“Where?” Aymal’s voice held a desperate note. A not unreasonably desperate note.
Cole nodded at the car currently serving as shelter for the two men who’d chased them this far. “There.”
“But—”
“Look, you do your thing with your defector stuff, and I’ll do mine with the getting-us-out-of–this-alive stuff, okay? Be ready.” And he looked back to the roof, motioning to the kids. Move to your right. Universal gesture language, carefully performed by the hand not holding his semiautomatic pistol. Clearly puzzled but just as obviously curious, the kids shuffled over until he stopped them. Right over the bad guys, they were—bad guys who were running out of patience, and who fired off a couple of shots to express their displeasure. “Seriously,” Cole told Aymal, not taking his eyes from his new allies, “we’re gonna move. Any minute…” A new gesture for the kids, then, though drop your toys was a harder one to convey.
But then understanding dawned, and the kids looked to one another and to the toys in their hands. Also clear enough in any language. Are you sure? Do you really mean it?
Cole gestured more emphatically. I really, truly mean it. And grasped Aymal’s abaya with the same hand that held the gun, careful to keep his fingers outside the trigger guard.
“Jox, last chance!” Still behind the car. Still beneath the kids, who shrugged at one another, not frightened as they might be. They were up on the roof, out of sight of those below.
And gunfire was clearly not a new experience for them.
They released their toys. Bat, ball and unidentified dropping object, plummeting down just behind the men who had Cole and Aymal cornered.
Aymal yelped, “Na baba!”
A defector with a wealth of languages at his disposal. Cole didn’t speak Barzhaani as well as Selena, but knew the equivalent of you’ve got to be kidding! when he heard it. “Not kidding,” he said, cheerful enough as he watched the toys fall—timing his move, waiting for the inevitable curse or shout of surprise—
There. Now. He gave Aymal a jerk of a jumpstart and sprinted all out for the car, crouched low, ignoring the burn of his side and the hot trickle of blood there. First things first…he slid in behind the car, yanking Aymal close and holding his finger to his lips in what he hoped to be an unnecessary warning.
Their diversion quickly ran its course. The operative-gone-merc snarled, “Damn smart-ass kids.” And then he raised his voice, full of annoyed impatience. “Time’s up, Jox. We’re coming in!”
A pause. A second man said, “What the hell does he think he’s doing? If he could get into that house, he’d have done it already. He’s got to know he’s outgunned. And the rest of our people will be here before the cops even get close.”
“I don’t know, but I’m getting bored.”
“Jeez, Hammer, get down! What do you think—”
“Relax, Buzz. Don’t get girly. Looks like we got lucky.”
Yeah, pretty much in your dreams. Cole kept his hand up, cautioning Aymal to silence, and listened carefully. His leg ached mildly under the strain but held strong—good and healed. And then the brush of cloth against metal told him what he needed to know—the men were creeping around the front of the car, still slow and cautious, still waiting for Cole to spring to life. As Cole intended to do…just not how they expected. He gestured Aymal around the back of the car and by now Aymal had caught on, moving silently with a glimmer of hope. Cole peered around the back bumper to make sure the far side of the car was clear, then hauled Aymal around with purpose. A quick peek though the back windows of the diminutive Zaporozhets sedan revealed the Dolph Lundgren look-alike and his unwieldy sidekick to be engrossed in their approach of the alcove, a situation that wouldn’t last long. Like Cole, they wore hooded abayas over western pants, and wouldn’t stick out in a crowd. But even after several days in the long robe, Cole still found maneuvering in it to be unwieldy.
Such as when one had the need to spring full bore along the street, running as lightly as possible and waving back over his head at three small co-conspirators, not looking back but hearing just a hint of a giggle drifting down in the still air. As soon as he found a gap between buildings he ducked in, bouncing off the far building with one hand and checking behind to make sure he still had Aymal.
He did. And Aymal looked astonished. “We’re still alive,” he said, and patted himself as if to make sure he was still all there. He looked much more at home in his own abaya, which covered the same white kurta and pants Cole wore. Once out of sight they could pull off the abayas and continue with their new looks—the one thing about the day’s plan that hadn’t gone awry.
Yet.
“Alive so far,” Cole agreed. They jogged as fast as they could through the narrow space and popped out the next street over, where Cole spotted an old Russian Niva transport and headed straight for it.
“Na baba,” Aymal muttered.
“Relax.” Cole checked the door handle on the way by. If it had been locked he would have kept right on walking but no, luck was on his side this time and he stopped, smoothly opening the door and sliding into the driver’s seat to drop his gun by the stubby transmission hump gearshift and immediately twist down under the dash of the diminutive—really diminutive—SUV. “Try not to look conspicuous, okay?”
“I am conspicuous,” Aymal said, reaching for dignity. “So are you. And you bleed.”
“Yeah, I bleed. Not a big deal. Just don’t hover.”
Aymal decided to lean against the wall to check a convenient problem with his foot and by then Cole had the vehicle started and straightened to find Aymal staring. “What’re you waiting for?”
“We can’t just take it.”
“You’re not really up on this terrorist-defector stuff, are you? Of course we can just take it. You heard the man— the police are at a convenient diversion. And we’ll be careful with it. Very careful.” Cole didn’t wait for Aymal to close his door before shoving the gear stick into First and peeling away into the street, using just enough restraint to avoid telltale tire squealing.
Aymal twisted to look out the back window, and when he was finally satisfied there was no immediate pursuit, he straightened, assessed their route, and said, “We should be heading for the airport.”
“To the pickup?” Cole shook his head. They were already out of Suwan, heading south in a land that almost immediately looked uninhabited, arid rocky steppes without so much as a forlorn little hut to speak of civilization. “We missed it, buddy. They’re long gone. We’re going in deep until I can arrange something new.” Something he could trust. He shifted gears to turn, pushed the speed back up until he hit the low cruising speed of this road just south of Suwan, and fumbled in the satchel lying across his thigh. The newly perforated satchel. “Dammit,” he muttered, and took his second hand off the wheel, holding it steady with his knees as he flipped the satchel open.
“Dawana!” cried Aymal, grabbing the steering wheel.
Cole narrowed his eyes for a quick glare even as he pulled his cell phone out and reclaimed the wheel. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“Bebakhshid,” Aymal said, but he didn’t sound very sorry.
“You aren’t really comfortable with the whole notion of guns and action, are you?” Cole pulled the phone antenna out with his teeth, flipped the thing open, and had his thumb headed for the pertinent speed-dial number before he realized the phone had no signal. Big surprise, given the way this had all gone so far.
“I worked at a desk,” Aymal informed him. And then, at Cole’s surprised glance, he added, “Someone has to.”
True enough. And Cole’s briefing had focused more on the particulars of getting the man out than the particulars of who the man was. He jammed the antenna