Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (32 page)

Abit
downshifted as they approached a rise, but instead of dropping to second, he
dropped to fourth, gutting their momentum. Abdul’s vehicle roared by, Abdul
giving a satisfied sneer at Samir and his men, as if he were superior in some
way.

“Okay,
keep up with him, but not too close.”

Abit
nodded and they quickly sped up. Samir turned to talk to his four men in the
back. “When we get there, everyone get out, pretend you’re searching with them,
then when they head for their vehicle, shoot them all.”

Already
khat-widened eyes nearly burst from their foreheads, fear written across their
faces. Samir understood why. Abdul was a terrifying force in the town, and he
had a lot of followers. But his death would scatter them to the wind, increase
his cut from one third to one half, and eliminate a rival.

And it
would all be blamed on whoever was hiding up here in the hills.

“Don’t
worry,” he said, grinning. “We’ll say they were ambushed.”

This
didn’t seem to reassure the men, but as they were nearly at the location where
he thought he had seen the reflection, he had no time for further handholding.
He pointed to an outcropping of rock.

“Honk
your horn.”

Abit
honked several times as Samir leaned out the window, pointing to the location.
Abdul’s vehicle jerked to the right then shuddered to a halt as his men jumped
out. Abit pulled up behind them, Samir and the others jumping out.

“Spread
out!” he ordered, his own weapon at the ready as he surveyed the area.

“Look!” shouted
Abit, pointing at the ground. Samir looked and saw the distinct pattern of
fresh tread marks in the dirt.

Someone
was definitely here!

He felt
the hair on the back of his neck rise as he realized there was genuine danger
here and his plan, already underway, would only add to it. He turned and saw
that Abdul and his men were all clustered together as they followed the tire
tracks.

He
raised his weapon, as did his men. His finger shook over the trigger and he
felt its cool touch as he slowly squeezed. His men were looking back and forth
between him and Abdul’s group, he knew wondering why he hadn’t opened fire.

Suddenly
one of Abdul’s men noticed what was going on and shouted, spinning around with
his weapon raised at waist height.

“What
the hell are you doing?” screamed Abdul as he raised his own handgun, pointing
it at Samir. “You dare point your weapon at me?”

Samir’s
eyes darted to the ground, almost ashamed for not having the balls to take this
golden opportunity to take out one of his enemies. He looked up. “I wasn’t,” he
said, his voice a pathetic whisper. Which enraged him.
Why are you such a
woman? Be a man!
“I wasn’t!” he repeated, louder and with more authority,
sounding much more like the badass he thought of himself as. “I was simply
going to tell you that we should get back. I don’t trust Jalal with the
hostages alone.”

Abdul
lowered his weapon, albeit slightly. “I don’t trust him either.” He motioned to
his men to return to their vehicle. “Let’s go.”

Suddenly
a shot rang out and Abdul’s eyes bulged in shock and pain, blood trickling from
his mouth as he dropped to his knees. He raised his weapon toward Samir, his
finger slowly squeezing on the trigger, a race taking place between how long
the strength would remain in his hand and how long the oxygen would keep
getting to his brain.

Samir
fired, ending the competition, and in less than a second eleven weapons were
firing, one taken out of the duel before it had even begun.

Leaving
Samir to wonder who had fired the thirteenth weapon.

Overlooking Hamashkoraib, Sudan

Dawson sat behind a large group of rocks. He knew he had been made
and cursed himself for it, but without the proper equipment such as
anti-reflective binoculars, he had to take risks and make do with what he had
at his disposal. Fortunately he had been prepared for this and first thing in
the morning had scouted a fallback position.

His
phone was propped up, hidden between two stones, giving him a full view of the
area. He had moved the van from its original hiding place, farther back up the
road, then swept clear the tire treads with some loose brush. He couldn’t risk
losing the vehicle or having it damaged by stray gunfire, and instead had
decided to make his stand, should it be necessary, at the original location
where he had been spotted.

All of
his available weapons were laid out and fully loaded. He regretted having
tossed the body armor yesterday, but at the time it had been the right
decision, and going back to get it now was not. He was hoping for a small group
and the element of surprise, along with his training, to even the odds
considerably—part of him even hoped they would discover the van gone and return
to the village, but he usually wasn’t that lucky.

It
didn’t take long before the sounds of multiple engines had his hopes of a small
party fading and minutes later two technicals rounded the bend and pulled up to
where he had been parked earlier. A dozen men jumped out, spreading out to
cover the area until someone noticed the tire treads. The first group gathered
around their leader, pointing at the ground and how the treads led back to the
road.

Which
was when he noticed the second group, spread out, their leader raising his
AK-47 and pointing it at the other group, his men following his lead moments
later.

Now
this could get interesting.

Somebody
in the first group spotted the move and a showdown quickly ensued, guns and
voices raised, but it was quickly put to rest, leaving Dawson frowning.

And
unable to let the opportunity pass.

He took
aim with his Beretta and squeezed off a single round, hitting the leader of the
first group between the shoulder blades, he having little doubt the man’s heart
had just been pierced. His target dropped to his knees, and immediately the two
groups opened fire on each other.

Dawson
ducked down, smiling, as the herd he had to deal with thinned each other out,
at this moment apparently none the wiser as to who had started the firefight.
The distinctive sounds of the AK-47s echoed off the rock walls of the hills,
the ground shaking as stray rounds tore into the hard soil, and as the number
of weapons waned, the screams and shouts abated, he poked his head up to take
another look. Only three were still standing, all from the second group,
including their leader. The man walked over to the bodies of their enemy,
kicking each, putting a bullet into the backs of two who still moved.

Then
they ran to the vehicles, taking both, leaving nine bodies behind for nature to
reclaim.

And if
any of the three were to realize the firefight had been started by someone
else, they might very well move the hostages.

Dawson
grabbed his gear and sprinted toward his van’s new hiding place, determined to
get closer to town should it become necessary to follow them.

He just
hoped they didn’t take out their anger or fear on any of the hostages.

Over Hamashkoraib, Sudan

Red looked back at his men, all giving the thumbs up. They were on
oxygen now, including the handpicked crew as well as Professor Palmer and
Special Agent Reading. The luggage had been moved from the compartment they
were now all huddled in and into the main cabin just in case some of it decided
to join them on their HALO jump. With them now over the drop zone, the plane
had been depressurized to allow the rear baggage door to be opened.

At the
moment the plane, a Gulf-V, was at about thirty five thousand feet, it normally
at over fifty thousand. They had reduced altitude with Air Traffic Control
approval due to imaginary turbulence. Red turned to Reading, speaking to
everyone through the comm built into the headgear they now wore.

“Remember,
as soon as we’re clear, close this door like I showed you, then tell the pilot
he’s ‘a go’. He’ll repressurize and return you to altitude. We’ll contact you
in three hours. That should give you time to get to your hotel where your
equipment is ready. Understood?”

Reading
nodded, giving a thumbs-up. “Understood!”

“Good,
now double-check your harness!”

Reading
yanked at the red harness hooked around his waist, then at the other end
attached to the fuselage, and gave another thumbs-up. “Checked!”

“Opening
rear-hatch now!” yelled Red as everyone grabbed onto something. The emergency
systems to prevent exactly this had been bypassed as soon as they had reached
altitude, so opening the door was relatively easy, and its design, to open
inward, meant they weren’t dealing with a door that might rip away from the
fuselage if exposed to the outside stresses from the wind.

The
massive portside engine roared at them, its intake only feet away, but
essentially even with them so as not to be a risk at sucking them in. But only
so by inches. Red positioned himself in the small doorway then signaled the
pilot. “Ready for jump on your mark, over!”

The
pilot’s voice came over the comm. “Khartoum ATC, Gulf Five 329, request to
climb to flight level five-zero-zero, over.”

There was
a pause as the pilot waited for a reply to his request to go to 50,000 feet. A
burst of static and accented English was heard. “Gulf Five 329, Khartoum ATC. Climb
to flight level five-zero-zero and maintain, over.”

“Khartoum
ATC, Gulf Five 329, climbing to flight level five-zero-zero, over.” The comm
squelched a couple of times then the pilot’s voice was heard once again.
“Powering down now, jump on my mark.”

Red
could hear the sound of the engines change, their high-pitched whine dropping
slightly as the pilot slowed the aircraft as quickly as he could without losing
altitude, the idea that their relative airspeed would drop on the radar as they
pushed to climb, hopefully hiding the fact they were slowing down dramatically
to make the jump safer.

Less
than a minute passed before his voice returned. “Jump in five… four… three…
two… one… Execute!”

Red
stepped out from the doorway, the wind grabbing him and tossing him down the
length of the fuselage without any contact being made, and in a split second he
was clear of the aircraft, arching his back to gain control, his
Heads-Up-Display showing his location and altitude, as well as the rest of his
team as they cleared the aircraft.

“Jumper
One away clean, over,” he said, waiting for the replies of the others, it not
always obvious during the start of a HALO jump whether or not the team had
exited cleanly. One smack of the head against the fuselage and a man could be
out cold or disoriented, a spinning blip on the display and a completely
controlled blip looking identical.

“Jumper
Two away clean, over,” came Atlas’ deep bass, the comm speakers not doing it
justice.

Spock
was next. “Jumper Three away clean, over.”

There
was a pause, a little longer than Red was expecting and he was about to prompt
Jimmy when his voice finally burst through the silence. “Jumper Four’s exit was
a Charlie-Foxtrot but I’m feeling much better now, thank you.”

Red
shook his head with a smile. He could hear it in Jimmy’s voice that he was more
embarrassed than hurt, but he had to be certain. He moved his arms slightly and
slowly turned enough for him to turn his helmet and see the other three jumpers
above him, staggered about a mile apart each. He could see Jimmy was fine,
though a little lower than Spock, suggesting he hadn’t achieved his arch as
quickly as he should.

“Jumper
Four, confirm your status, over?”

“I’m
fine, just caught my foot on the doorframe, sent me into a spin that took me a
minute to recover from, over.”

“Roger
that. Everyone tighten up and follow me, over.”