CHAPTER 17
The village of Zalta, which was Arabic for “grazing,” was pastoral, rural, and peaceful. Enver Uzan melted into the village as someone passing through. He smiled beneath the cloth he wore across his nose and lower face. He’d dressed like the rest of the Sudanese tribe of this farming village, who raised cattle. Like the populace, he wore a long white robe and white turban, so that he blended in.
Nazir had found out from his own network that Kitra was sending out a three-van Belgian medical team to this village. This community was thriving, very busy, and a crossroads to many other areas of Sudan because it was built on the Blue Nile, a major river. They were used to strangers in their village, and it didn’t raise any eyebrows. Enver had found out the Kitra medical team was to arrive here this morning.
He stood near one of the stucco, single-story houses and watched the villagers wake up to greet a new day. It was barely light, but he had driven in with his own fleet of vehicles during the night. Sudan’s roads were mostly dirt, filled with potholes, and ungraded; there were no asphalt highways in this immediate region. Where he came from, in Pakistan, the major cities had paved streets.
His men were well hidden, away from the main village in a nearby forested area, remaining with the three vehicles, all Land Rovers. This was a vehicle that could take a beating and still keep running. Enver had rented them in Khartoum, paying a hefty price to do so, but the desert-toned vehicles, already badly dented up and rusted from years of abuse on Sudan’s dirt roads, suited his plan. Nazir knew this village and had given him a detailed layout.
Only one thing concerned Enver. When Nazir had asked him what he was going to do, he hadn’t told him. He’d hired Nazir as one of the drivers of the three Land Rovers. He was getting paid three times the usual amount for a driver, so Nazir nodded and asked nothing more. He worked in the employ of crazy Bachir. The other men, the best that could be found to kidnap Teren Lambert, were up for it, but they weren’t formally trained soldiers as he would have preferred. These were not his men, and he wouldn’t trust them as he would his own.
But money spoke volumes, and the eight soldiers with him had their weapons hidden in the vehicles. They pretended to blend into the village as he had, and weapons would be used only if necessary. Uzan wasn’t interested in a bloody assault. Just the quiet theft of the American woman was his mission, with no blood spilled. Except hers. Later. When they were finished with her.
The sky was turning a pale pink as dawn broke over the large, flat green pastures where the Kenana cattle grazed. This was a very comfortable village in comparison to most, especially with the Nile winding nearby. There were ditches around these large pastures, telling Uzan that the officials employed irrigation to keep the grass growing for their zebu-like, short-horned white cattle. The pastures completely surrounded the village of three-hundred tribespeople.
The rich lived in modern, one-story stucco homes instead of the hundreds of grass huts that sat on the outskirts of the village. He snorted at the evidence of the class system, even out here.
He’d seen a number of empty grass huts on the north, south, and east sides of the village. They were being prepared for the coming medical group from Kitra. Nazir was their point man to find out particulars, fading into the populace to ask questions and find out where each medical group would be working. Uzan had walked from one end of the awakening village to the other. It appeared that medical staff would be in the north, the eye doctors in the east, and the dental team in the south. Already, he was seeing women in brightly colored clothes, their heads covered, doing last-minute tidying up, sweeping around these designated areas. Where would Teren Lambert be? That was all he cared about.
The cattle were lowing back and forth to one another. The cows’ udders were heavy with milk, and frisky brownish-red calves frolicked and kicked up their heels. In a smaller pasture were the yearlings, now weaned from their mothers’ milk, playing in the cool dawn morning.
The women emerged from their huts, placing blackened kettles on tripods over smoldering fires of dried cow dung. Their children soon appeared, and it was a peaceful scene as morning arrived. However, at some point, Uzan was going to create one hell of an uproar. He preferred executing a swift kidnapping of Teren Lambert, and his mind moved over several plans he’d concocted. He still wasn’t sure which one he’d use; it depended upon how things developed.
Uzan would have to see how the Kitra medical teams set up and behaved. Either way, Lambert would be his by the end of this day. He wanted her alive and unharmed. Later, once he got her back into the slums of Khartoum, that would markedly change. He would let his boss, Lord Zakir Sharan, know that he had his targeted hostage. And whatever Sharan wanted, he would get. Uzan was prepared to carry out any order, especially against an American woman. Personally, he hated them. They were the devil’s spawn.
*
Nolan remained out of the way, keeping a few feet from Teren after the medical vans drove into Zalta. It was nearly nine a.m., and the sun rose, spreading heat across the land, the sky a pale blue. The smell of cattle, of green pastures, and the river nearby, filled his nostrils. The village was near the Blue Nile, and he was familiar with this area because of his Delta Force undercover activities over the years.
Zalta was a thriving, large rural village. And it was one of the few places where people weren’t on the edge of starvation all the time. The leader, a chief, had gone to the University of Khartoum when he was a young man and had a degree in agriculture, which had certainly helped put this place on solid economic footing.
Wearing his usual safari jacket over a black T-shirt and blue jeans, Nolan wore a level-two Kevlar vest beneath his T-shirt today, the Glock in place beneath the jacket. He’d tried to get Teren to wear a vest, but she refused, saying that everyone who saw the vest on her, would be asking what it was. Then they’d ask her why she was wearing it. There was no way she wanted to scare the populace, telling them she was a target. Not wishing to argue with her, Nolan understood her position. There was little to no protection for her in this type of village; and he certainly didn’t want the people of this village to know she might be stalked by their enemy. In the end, he gave into Teren’s request against his better judgment.
Nolan remained alert and on guard as women in bright colored robes worked with Teren. She was speaking in their unique tribal language, giving them directions, pointing here and there as the dental team unloaded. Village men eagerly came forward, dressed in their white robes and white caps, to help carry the equipment into the huts that were being used as makeshift clinics.
This was the last van to set up its station in the southern part of the village. The dental team’s hut was a highly popular place to gather. Nolan also saw many villagers lining up at the medical doctors’ hut area to the north of them. In the east, the ophthalmologists and optometrists had many older residents, all of them complaining of losing their eyesight, mostly due to cataracts, and seeking medical help.
Teren had said that the team of ophthalmologists would be doing surgery today on many of the elders in order to remove those cataracts from their eyes. Then they would be able to see again. It was a miracle!
Teren wore a red scarf over her hair—which she’d piled up on top of her head—and her normal attire of a dark blue tee covered by a long-sleeved white blouse. She had chosen jeans and boots instead of her usual loose-fitting cargo pants and sandals. The people of this village, she’d told Nolan on the drive here, were used to European and American dress codes. All the European women wore headscarves to honor the Islamic customs of the country; but instead of head-to-toe robes, they all wore green or blue scrub uniforms.
This village had profited greatly by quarterly visits from medical volunteers over the years, and the customs were noticeably relaxed. Nolan thought that was a good idea under the circumstances, as there were few doctors out in these areas at all. The chief of the village was a wise man. He was getting free medical services for his people every three months.
Remaining in the background, Nolan scanned the crowds of people. The chatter was high, laughter was frequent, and there were long lines of adults and children. The kids, as always, were restless and didn’t want to stand quietly waiting in line. Soon, Nolan saw a lot of them playing tag, laughing and squealing with delight, running in and around the patient adults. The cattle in the pastures were being tended, too. Nolan saw young boys taking armloads of sorghum, one of the mainstays for the cattle, and dumping them into wooden troughs along one side of the fenced-in pasture.
The scent of cereal cooking in tripod pots had a nutlike aroma to it. The smell of smoke came from the dried cow dung burning beneath the pots. Nothing was wasted out here.
Nolan scanned the crowd again. He saw Ayman in village garb, his pistol hidden in the folds of his white robe as he walked like a quiet wolf, threading silently among the unaware villagers in another area. He had brought six of his soldiers with him. They were all in disguise, also wearing village garb, but each had a pistol on him, hidden out of sight. They were making the rounds, looking for anything that seemed out of place. So far, it was a peaceful village filled with expectant, anxious people seeking medical help.
Nolan was never fooled by such a scene, however. He’d been in too many close calls and scrapes in other Sudanese villages where peace could be ripped away in a millisecond as a rebel group of soldiers drove into it, guns firing, murdering those unable to get out of their way fast enough. No, in his experience, there was no place in Sudan that was honestly peaceful. Except maybe Kitra. Teren had told him that Delos had two other charities in Sudan. One was east, at Port Sudan, and the other was on the western side of Sudan, in a rundown, poverty-stricken area.
*
Teren caught sight of Nolan near the round grass hut where the team of dental technicians was sitting down with paper and pens at a makeshift table. They were there to take the names of the patients waiting in line for attention. She gave Nolan a sunny smile, but he didn’t respond, his face set, his eyes reminding her of a guardian lion. Her heart warmed, because they’d made love earlier that morning before leaving Kitra. Even now, her body glowed subtly with memories of his skill in pleasing her. Equally, Teren felt much more confidence in being able to please Nolan. It was no longer one-sided, as it had been in the beginning.
She saw the worry banked deep in his eyes and knew he was very unhappy about her being out in the open like this without a protective vest. But the joy, the laughter, the smiles of the people, and the delight in the children’s faces made her smile in return. This was a safe village, and she had tried her best to convince Nolan of that.
He didn’t buy it. She understood his job was to protect her and was happy that he took it seriously. Still, as she gazed around at the busy village, the air alive with excitement and expectation, she felt joy moving through her. There was so much good that this medical team would do for these people.
She saw a dentist waving a hand to beckon her. Time to translate! Nodding, Teren eased through the lines, excusing herself and making her way over to the dentist seating a young girl in her chair to be worked on. Teren was carrying a radio and knew that she’d be running to each of the areas all day long, providing translation when needed.
Even better, Ayman knew English, and so did two of his other soldiers, who were in disguise. They all had radios on them, including Nolan, and were all on the same channel, so they could easily communicate with each other.
*
Uzan watched and waited. It was past noon, past prayers, and the village was a throbbing, crowded place. He saw the difference being made by the volunteer medical teams and watched Teren move from one area to another. She was always smiling, always providing translation. The people clearly knew her: the women came up to hug her effusively, and the children followed her around because she carried candy in her pockets and gave it out freely to them.
What he didn’t like was that American male always nearby. Whoever he was, he looked lethal, probably a security contractor with a military background. Uzan knew his own kind, and it was easy to spot this man and separate him from everyone else. He tailed Lambert wherever she went. Not close, but at a distance, close enough to be a shield if she needed one. Yes, he was her bodyguard, no question.
There were other men in the village he watched carefully, too. The Land Rovers had been parked behind a swampy area within the forest, out of sight, hidden by a huge stand of papyrus waving in the inconstant breeze. So far, no one had gone into that area, where his three drivers waited to be summoned. Under no circumstance did he want Nazir to show his face here for fear that the Kitra people would instantly recognize him.
Uzan had a radio on him hidden in the folds of his robe. His other soldiers blended in well with the villagers. He stood out slightly because he was light-skinned, and more than a few villagers took a long, hard look at him because he was different from them. Still, he knew that Egyptians and other Middle Eastern tribes that walked with the camel caravans were his color, too. They probably thought he was one of them, which was fine with him. But he had no camels with him, so that made him suspect.
One thing he had learned long ago was to pick up the pattern on a quarry. It took until late afternoon, just before the clinics would close up for the day, for him to identify all the players, understand the rhythm of Lambert’s activity, and call his men into certain areas of the village. Patience was definitely a virtue in this work, and Uzan felt confident that he could now create a diversion and know when to strike. He moved behind a round thatched hut, pulled out his radio, and told the drivers to get ready. They would meet him at a specific spot after he’d kidnapped Lambert. His heart began to pound in anticipation. He was going to enjoy this attack. It would catch all the villagers, including that American security contractor, completely off guard!
*
Teren was at the north end of the village with the medical doctors, standing outside one of the huts, translating for a physician who had just finished examining a young mother’s baby. She had lost sight of Nolan, but normally she didn’t see him around because he was able to blend in with others. Fifteen villagers had crowded around the doctor and mother, all relatives of the baby, listening intently as Teren spoke in their language to the anxious mother.
Suddenly, Teren heard a high-pitched shriek.
“Abu someet! Abu someet!” a woman screamed in the center of the village. She was panicked, jerking her finger in the direction of a stucco home, the door open.
Teren turned, frowning. “Abu someet” was Arabic for “father of agate.” And it was specifically applied to the black-necked spitting cobra. They were common in this area—and deadly. Cobras lived in families, and normally they hunted at night, but not this particular cobra. They hunted in the pastures around the village during the day. Everyone feared cobras; she saw at least fifty people suddenly stampede, running as far away as they could get from the house where the cobra had been sighted.
Suddenly, the mother next to her screamed, leaping away from the doctor, and Teren saw an olive-green cobra with a black upper body and white rings around its neck. Her eyes widened. She was within spitting distance of the snake!
People squealed in terror and ran into one another, trying to get away from the cobra, which now stood, waving slowly back and forth with its strong upper body, right near Teren.
Teren froze. She knew cobras lived in families. What didn’t make sense was that they would enter a busy village like this. Normally, cobras lived where it was quiet, so they wouldn’t be disturbed by too many humans.
A third scream erupted deeper in the village, and now the whole community became like a huge, moving, panicked wave. Teren pushed the doctor, frozen in fear, away from the cobra. She turned, leaping back, not wanting contact with the cobra’s venom, which it could spit six feet. It could land in her eyes or on her skin. Terrified, she ran behind the hut to save herself.
As she did, a hand closed over her mouth, yanking her backward off her feet. Teren screamed, and her hands flew up as a man’s hard-muscled arm closed across her throat. She was jerked off her feet and she saw a flash. Too late, she realized it was a needle! It sank deep into her upper arm and she fought, panic rising in her. Her boots struck the ground, and she felt herself being dragged farther away from the hut. She tried to scream, but the man’s hand was covering her mouth and nose. And then Teren felt her legs becoming weak. She heard the roar of vehicles suddenly surround her as dust rolled over the area. People were screaming and running. Nolan! Where was Nolan!
Suddenly, gunfire split the panicked air and Teren saw two dark-skinned men with hatred in their eyes advancing upon her. In seconds, they’d lifted her up into the back of a Land Rover, dumping her inside. Her head slammed onto the metal floor, stunning her, and she collapsed into a heap, unable to move. Drugged! She’d been drugged! Again! It was the last thing Teren remembered before she lost consciousness.
*
Nolan fired as the spitting cobra was lifting its upper body to strike at the nearby doctor. He blew its head off, then, cursing, he swung around, trying to locate Teren. She’d been there a split second before. People were in turmoil, panic filling the air. At least three cobras had suddenly appeared in different parts of the village as pandemonium reigned.
He heard the roar of engines and turned on his heel. There were three Land Rovers racing toward him, just outside the village. He barked into the radio to Ayman, knowing instinctively that this was a distraction. Teren had been captured!
Where was she?
He jerked to the left; the last place he’d seen her was at the hut. A boy came running up, screaming that Teren had been taken by bad men in a Land Rover.
Gunfire suddenly whined past his head and Nolan shoved the boy to the ground, ordering him to stay down and cover his head. The child instantly obeyed while Nolan hit the earth, rolling and trying to see where the shooter was. He saw one Land Rover, windows down, filled with men with AK-47s firing into his immediate area.
People cried out. Some fell, wounded. More bullets spat around him, temporarily blinding him as he shot back.
Where was Teren?
More rounds, clearly focused on him. He had to move! Nolan rolled twice more as the Land Rover raced toward him. He heard Ayman’s shout of orders over the tumult, saw him pushing through the terrified crowd, getting shoved back by people who saw the vehicles, saw the winking of yellow and red as bullets spat from the rifles at them.
The world had suddenly exploded around Nolan. He heard the dreaded thunk of a rocket propelled grenade, or RPG, being triggered. Shit! He hunkered against the dusty earth, hands over his ears, mouth open. If he didn’t keep his mouth open, the pressure that RPG created would turn his lungs to jelly. And then he’d die of suffocation.
The RPG sailed between two other round huts, both exploding into fire, the reeds flying like a thousand needles into the air. The powerful wave pulsated like an invisible fist through the northern part of the village as people were hurled off their feet.
Screams!
Shouts!
The smell of burning huts invaded Nolan’s nostrils as he rolled over, gripping his Glock, shoving himself up to his feet. He heard the screech of tires. Heard the wail of engines behind the hut, where he staggered to his feet. His nose was bleeding, the blood running over his lips and chin as he raced around the hut.
He slid to a halt as he saw three Land Rovers hightailing it across the yellowed grassland, heading north on the road leading to Khartoum. There was no way he could fire, because he knew instinctively that Teren was in one of those vehicles. And he couldn’t see anything because of the rising, boiling yellow clouds of dust as they made good in their escape.
Sonofabitch!
Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, Nolan gripped the radio, telling Ayman to get to one of the medical vans. Teren had been kidnapped! They had to go after them! Worse, the drone that was being sent to Kitra had not yet arrived. Nolan ran toward the nearest van, dodging people and flames from the two burning huts. He remained on the radio, telling Ayman where to meet him. Within three minutes, Ayman arrived with his six men. Nolan jumped into the driver’s seat, and in moments the entire team was in the vehicle. Nolan stomped on the accelerator, the van fishtailing and roaring out of the village, heading in pursuit of the vehicles, which were now at least a mile ahead of them.
Ayman was on the radio again, calling the Sudanese Army for help. He turned to Nolan. “Has that drone arrived yet to Kitra?”
“Hell no!” he snarled, both hands on the wheel, holding the van steady over the uneven dirt road. Everything in the van shook and trembled. The sound of gravel crunching under the tires filled the air.
“Did you see Teren?” Ayman shouted to Nolan.
“No. But a boy came running up to me, telling me she was dragged fighting into a Land Rover.”
Ayman yelled over the wind whipping through the van, “Someone threw those cobras into the village to create a diversion.”
Mouth flattening, Nolan said, “It damn well worked, too!”
“Did you see any of the enemy?”
“Just some soldiers in white robes in the third van. They were carrying AK-47s. They were disguised as villagers. Just like we were,” he added, swallowing hard.
The worst had happened: Teren had been kidnapped! Nolan was sure it had to be someone that Zakir Sharan had sent to do just that—Enver Uzan, most likely. Why hadn’t they seen and identified them? He knew part of the answer: distraction.
Teren had been moving constantly from one location to another. She had a pattern of movement, and whoever had observed her saw it and then used it against her. The bastard knew where to create the diversion by releasing those cobras from gunnysacks, letting them loose in the crowds.
His twisting gut nearly made him cry out, but Nolan stuffed it down. His whole focus was on catching up to that fleet of fleeing vehicles. The more he pushed the van, the more dangerous it became for all of them. One wrong move on a gravel road and the van could skid and flip over several times before stopping. They could all be killed. Nolan had to weigh their lives against the speed necessary to catch up to the kidnappers who held Teren. Was she all right? Had they killed her already? Wounded her? Drugged her? His mind went to the darkest corners of possibility, and then he shut it all down. He couldn’t go there and remain focused. It could kill him and the rest of these men if he didn’t stop right now.
“It has to be Uzan,” Ayman shouted, his face sweaty and dirt encrusted. He gripped the doorframe with his hand, his mouth contorted. “They wanted Teren!”
Nolan’s mouth pulled in deeply at the corners. His knuckles were white as he skillfully guided the van over the jarring road. They weren’t catching up with them, but they weren’t being left behind, either. What he’d have liked to do was call in an air strike, though he knew he couldn’t have the jet hit the vehicles because Teren was in one of them. But a well-placed air strike in front of the lead Land Rover could force the vehicle to stop or slow down just enough so they could reach them.
“How many men, do you think?” Ayman demanded.
“I saw six in that last vehicle. There were three vehicles. Eighteen men?”
“Yes.” Ayman turned, grim. “And we have eight.”
“Good odds,” Nolan growled, his eyes slitted, focused on the straight road ahead of them. There was nothing but yellow dust clouds spiraling and billowing above to show them the enemy’s location.
Ayman ordered his soldiers to get ready for combat. Luckily, they had put a cardboard box in each van filled with M4 magazines and extra mags for their Glock pistols as well. The soldiers tore off their outerwear, revealing their Sudanese Army uniforms. Another man crawled into the rear of the van, dragging the heavy ammo box forward. The soldiers began to pass the clips around between themselves. Another man handed Ayman magazines for his and Nolan’s Glock pistols.
Teren…God, I love you. Hang on, hang on…we’ll get you out of this…
It was a litany in Nolan’s head, sweat rolling down his temples, dust collecting on him with the windows open. He cursed himself. He hadn’t told Teren yet that he loved her. He had wanted to but felt it was too soon. She was still climbing out of that foxhole where she’d lived so long alone, abandoned by her family. They’d only had three weeks with one another. Three weeks. And now he didn’t know if they’d ever share another moment together.