The Night Ranger

27

They looked okay, under the circumstances. About what Wells had expected. Gwen was drenched and filthy, her hair streaked with mud. Hailey’s cheeks were hollow, her lips painfully chapped. They’d both lost weight. Owen seemed healthy enough, but his eyes were dark and angry, rising to meet a challenge Wells hadn’t offered. Wells wondered whether Owen was remorseful for killing the guard . . . or confused because he wasn’t remorseful for killing the guard. Either way, his return to civilian life would be tough.

First Wells had to get him there. Wells didn’t hug any of the three, or even shake their hands. He didn’t want to rile the soldiers. The volunteers might not realize, but they were lucky for the rain. Under a baking sun the Somalis wouldn’t have been so patient with wazungu who’d killed one of their own.

“Come with me.” Wells led them east as Wizard walked back to the center of the compound, yelling to his soldiers, directing them into a loose circle near his hut. No one stood too close. They’d realized big groups made ripe bomb targets. Wizard ducked into his hut, came out with the bag of cash from Wells. The White Men cheered when they saw the bag, and Wizard shouted as enthusiastically as a presidential candidate in a swing state. Talking to Wells in the hut a few minutes before, Wizard had seemed exhausted, almost ready to quit. He’d made a remarkable transformation, one that made Wells nervous. A man who could swap his emotions so easily might betray the promises he made just as fast.

Wizard raised the cash over his head and his soldiers cheered again. Wells wondered if he was promising that the money was merely the first down payment on a future ransom. He pointed northeast, toward the Dita Boys.

Wells led the hostages far enough from Wizard that he wouldn’t be heard. “It’s good to see you three. I’m sorry about Scott, but with any luck within a couple of hours we’ll be back in Kenya.”

“Who are you?” Owen said.

“I used to be CIA. Gwen’s family sent me. I tracked you to the camp in Kenya and then here.”

“What’s going on here? Who dropped the bomb?”

Wells wanted to explain the situation his own way, but he had to calm Owen. “The bomb came off a CIA-controlled drone called a Reaper that’s circling the camp. We were trying to convince Wizard to let you go. He’s agreed, if we’ll help him with another militia leader named Awaale.”

“Help? Like how?”

“Awaale has said he’ll attack if he doesn’t get you by the time the sun comes up. Wizard says he’s got three hundred soldiers. They’re called the Ditas.”

“So Wizard is giving us to this guy Awaale?”

“Owen. No one’s giving you to anyone. Wizard just set a meeting with Awaale. Close by. He promised to hand you over, but it’s a trick to get Awaale and his men into the open so the Reaper can take them out.”

“One drone can kill three hundred men?”

“Besides a bomb it’s got four missiles called Hellfires. The Ditas will be clustered up and the bomb is big enough to take a lot of them out. Each Hellfire can blow up a technical—that’s one of those pickup trucks with the machine guns. Wizard says Awaale’s men aren’t well-trained. Once they see him get splattered, they won’t hang around. And Wizard’s going to attack as soon as we drop the bomb. That’s what he’s telling his men now.”

Owen stepped close to Wells, almost chest to chest. “You obviously know he killed Scott?”

Wells nodded.

“Left his body chained to the wall to rot. We watched him do it. Then he took us. Now you’re helping him?”

“To set you free.”

“If the CIA knows we’re here, why doesn’t it just rescue us, make these guys lunch meat?”

“This all happened in the last few hours. The Reaper and I are all we’ve got right now. But my read is that trying a full-on rescue would be a mistake anyway. Wizard’s men would kill you before anyone could reach you.”

“Your read?”

Wells hadn’t anticipated this particular difficulty, a hostage ungrateful for his rescue. He shivered, felt the sweat on his back. Fever and chills. No worries. Once they reached Kenya, he could be as sick as he liked. “I have a little bit of expertise.”

Behind Wells, Wizard’s shouts reached a new pitch. Someone yelled, “Wizard!” and other voices took up the cry, “Wizard! Wiz-ARD! WIZARD!”

“What about right now,” Owen said, “with them all standing around yelling? I’ll bet the Deltas or whoever could rescue us right now.”

Suddenly, you’re an expert on close combat. Wells wanted to flatten Owen, end this nonsense. Or at least point out that if Owen hadn’t killed the guard, Wizard might have agreed to let them go already. Wells made himself relax. Owen was exhausted and scared. Getting angry with him wouldn’t help.

“I’ll say it again. There’s no team in the air right now. And if you look around, you’ll see at least five guys have AKs on us. Two by Wizard”—Wells nodded over his shoulder—“two behind us. One over to your right. All close enough to kill us all with one magazine. Maybe the Air Force could bring in three or four Reapers for multiple simultaneous Hellfire strikes to take all those guys out. But the timing would have to be perfect. Then at least two Special Ops squads would have to land quick enough to kill everyone else before they got to you.”

“Would that be riskier than this plan you’ve cooked up?”

“Having your captor let you walk is always the best alternative. I know you’re mad about what happened to Scott, but I’m not interested in the highest possible body count. I want to get you out alive.”

The men around Wizard cheered, a long joyous oooh. Wizard pointed his pistol high over his head. Crack! Crack! Crack! The shots echoed through the empty sky, the stars gone now, the clouds, so heavy an hour before, now wisps. The sun was still invisible, but it wouldn’t be much longer. “What about justice?”

“What about Samatar, Owen?” Gwen said.

“That was an emergency—”

“I need to know that you’ll do what I say,” Wells said. “If not, you want to wait for your own rescue, tell me now.”

“What kind of choice is that?”

“Yes or no.” Like most of life’s big decisions.

“Yes,” Gwen said.

“Sure,” Hailey said.

“Fine,” Owen muttered, like the word was ash in his mouth.

—

The White Men, the volunteers, Wizard, and Wells walked east, past the latrines, up the hill, into the pall of smoke and gasoline from the smoldering technicals. At the top of the path, Wizard shouted. His soldiers ran for the undamaged pickups, whooping and hollering.

“You got them going,” Wells said.

“Tol’ them the truth. We got the secret weapon on our side, we gon’ smoke Awaale once and for all. Make this whole province ours.” Wizard led Wells and the hostages to the Range Rovers, hidden under a tin sunshade that was camouflaged with sticks. They were beautiful vehicles, their white paint nearly glowing. They looked like they belonged at a country club that the Somalis would be strongly discouraged from joining. Wells remembered an old British joke about Range Rovers, courtesy of none other than Guy Raviv: What’s the difference between Range Rovers and porcupines? Porcupines have pricks on the outside.

Wizard clicked the key fob. The Rover’s locks popped up and its alarm chirped off, an absurd and satisfying sound in the Somali badlands. When Wells pulled open the door, its weight tipped him. “Armored.”

“Doors and windows.” Wizard slipped into the driver’s seat, Ali beside him. Wells went to the back door, but Wizard raised his hand. “Them three go with us. You in the other one.”

“We stay together.”

“Awaale see four wazungu, he get worried. This way you hidden. That Rover got the tints. You be right behind me. Beri driving.”

“Beri?”

“Waaberi.” Wizard nodded at a hard-eyed man a few steps behind them. “Been with me all the time from Mog. Trust me, trust him.”

Exactly the problem. But Wells feared that if he insisted on sticking with the hostages, Wizard might call the deal off. Anyway, if he had to, he should be able to handle Waaberi.

“He knows I’ll be using my phone.”

“Yah.”

“And you know that drone will be watching us the whole way.”

“Counting on it. That magic mzungu bird. It gon’ be fine, John Wells.” Wizard spoke the name like it was one word, Johnwells.

“Drive carefully.” Wells closed the armored door with a heavy thock. Waaberi waved him into the front passenger seat of the second Rover. Behind them sat a tall man, heavily muscled, with a scar that girdled his neck. Wells wished for his Makarov or Glock or even the AK he’d taken from the other camp, though rifles were tough to maneuver inside a vehicle. At least he had his knife, strapped to his leg. Wizard had taken his guns but never properly searched him. Sloppy.

—

The Rovers rolled out, mustered up with the five pickups and lone technical that had survived the Reaper’s bomb. Wizard had left only a couple stragglers as camp guards. The other sixty or so men sat or stood in the pickup beds, AKs slung across their chests. They wore pristine white T-shirts and white bandannas across their faces. They poked and yammered at one another, as high-spirited as seniors tailgating on a sunny fall Saturday.

Rangers or Talibs or Somalis, men readied themselves for battle the same way. They pushed fear from their minds until the fight was so close that the frank risk of death could be ignored no longer. Then they grew grim and settled. Until the shooting started. At that moment adrenaline and fear brought them to a place that no drug could, an extraordinary 360-degree awareness that only extreme athletes like free climbers glimpsed in civilian life. They went from high to low to the ultimate high. Then crashed as the battle ended and they were left to tally wounds and deaths. No wonder some soldiers turned into junkies, for war itself and afterward for cheap chemical highs.

Wizard ordered the technical to lead the convoy, then three pickups and the two Rovers. Two more pickups brought up the rear. They rolled out slow and steady. Waaberi drove with two fingers on the wheel. The Rover was in showroom condition inside, too, its leather polished, its air-conditioning strong. It made Wells want a bath.

The sun breached the horizon, its equatorial rays turning night into day with all the subtlety of a nickel slot that had just hit triple sevens. In the light the land was flat and empty, aside from the low hills where Wizard had set his camp. The rain had left pools of muddy water that were already disappearing, shrinking into the dirt.

The convoy moved east-northeast, almost straight into the sun. Wells raised a hand to shield his eyes, wishing for his Ray-Bans. But they were in his backpack, which he’d foolishly left in Wizard’s hut. He wondered if he’d ever see those glasses again. He missed them, and the woman who’d given them to him.

He reached for his sat phone, dialed Shafer. The call went to voice mail. Wells counted to ten, redialed. One ring . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . Finally, Shafer picked up. “Sorry. My internist says I have a generous prostate.”

“Tell me you’re joking, you left the room to hide from Duto or whatever—”

“Get to my age, you’ll see. I would literally have pissed myself—”

“Enough. Are you back?”

“I’m running back now. Just a sec.” Shafer sounded winded. He was old, Wells realized. Somehow in the last year Shafer had gone from late middle-aged to flat-out old. “I’m back.”

“You see us.”

“Yes. Count eight vehicles in your convoy.”

“I’m in the second Range Rover, sixth overall. Front passenger seat.” Wells leaned forward, waved.

“You’re waving. It’s a little lame, but yes. Hi, John!” This last in a mock-girlish tone.

“I guess the optics are as good as advertised.”

“Better. I can pick out every finger. The volunteers are in the other Rover?”

“Correct. Wizard’s driving that one.”

“You’re separated.”

“We’ll see if it’s a problem. But he knows he needs the Reaper to have a chance. Speaking of, how big’s the welcoming committee?”

“Last pass was ten minutes ago. We counted two hundred–plus armed men. AKs mainly, some RPGs. Twelve technicals.”

“Twelve technicals.”

“Correct.”

Too many. The heavy machine guns the technicals carried could tear up Wizard’s men in one burst. Even the armor on the Rovers could stop those rounds for only a few seconds.

“Give me the setup.”

“Main element has four techs side by side. At least one hundred men in that area. Two more techs spread wide to left and right. Four behind, a reserve element and also guarding against any flanking move by your side. Those four will need to be moved up to have an open field of fire. Pilot thinks he can disable the main element with the GBU, take out all four techs and maybe fifty percent of the men. More or less simultaneously he can fire Hellfires at two of the spread technicals, but then he’ll have to circle around to hit the other two.”

“So absolute best case, he takes six techs out right away, but at least two will survive that first round of fire.”

“Yes.”

“Then he’ll come around, take out the other two technicals that have an open field of fire. But after that he’s got no Hellfires left. So those last four technicals, the ones in reserve, Wizard’s going to have to deal with those on his own.”

“Any chance you can bring in additional Reapers? Or even the Pentagon?” Wells knew that asking for help ran contrary to everything he’d done in the previous twenty-four hours.

A profound silence followed. Wells wondered if Shafer had hung up. “Is that what you want now, John? Because that’s a little different strategy than we’ve been discussing.”

Now a new voice spoke. “We’ve informed the White House that you’ve found the hostages.” Duto. “They’re looking at putting a SEAL team in the air. And the Air Force is launching at least four MQ-9s”—Reapers. “But the minimum ETA is five hours.”

Too late, as they all knew.

“If we’d had a little more time. If you’d given us a little more time.”

“Miss you too, Vinny,” Wells said.

“Last thing,” Shafer said. “We’re considering ourselves cleared to drop soon as Wizard gives us a PID”—positive identification—“on Awaale. He knows what to do, right?”

“Yes. He asked you to give him at least one minute. He said he’s going to move a bunch of guys up after he meets with Awaale.”

“He say how? Because I can’t believe Red Team would allow that.”

“I didn’t ask.” But Wells realized that Shafer was right. He didn’t know how Wizard would get armed men forward when he was more or less surrendering to Awaale.

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll see it if it happens. So we’ll give him that minute, but he’s got to know that the bomb will be most effective when the other side’s all clustered up.”

“He knows.”

“And you know if things set up good, we’re not going to give you a heads-up. Be ready.”

“Fantastic tip. Where would I be without you?”

“I know why you’ve made it this long, John. You’re too big a prick to die.”

“Roger that. Over and out.”

Wells wondered if he ought to tell Wizard that they were headed for twelve technicals. But the Somali would go ahead even if Wells told him they were facing an entire mechanized brigade. He’d roused his men and he couldn’t back down.

Wells would just have to seize his chance when it came. And remember that his responsibility was to the hostages, not the White Men.

—

In the Rover ahead, Wizard made his own calculation. He’d promised to let the wazungu go home to their families. He would keep his word. He had no choice, anyway. Too many people wanted them. But the man who’d come for them was a soldier. He’d come on his own, even offered to trade himself for the three.

Wizard decided to take the man up on that offer. After he destroyed the Ditas, he would set the others free. But not this one. A single hostage would be easy to hold. Wizard wouldn’t make the same mistakes as he’d made before. Handcuffs and hoods for him. Wizard would sell him back after a few weeks. Maybe not for a million dollars. But even a hundred thousand would be enough with the Ditas gone. His men would see Wizard had destroyed their enemies and found another mzungu to ransom. Wizard relaxed in his seat, hands loose on the wheel, eyes smiling behind his sunglasses. This new mzungu had arrived at just the right moment. Wizard didn’t feel a twinge of remorse for betraying him. The man had killed four of his soldiers.

The sun rose, filling him with its power. Wizard realized he’d been a fool to lose his confidence. How could he have imagined his magic would leave him?