murmured to the driver, and the vehicles rolled to a halt as they reached the rendezvous point. Sol squinted at the harsh terrain, his eyes roving over the surroundings – he could just make out the ocean in the distance, maybe two miles away over a slight rise created by sand and wind, but desolate, like everything they’d seen up to that point.
Satisfied there were no obvious threats, he checked his watch and issued a few brief instructions to his companions. After grabbing their rifles, the pair quickly exited and moved to the rear of the vehicle where the pack was nestled.
At Sol’s prompting, the driver got out with him and headed toward the pickup truck, a hot gust blowing sand across the road, no sound marring the windswept tranquility of the landscape but that of the open desert and the burble of the truck motor. As they approached, the Somalis in the truck bed opened an old cooler and fished out bottles of water, their weapons resting easily in their laps, their dark skin seemingly impervious to the sun beating down. A few minutes passed, and then Sol’s men approached from the Toyota, walking slowly in the heat.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” the younger one said, eyeing the horizon before exchanging glances with Sol. The two Somalis in the bed shifted over, making room, and everyone clambered aboard for the bouncing ride back to the plane.
When the truck returned to the Cessna, Henri stepped from the wing’s shade and wiped sweat from his face, eyeing Sol behind the wheel, only his two men sitting in the truck bed.
“Where are the lads?” he asked as they hopped out, all three covered in a fine layer of tan dust.
“They decided to walk,” Sol said, his expression neutral. “Let’s get going.”
Henri took the cue – it was none of his business. The men boarded the plane, stowing their weapons in the now empty cargo hold, and then took their seats in the sweltering interior.
Henri cranked the engine over and it roared to life, and he coaxed the Caravan onto the dirt track. He fought to keep it under control as it bounced along, picking up speed, and when he saw a long, relatively straight stretch he firewalled the throttle, the sudden torque pushing everyone back in their seats. The big motor revved up effortlessly and soon they were airborne, the ravaged, drought-plagued Somali coast disappearing beneath the wings as Henri made a long, slow bank over land and then pointed the nose toward Yemen as they became a solitary dot in the lonely sky.
Chapter 7
Korfa watched through binoculars as the truck drove away, leaving the Toyota unattended at the agreed-upon spot a kilometer away. He waited a few minutes, scanning the road with the glasses, and then lowered them and turned to Nadif, who was waiting next to him with three of his most dependable gunmen.
“Come on. They’re gone. Let’s go get our money,” Korfa said, rising from his position behind a large rolling dune. The small group began trotting toward the waiting SUV, and in fifteen minutes they were at the vehicle, eyeing it suspiciously. Korfa gestured to the rear compartment, and Nadif moved to the cargo door and swung it wide.
The men’s eyes widened when they saw the rucksack in the back. Nadif stepped back, making room for Korfa, who took hold of the bag and unzipped it, pausing for a few moments as he eyed the contents before closing it back up. He shrugged off his backpack and ferreted around in it before extracting a device that had arrived the prior day from Mogadishu, along with instructions for its operation. Taking his time, he powered it on and then moved it slowly over the bag, watching the dial intently, and then stood back and methodically went over the entire vehicle. Satisfied, he switched the scope off and handed it to Nadif with a nod.
“It’s clean as far as I can tell. Are the keys in the ignition?” he asked.
Nadif hurried to the driver’s door and opened it. “Yes.”
“Start the
Satisfied there were no obvious threats, he checked his watch and issued a few brief instructions to his companions. After grabbing their rifles, the pair quickly exited and moved to the rear of the vehicle where the pack was nestled.
At Sol’s prompting, the driver got out with him and headed toward the pickup truck, a hot gust blowing sand across the road, no sound marring the windswept tranquility of the landscape but that of the open desert and the burble of the truck motor. As they approached, the Somalis in the truck bed opened an old cooler and fished out bottles of water, their weapons resting easily in their laps, their dark skin seemingly impervious to the sun beating down. A few minutes passed, and then Sol’s men approached from the Toyota, walking slowly in the heat.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” the younger one said, eyeing the horizon before exchanging glances with Sol. The two Somalis in the bed shifted over, making room, and everyone clambered aboard for the bouncing ride back to the plane.
When the truck returned to the Cessna, Henri stepped from the wing’s shade and wiped sweat from his face, eyeing Sol behind the wheel, only his two men sitting in the truck bed.
“Where are the lads?” he asked as they hopped out, all three covered in a fine layer of tan dust.
“They decided to walk,” Sol said, his expression neutral. “Let’s get going.”
Henri took the cue – it was none of his business. The men boarded the plane, stowing their weapons in the now empty cargo hold, and then took their seats in the sweltering interior.
Henri cranked the engine over and it roared to life, and he coaxed the Caravan onto the dirt track. He fought to keep it under control as it bounced along, picking up speed, and when he saw a long, relatively straight stretch he firewalled the throttle, the sudden torque pushing everyone back in their seats. The big motor revved up effortlessly and soon they were airborne, the ravaged, drought-plagued Somali coast disappearing beneath the wings as Henri made a long, slow bank over land and then pointed the nose toward Yemen as they became a solitary dot in the lonely sky.
Chapter 7
Korfa watched through binoculars as the truck drove away, leaving the Toyota unattended at the agreed-upon spot a kilometer away. He waited a few minutes, scanning the road with the glasses, and then lowered them and turned to Nadif, who was waiting next to him with three of his most dependable gunmen.
“Come on. They’re gone. Let’s go get our money,” Korfa said, rising from his position behind a large rolling dune. The small group began trotting toward the waiting SUV, and in fifteen minutes they were at the vehicle, eyeing it suspiciously. Korfa gestured to the rear compartment, and Nadif moved to the cargo door and swung it wide.
The men’s eyes widened when they saw the rucksack in the back. Nadif stepped back, making room for Korfa, who took hold of the bag and unzipped it, pausing for a few moments as he eyed the contents before closing it back up. He shrugged off his backpack and ferreted around in it before extracting a device that had arrived the prior day from Mogadishu, along with instructions for its operation. Taking his time, he powered it on and then moved it slowly over the bag, watching the dial intently, and then stood back and methodically went over the entire vehicle. Satisfied, he switched the scope off and handed it to Nadif with a nod.
“It’s clean as far as I can tell. Are the keys in the ignition?” he asked.
Nadif hurried to the driver’s door and opened it. “Yes.”
“Start the
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