––––––––
“Set your GPS for the Ruhuhu Basin,” Mike said as he used his hunting knife to cut off Henri’s sleeve to the shoulder.
“Ruhuhu, boss?” asked Hali. “It’s a big place. It’s like asking me to head for the Serengeti.”
“Just drive.” Mike pulled a first aid kit from his duffle, ripped open a roll of gauze with his teeth and jammed it against her arm.
“Ssss,” she said, her face ashen.
“Sorry, love, but I need to have a look at the damages.” He knew it would hurt, but he pressed hard enough to feel for a bullet.
She winced. “I think the shot just grazed me.”
“I dunna feel anything in there.” When he pulled away the gauze, blood gushed, but he’d seen enough. The bullet caused a jagged wound that was surrounded by purple flesh. She’d be sore for a good while.
Henri closed her eyes and rested her head back. The woman was tough. He knew men who would be whinging and carrying on with the pain, but not her. He fished in the kit for a shot. Special ICE issue—antibiotic combined with a local painkiller that worked in seconds. All he had to do was punch it against her skin. “I’m jabbing you now.”
Grunting, she jolted as the needle pierced her skin. “Damn, that hurt.”
“You got the worst of it.” After holding the compress in place for a minute, he doused the wound with an iodine solution, then tore open a field dressing and wrapped it around her arm. “This baby will stanch the bleeding.”
She looked at him with half-cast eyes. “Thanks.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been shot—a little woozy. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“You cold?”
“A little.”
Mike pulled a Mylar blanket out of the kit and draped it over her. “This’ll help.” He looked to Hali. “Take us to a hospital.”
Henri sat forward, pushing the blanket away. “Are you crazy? Someone’s got our number. There’s no fucking way we’re going to stop anywhere to treat a freaking flesh wound.”
“But—”
“I said no. I’m tired because it’s nearly four in the morning—and we didn’t get much sleep the night before. I need a few winks and then I’ll be fighting fit. You got it?”
Mike gave her a narrow-eyed glare while he shook his finger under her badass nose. “If you grow any worse, I’m taking you in.”
“I said I’d be fine.” She flicked her fingers toward the windscreen. “Now just get us the hell out of Arusha.”
“You heard her, Hali. Let’s make tracks.” Mike sat back, his head pounding. The older he got, the harder it was to go without sleep. But right now, too many things swarmed through his mind. Who ransacked their hotel room and what did they know? They must have been made at the Jawhira shop. Had their passports given them away? If so, the Islamic State was growing more high-tech by the day.
Still. They made us damned fast. Almost ICE fast.
And it was clear that whoever ransacked the suite expected to find them there—otherwise why would they have sent the hitmen back? And who knew they’d slipped to Jawhira to do a little snooping of their own? Or did they?
Most likely not, else they would have jumped us there.
Henri opened her eyes. “We still need to upload the files to ICE.”
Mike pulled out his phone. “I’ll call in. Let them know about Thomas Flynn. Tell Asa to expect the upload.”
She grabbed his wrist before he punched the speed dial. “Don’t tell them I’ve been shot.”
He gave her a look. “You’d be better off in Iceland.”
“I’ll be better off when Fadli has daises growing over his coffin.”
Pressing the speed dial for ICE, he said, “I reckon only thorns will sprout on that bastard’s grave.”
***
“They’re all dead,” said Melvut Amri from the other end of the phone.
Omar Fadli could have spit out his teeth. “I knew it was Anderson.”
“You should have let me kill them when they were in the shop.”
“You know we couldn’t risk it until we were sure. Killing a pair of Canadians would have exposed the cover we took years to create.” But Fadli had known it was her beneath that ugly hat and glasses. And the passport check had confirmed it—not a standard passport check that would lead them through the backgrounds of a pair of fictitious Canadians, but high-tech facial scans run on their photographs without hats and glasses had revealed it all.
Anderson’s traveling companion was Mike Rose—a Scot and former officer with the SAS. The only problem was that’s as far as his background went. The man was a ghost. Who they were working for was a mystery. Worse, the assholes were getting too close. Omar could have put a bullet in his chief information officer’s brain—if he didn’t need the man’s computer genius for other, more important things. That’s right. He must remind himself that there were things far more important than Henrietta Anderson.
But he’d get her, too.
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“The plane just landed.”
“You need to move swiftly. Hours. That’s all you have.”
“Yes, sir. Peace be unto you.”
“And unto you, peace.” Omar clicked the red phone icon and tossed his cell on the desk.
So far, Amri had managed to stay two steps ahead, but ISIS needed Anderson and Rose off their trail for good, and preferably dead. Nothing could get in the way of their plans. Too many hours of careful preparation had gone into this mission. It was both brilliant and divine. Omar was so close he could taste the glory that would be his. Once he ensured all the world knew who possessed totalitarian rule, he would become the true caliph. It was time for al-Umari to step aside. Omar Fadli would bring all Muslims together and unite Earth under one true faith.
And those who dare to defy me will die.