The First Casualty

44

“Who…?”

“Shh!” Andrews tugged Viktor’s shirt, bringing the Russian’s head below the top of the truck’s cab.

“But who…?” Viktor insisted, this time at a whisper.

“Tuareg rebels, National Movement for the Liberation of Azawad.”

“Aza what?”

Andrews was pushing Viktor toward the truck’s tailgate. “We can talk politics later. Right now, let’s deploy into the brush before they figure out Jason and Emphani aren’t alone.”

Inside the truck’s cab, Jason was staring into the barrel of an AK-47. From the passenger seat, Emphani was doing the same.

Jason rolled down his window, admitting a horde of mosquitos along with the warm night air. “You speak English?”

For an answer the door was snatched open, the hand not holding the automatic rifle grabbed the front of Jason’s shirt, jerking him out of the truck. Jason struggled to maintain his balance, stumbled, and fell to the ground. His hand automatically reached for his right calf where, concealed by his pants leg, his killing knife was strapped.

It took only a fraction of a second to realize he would be dead before the blade cleared its scabbard. The muzzle of the AK-47 was never more than a foot from his head as he got to his feet.

“But we weren’t speeding, Officer.”

If any of the men in blue thiyaab understood him, it wasn’t obvious.

Emphani, his hands over his head, came around the truck in front of another rifle. “They’re NMLA.”

“I thought the Tuareg rebellion ended in ’09.”

“So did I.”

Jason searched his memory. The Tuaregs were a nomadic group who claimed to be seeking freedom of their homeland, Azawad, from portions of Mali, Niger, Algeria, and Nigeria. Since the areas included in the nonexistent Azawad were almost entirely in the sparsely populated Sahara Desert, the countries involved put up little resistance. The near dormant movement was revitalized when the fall of Qaddafi put Tuareg mercenaries out of work and the Libyan arsenal was pretty much open on a first-come-first-served basis. Those who had served the Libyan strong man now existed with the banner of a cause as an excuse for banditry. Many in Africa linked the rebels to Al Qaeda’s African arm, an accusation the AQIM, or Al Qaeda in Islamic Maghreb, stoutly denied. Either possibility gave little comfort. Certainly the murdered unarmed civilians couldn’t care less as couldn’t the inhabitants of burned villages and raped women.

He could not be sure in the dark, but Jason identified six different men. Four of them had climbed into the truck’s bed.

Wincing at the sound of equipment being dumped onto the ground, Jason whispered, “Any idea what they want?”

“Anything of value small enough for them to steal,” Emphani replied. “And if they decide we might bring a ransom, they might let us live.”

At the moment, Jason wished they really were with the venerable magazine they claimed to represent. National Geo would pay a ransom. Momma would make a decision based on economics. A captured operative who had failed his assignment would have scant worth.

Momma!

Germane to nothing in his present situation, the revelation came to Jason like a vision to an Old Testament prophet.

He had been had.

Really had.

The men in the Mercedes in Liechtenstein. The shot into his bedroom in Sark. The men in the Mercedes had made no overt effort to harm him, only to let him know they were there. Little chance a random shot into a windowpane would have hit him.

But Momma knew about both. She could have had spies in Liechtenstein, but Jason was quite sure he had not told her about the shooting incident. Yet she knew, knew he would immediately jump to the conclusion his presence on Sark was known to his enemies. An assignment was a way to get off the island, to go somewhere until he could decide on another base. Somewhere that served Narcom’s purpose.

He didn’t notice the sound of teeth grinding in chagrin.

Momma’s duplicity wasn’t the problem of the moment, however. The Tuaregs were shouting, motioning for him and Emphani to put hands behind their backs, no doubt to be tied up with the rope Jason could see one of them holding in the headlights. Once trussed up like a Sunday dinner chicken, there would be no chance of escape.

Where the hell were Chief and Viktor?

No matter, he realized. Two men, even armed, would stand little chance against six. There would be nothing the two could do. With resignation, Jason watched one of the Tuaregs approach with the coil of rope.

He was only a dozen or so feet away when there was a hiss like air escaping a punctured tire and the Tuareg burst into flame. It was right out of a Stephen King novel. One moment the man was there, the next instant he was a human torch, his flowing thobe a sheet of fire as he screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in his hellish death throws.

With the swiftness of a bat flying out of darkness, Emphani snatched the man’s rifle, swung it around to bring the muzzle to bear. It would have been a futile effort; there were too many Tuaregs for the man to get them all before one got off a fatal shot.

Emphani didn’t have to.

The two men closest to him simply ignited as though someone had put a torch to gasoline soaked cloth. Both jerked in a macabre dance of death as sizzling flames consumed them. The odor of burning meat filled still night air already pregnant with agonized screams.

In seconds, there were three charred forms, only remotely human, smoldering on the ground as starving flames licked away the last remnants of flesh.

It was enough for the remaining Tuaregs. Blinded by the sudden blazes, Jason could only hear terrified yells as bodies crashed through the impenetrable darkness of night in the African brush.

Like a genie out of the bottle, Andrews appeared, smoking flamethrower in hand. “Welcome to the barbecue, Artiste.” He cocked his head, studying what he could see of Jason’s face. “You don’t look all that happy to see me. More like you’re pissed off.”

Jason couldn’t get Momma out of his head. “Good guess. I am.”

“Jesus Christ on a motorcycle, Artiste! I just saved your ass and you’re pissed?”

Jason realized the absurdity. “Not at you.”

“Well, what a relief that is. If there were one around, I’d guess a woman.”

“How astute.”

“There isn’t one within miles.”

“That’s what pisses me off: I’m risking my ass in Mali because she tricked… Ah shit, guess all’s fair in love and war, and she sure as hell isn’t in love with those assholes with the Tesla device.” Jason looked around. “Where’s Viktor?”

“Is here,” came the Russian’s voice. “Looking through the trucks those perhot’ podzalupnaya were driving.”

Russian for “peehole dandruff,” a picturesque epithet and one of the few Russian phrases Jason recognized. The others were largely swear words and the scatological or sexual sobriquets to be heard on any military base no matter the language.

“Anything useful?”

Viktor appeared in the truck’s headlights. They were beginning to dim. “Is nothing but their extra clothes and food spoiled. Smells like someone guano, er, shit. No weapons, nothing.” He bowed his head in mock sorrow. “And no, er, alcohol.”

Jason was walking toward the vehicles with which the Tuaregs had blocked the road. “Let us be thankful for small favors. In the meantime, cut off our lights before the battery runs down and give me a hand here.” He lifted the hood of the first of the two Mitsubishis. “I’m pulling the distributor cap off both. The engines will never crank. If those bastards want to chase us, they’ll have to do it on foot and in the dark.”