Bloodline: A Sigma Force Novel (8 page)

Gray had read how this city was still ranked as one of the most likely places to get kidnapped. Not exactly a high honor. Though the local government was attempting to change that. Its jails were full of pirates—but how much was that for international show? Piracy continued to be the main industry running the Puntland economy.

How were they going to make any headway in finding the president’s daughter against those economic odds? Money could free tongues—as it had with Amur Mahdi—but it also bought silence.

“And now the fishes return to our waters,” Amur said with a note of vindication and finality. “With the foreign fleets afraid to come near, our seas once again teem with tuna and our people are no longer hungry.”

Gray had to admit that much was true. Somali piracy had a positive impact on reversing the overfishing of its territorial waters. But at what price?

Amur stood up. “The night grows late. I will see what I can discover about this missing American woman. But as you know, rescue attempts over the past year have resulted in pirate deaths. It will not be easy getting information.”

Gray stood and shook the man’s hand. He read between the lines. To break that silence would require additional funds. But Gray feared if too much money was thrown into the search, it could raise the suspicions of Amanda’s captors. A delicate balance had to be struck here—but for now they had no choice.

“I understand. Do what you must,” Gray said. He shook the man’s hand and wished him good night, using his native tongue, which earned an appreciative smile from Amur.
“Haben wanaagsan.”

Gray waited for Amur to leave the restaurant before motioning the others up. “We should get back to the hotel.”

They headed out as a group. Even at this hour, the streets were clogged with trucks, people, and carts. Sizzling food stands, tiny tea stalls, and makeshift shops packed both sides of the street. All around, Boosaaso bustled, hammered, rang, and shouted.

They kept to a tight knot as they traversed the crowded streets on their way toward their hotel.

Seichan spoke at his ear, her breath hot on his cheek. “You were right. We’ve picked up a tail.”

Gray stopped at a fruit stand, studying the exotic fare while searching the street behind them. He noted two figures in street clothes who ducked out of sight as he had stopped. “Two of them?”

“Three,” Seichan corrected. “The woman in the green sarong by the door of that internet café.”

Gray didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary in her appearance, but he trusted Seichan’s assessment.

Kowalski remained oblivious. He picked up a banana and sniffed at it. “Are we buying something or not?”

Gray headed away, continuing toward their hotel, drawing the tail in his wake.

“So Amur is not as loyal as the CIA claimed,” Seichan whispered.

She leaned toward him like a lover. Physical contact between men and women was frowned upon in this country, but there was a strange, heightened intimacy in being this close without touching.

“Painter suspected as much,” Gray mumbled.

The director had reviewed the various potential contacts here and selected Amur specifically because of discrepancies in his behavior in the past. It seemed the man was not above playing one side against the other, especially with big money involved.

Once a pirate, always a pirate
.

Gray sauntered down the road with his teammates, not bothering to try to shake the tail. He
wanted
the others following his team. Amur was playing a dangerous game, but one that suited their purpose.

Because
two
could play that same game.

Tucker Wayne maintained a safe distance behind Amur Mahdi, keeping a city block between them.

The radio embedded in his ear buzzed. “Do you have him?”

It was Commander Pierce. Tucker touched his throat mike and subvocalized his answer. “Affirmative.”

To blend in with the locals, he had pulled a loose plaid
macawiis
tunic over a thin Kevlar jacket and donned a regional turban to hide his hair and further shadow his features. Not that there weren’t white faces here. It seemed the city drew opportunists from around the globe. He heard German, spanish, and French spoken alongside the continuous dialects of African languages.

Still, he kept almost entirely out of sight of his target, trusting another’s eyes more than his own.

Several meters ahead, Kane kept to the shadows, ghosting along, sticking to the crumbling wall of a palatial estate, gliding around and over obstacles. Few eyes glanced at the shepherd’s passage. Plenty of dogs—half-starved waifs, showing ribs and bony legs—roamed the streets.

A block away, Amur turned a corner and angled away from the busier zone of newer hotels and larger estates. He moved with determination into a bulldozed section of the city, occupied by cranes, piles of rubble, and metal trailers, all in readiness for the expansion of the neighboring business district.

Tucker radioed the change in direction. “He’s heading out of New Boosaaso, aiming for a rougher part of town. Definitely not going home.”

Tucker had memorized everything he could about his target, mapping out the man’s life in his head: where he lived, where he met friends for drinks, where his mistress was holed up. Amur wasn’t heading toward any of his usual haunts.

“Keep following, but maintain your distance,” Gray warned. “We don’t want him spooked.”

I know how to do my job
, Tucker thought sourly as he reached the corner.
This is what you hired me for—or, rather, hired us
.

Kane had already stopped at the corner and glanced back. Tucker signaled an open palm.

Stay
.

Tucker surveyed the terrain ahead. Tall security fencing, screened by barrier fabric, lined both sides of the road, keeping pedestrians out of the construction zones. At this hour, no one else was in view. He had no choice but to wait.

If I follow, I’ll be immediately spotted, my cover blown
.

For now, they had a small advantage. Gray had gone to painstaking ends to keep knowledge of Tucker’s involvement in this mission secret. They’d even traveled from Tanzania to Somalia by different planes. Gray wanted all eyes diverted and focused on his team and away from Tucker, freeing him to move independently.

At the end of the street, Amur stopped at a locked gate in the security fencing. A lounging guard with an AK-47 greeted him. They leaned their heads together, then the guard nodded and unlatched the gate. Amur vanished inside, drawing the guard with him.

What is he up to?

Tucker headed down a few meters until he discovered a gap between the fence and the sandy ground. A tall metal Dumpster helped hide the spot. He drew Kane there, then pointed to the gap, circled a finger, and touched his nose.

Crawl through, search for the target’s scent
.

Tucker knew this was a task Kane could handle. Humans had 6 million olfactory receptors in their nose; hunting dogs had 300 million, which heightened their sense of smell a thousandfold, allowing them to scent a target from two football fields away.

At the end of the instructions, Tucker lowered his palm facedown, signaling Kane to stay hidden if the target was found.

Finished, Tucker slipped a hand to the shepherd’s flank, running his fingers over the black jacket that blended perfectly with his fur. It was a K9 storm tactical vest, waterproof and Kevlar-reinforced. He checked Kane’s earpiece, which allowed them to communicate in the field—then flipped up an eraser-size lens of a night-vision video camera secured near the collar and positioned it between the dog’s pricked ears.

The team needed eyes and ears in there.

Tucker pulled out a cell phone, tapped in a code, and a grainy, dog’s-eye view of himself appeared on the small screen. He leaned down and gave his partner’s nape a fast ruffle. He also shook the vest to make sure nothing rattled to betray Kane’s position in the field.

Satisfied, he knelt and cradled the dog’s head in his palms. A muscular tremble betrayed Kane’s excitement. His tongue lolled as he silently panted. Dark eyes met Tucker’s. It was one of the unique features of domesticated dogs—
they studied us as much as we studied them
.

“Who’s a good boy?” he whispered to his friend, a ritual of theirs.

Kane’s nose shoved forward, touching his, acknowledging their bond.

Tucker finally stood and flicked his wrist toward the gap in the fence.

Go
.

Kane swung and lunged smoothly through the hole, his tail vanishing away in seconds. Tucker checked his phone. A juggling view of parked bulldozers and piles of rebar-ribbed broken slabs of concrete appeared on the small screen. The image bobbled and swung like some badly directed horror movie.

Tucker touched his throat mike. “Video’s up, commander. In case you want to watch the show.”

As he waited for a response, Tucker slipped a Bluetooth earbud into his free ear. Through it, he heard the soft whisper of Kane’s panting breath.

In his other ear, Gray responded, “Got it. Let’s see what our friend Amur is up to.”

Tucker kept to the shadows of the Dumpster and watched his partner’s progress. Fear prickled over his skin.

Be careful out there, buddy
.

Tucker spied on the meeting between Amur and his trio of compatriots, fellow pirates judging by their tribal scars and harsh manners. They gathered near a rusted stack of old iron H-beams and broken cement bricks. In his ear, he heard their harsh laughter and words spoken in a local Somali dialect. A translation program converted the conversation into a tinny computerized version.

“How long can you draw them out?”
one asked.

“How much money can you get?”
another added.

“Hassan, Habib, trust me.”
Amur smiled, lifting his arms.
“There is more going on than they tell me. For that, I can make them dance on a string at my whim.”

“So you say,”
the third said doubtfully.

As proof of his word, Amur removed a wad of bills and stripped out several for each.
“But first,”
he said,
“I must give these Americans something to chew on, to keep them hanging on my words, yes?”