into his headset. He finished and turned to her. “It’s a private jet flying out of Nairobi. Blew up after landing. They want us to divert. I’m going to head to a small runway that I know of between here and Berbera.”

“Blew up? That doesn’t sound right. I thought you told me Hargeisa was peaceful,” Emma said. As they drew closer, she could begin to make out a cluster of cars surrounding the conflagration.

“It is by Somali standards. This is unusual.”

“Do they know whose jet it is?” Emma asked.

Vanderlock nodded. “It’s owned by a company called Price Pharmaceuticals.”