Authors: Matthew James
8
924 miles south of Algiers is the small town of Djanet—an oasis of sorts—where it lies on the southwest border of the Tassili n’Ajjer National Park. The
city
has a population of roughly 15,000 people, which is made up of primarily the Kel Ajjer Taureg—a friendly and humble people. Djanet has been called
‘The Jewel of the Desert’
by travelers and the local economy relies heavily on tourism. There are no accommodations such as hotels, motels or bed and breakfasts, leaving only a camping site available to outsiders.
The park itself has many sites to visit, including, the Tassili rock paintings. It’s one of the most visited spots in the entire region and has been labeled a World Heritage Site by UNESCO, The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. UNESCO named it that because they feel that the geological formations and rock art have importance and value that is worth protecting.
Omar Jafari waited impatiently in the front seat of his heavily worn Land Rover, outside the Djanet airport. The abused air conditioning did its best to keep the ever increasing temperature at bay, but he knew that it wouldn’t live for much longer. The vehicle had seen better days for sure.
He hated his job with an unbridled passion. Traipsing all over the burning desert, brown-nosing rich, pompous Americans had worn on him over the years. Still, he knew the money was too good to pass up. Plus, this specific expedition was heading out to Tassili where a new ruin was uncovered by last week’s sandstorm and they had promised twice his wage.
Why are they so hell bent on getting to Tassili? Omar thought. It’s just a bunch of weather worn rocks and dirt. Unless, this new discovery is more than it seems? We will have to just wait and see, now won’t we?
Omar’s phone rang.
“Yes?” He said answering it.
“Mr. Jafari, is that you? It’s Dr. Boyd,” said the caller.
With a practiced reluctant joyfulness Omar replied, “Why yes, Dr. Boyd, it is. Have you landed in Algiers?”
“Yes, we have. Is everything proceeding as scheduled?” asked his client.
Right to business as usual,
Omar thought.
“Yes sir, it is. Your assistant is at the dig site as we speak, getting the excavation underway. There are teams of diggers working in shifts round-the-clock like you ordered and all the supplies you sent ahead are being unpacked and checked.”
“You’re a good man, Omar.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They signed off a moment later.
Omar knew they had another 90 minute flight to Djanet to catch and then the Boyd’s would arrive. He reclined his seat, turned the A.C. up to high and shut his eyes. He’d rest for another hour, hoping his AC wouldn’t crap out.
“Just think,” he muttered. “By this time next week I’ll be able to use this money and leave this hellhole for good. I could move to Algiers maybe? Get a better, quieter job.”
He softly counted his new found wealth and drifted off to sleep remembering another obligation he needed to fill, a personal one.
9
“Dad, you get your bags?” I ask, my rolling suitcase at the ready, carry-on slung over my shoulder.
My father double-checks that he has everything, nods and hangs up his phone.
“That was Omar. He’s at the Djanet airport waiting for us,” he says.
“Already?” I ask. “Man, this guy is punctual. He’s two hours early.”
“Like I said before, he came highly recommended and-”
BOOM!
Dad is cut off by a massive explosion that rips through the concourse. Smoke and debris are thrown everywhere and people lay all over the place. Some of those people aren’t moving.
“Mother—”
BOOM!
Another large explosion hits—this one so close it knocks everyone including us to the ground. Sirens wail from every corner of the airport, blasting like an air raid drill.
“Dad,” I yell, my ears ringing. I can barely hear my own words. It sounds like I’m under water or something. Dad’s on his hands and knees shaking his head trying to clear the cobwebs—as am I—but otherwise he looks unharmed.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, trying to clear my own clouded senses.
He shakes his head again and gets to one knee—right as we hear extremely loud and rapidly popping fireworks.
It takes me all of half a second to realize those aren’t firecrackers.
Gunshots,
I think. Screw getting to my knees, I jump to my feet and bolt to my dad. Every square inch of my body screams in pain like I’d been slammed by a freight train but, I manage to grab him by his shirt collar and pull him back towards the baggage claim area.
More automatic gun fire erupts further down the concourse, then a smattering of what sounds like return fire. I take a quick peek back and see four airport police officers huddled behind a table and a neighboring ATM. A round from the attackers punches into the money giver and suddenly hundreds of bills start spewing everywhere. It looks like the confetti party at the end of the Super Bowl.
To my amazement, people actually dash out of cover to grab some of the cash. That is, until one of them is hit by a stray round and collapses in a spray of blood on the floor.
Dear God,
I think. I just blankly stare at the man. He was maybe in his mid-thirties at most. He may have had a family or friends waiting for him outside the terminal. I’ve honestly never seen someone get killed in cold blood before. The only time I’ve witnessed someone’s death was…well…Mom’s. But, that was cancer, not an act of terror.
Dad finally comes to his senses and grabs my arm and yanks—just as a bullet sizzles past my head and imbeds itself into the wall behind me.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Don’t mention it,” he unnecessarily shouts back, squinting his eyes like he has a migraine.
I guess his ears are still ringing too.
Another round whistles by us both and we take off running, back through the door in which we came only moments earlier. Hopefully we can find somewhere to hide—or better yet—a quick exit to the outside.
Not a moment after we duck inside the room, the glass door we just passed through shatters into a million pieces. We get covered in glass, some of it cutting the back of my neck. Dad fares better since he was in front of me, my body blocking his.
“Dammit,” I curse stumbling, instinctively reaching for the injured area. I can feel a warm liquid running down my neck, soaking the back of my shirt collar.
Dad grabs me and arrests my fall. He comes away with his hands covered in blood…my blood. He looks at his hands, shocked to see the red liquid staining his skin, but I don’t let him ponder it. I shove him towards a nearby luggage window and dive in.
We land with an awkward thump and its then I realize that the conveyer belts have stopped.
A precaution due to the sirens,
I guess. But honestly, I don’t care, we just scramble to our feet and run.
The baggage sorting area we just entered is a maze of conveyer belts and other machinery. We run on a ramp that is ten feet off the ground and unfortunately it’s full of stalled bags. So I guess running isn’t the right word, it’s more like we are very bad Olympic hurdlers.
We take a step and leap, take a step and leap and take another step and leap. I’m exhausted after thirty feet of this crap. Dad, on the other hand, was done after less than half that distance. He stumbles over a golf bag and goes ass-over-teakettle slamming into a large hard plastic suitcase. He hits the bag and rolls off of it with a groan, laying on his back panting for air like a tired dog.
I bend down next to him and start hauling him back up. He struggles to get back to his feet but jumps up when a door slams open nearby and we hear people screaming. The worst part is, they don’t sound friendly.
We are about to continue our mad dash to safety, but I look down at our feet and smile. Dad notices the change in my expression.
“What the hell are you so happy about?” He asks.
I look up at him, “Do you prefer woods or irons?” I ask, a smile forming.
Apparently my humor doesn’t really work in a live-or-die type of setting, because I don’t exactly get the reaction I’m looking for.
Let’s just chalk this one up to bad timing,
I guess.
“Are you kidding?” Dad hisses.
I’m obviously not since I now have a set of golf clubs strapped to my back.
“We don’t have time for this Harrison, we need to leave!”
I’m about to agree with him and tell him it’s a precaution. I truthfully don’t want to be unarmed. This is just in case we run into anyone who wants to shoot us.
Another door about fifty feet to our left is slammed open. We hear more voices speaking in hushed tones. I recognize the language, Arabic. I look over at Dad.
He once had a fellow researcher who was on loan to the Smithsonian from a museum in Egypt. They became good friends, and Dad learned a bit of Arabic in the process.
Lucky us,
I think.
We kneel behind a couple of large rolling suitcases and look down towards the door as he quietly translates for me.
Three men, all armed, burst through the doorway and stop. Two of them turn and begin to speak to the third man in the group.
“Hassim, do you see them?”
“No,” another voice answers. “What about you? Did you see where they went?”
“Holy shit,” I whisper. “They’re looking for us?”
“What could they possibly want with us?” Dad asks.
“You don’t think it’s because of the site, do you?” I ask. It’s a farfetched idea, but the fame and potential fortune this could bring may be enough to kill for.
“If it’s what we think…” he answers letting his thought hang in the air for a moment. Then he continues, “It might be enough. People in these parts of the world are desperate and have killed for less.”
I look back at Dad and hand him a five wood. “Here, take this.”
He looks over the large boulder shaped head attached to the flexible graphite shaft.
“Five wood?” He asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah,” I reply, a hint of a smile on my lips. “Your short game sucks.”
Ω Ω Ω
Just before the Boyds entered the sorting room via the luggage ramp, the Operations Captain, a man named Ahmed, keyed his earpiece, calling his Field Commander. A voice immediately boomed through his headset, startling the otherwise stoic killer.
“Do you see them?” asked Ahmed’s superior.
“No sir, but Karakura and his team are tracking them down as we speak.”
“Karakura?” Asked the other man.
“Hassim, sir.”
“Ah yes, Hassim. Very good then, Ahmed,” said the man on the other end. “Call me back as soon as you have what we need. Is that understood?”
Ahmed Hajjar, also known as Viper to the others within his mercenary team, hated dealing with his field commander, an American. He knew little about the pig, except his callsign, Wolf. He also believed that like most American’s he had dealt with in the past, Wolf had no respect for him or his fellow team members, which is why he was called by his first name and not by his operations name. But, Ahmed also knew how dangerous the man was and that he was not to be toyed with. There were rumors he was in the United States Special Forces at one point, but he wasn’t sure if those stories held any water, or if they were fabricated as a scare tactic.
“Yes sir, not a problem. You’ll be the first to know.”
The call ended and Ahmed cursed the man’s existence. Hopefully, this job would be over…quickly. He would hate to see what Wolf did to the men who failed him. If the stories were true about the man having an affinity for using less-than-humane interrogation practices… Ahmed shook the thought from his head. He really didn’t want to find out.
He keyed his mic again, “Karakura, have you found them?”
There was a momentary pause over the air waves and Ahmed heard what sounded like the pounding of boots and heavy labored breaths coming from the other end. Then the man called, Karakura, named after a Turkish demon, answered breathing heavily, “Viper…we are heading for the sorting room…we think…they may have ducked inside…trying to escape.”
“Do not let them elude us, is that understood?” Ahmed said with a little bit of a bite at the end. He would not go back to Wolf with bad news.
“We won’t,” Hassim confidently answered. “They are unarmed and scared. We will find them.”
Ahmed liked the certainty in the man’s voice—not a hint of doubt.
He signed off, bringing his attention back to his own whereabouts. He stood over the body of an airport security guard. The man had been shot twice in the chest by one of Ahmed’s men and was lying up against the mangled ATM he was trying to use for cover. He stepped over a bloodied body seeing that the victim was a civilian and not a member of the opposing force.
The man had tried to grab some of the money being spewed by the machine
, Ahmed remembered.
Fool.
A groan sounded from behind the machine, alerting Ahmed. He strode to the other side of and found the voice’s owner behind an overturned table, lying in a pool of blood and Dinar. He looked down at the pathetic man, watching his life drain away little-by-little.
Feeling a small amount of pity for the man, Ahmed turned away to let him die in peace, he had no qualm with him, it was just business. As he rounded the ATM he saw the dying security officer had raised a pistol towards him, pain etched on the guard’s face at the effort of holding the weapon steady while slowly bleeding out from his wounds.
Ahmed kicked the weapon from the man’s hand then drew his own sidearm, aiming it. Without even blinking, Ahmed, the Viper, pulled the trigger. A .45 caliber bullet drove through the security guard’s forehead, splattering pieces of brain matter and fragments of skull on the hard floor beneath the man’s head, killing him instantly.
The assassin holstered his gun and turned, leaving the carnage through the gaping hole in the wall he had only just a few minutes earlier blown open.