The shooting stopped. Justin seized the moment. He glanced over the side of the truck. The jeep had stopped. Justin climbed to one knee and leveled the RPG launcher. He aimed it at the jeep — about one hundred yards away — and pulled the trigger.
The grenade whooshed toward the target. The gray smoke coming out of the launcher’s breach swallowed up the truck. A second later, a powerful explosion roared through the area. Justin grabbed one of the AKs by the ammunition box and jumped out of the truck, hitting the ground running. He was now out of the smoke cloud. The RPG had knocked the jeep to its driver’s side. Small flames chewed at the tires. Justin advanced slowly, his assault rifle at the ready in case he saw survivors.
He reached the mangled wreck. The driver was dead, his head snapped backwards. A sharp metal piece from the door had pierced the chest of the front passenger. He was dead too, blood still trickling out of his mouth. A low sigh came from the back seat. Justin peered through the sight of his AK and found Yusuf’s face covered in blood and bruises. A pool of blood was forming on his chest. His eyes still had the dim light of life in them, but it was quickly burning out.
“Who’s your source?” Justin asked in Arabic.
Yusuf tried to speak, but a soft wheeze came out of his mouth. He coughed, bloody spittle dripping down the side of his face. “My son… hhhh… save my son.” His eyes moved toward the man lying next to him.
Justin saw the resemblance between the two men and realized the bitter fact: the son Yusuf was trying to save was already gone. “Your son for your source. Who gave you the intel?”
Yusuf drew in a shallow breath. He said in a weak voice, “The Yemeni… Hussein Ahmed Al-Khaiwani. He… he has it.”
Justin did not recognize the name. “Don’t lie, Yusuf.”
Yusuf tried to shake his head. It proved to be a daunting task. “It’s the truth. Al-Houthi… he gave us your position.”
Footsteps raced behind him. One of the gunmen, the one in the back, stood a few steps away from the hood of the jeep.
Justin asked, “How are the others?”
The young man shook his head. “Both dead.”
“Bring the truck here, if it still works. We’ll take their guns.”
Justin could care less about the weapons, but it would give him an excuse to get rid of the young man and finish his conversation with Yusuf.
“And their bodies,” the young man said.
“What?”
“We’ll take their bodies.”
Justin furrowed his brow. “Why?”
The young man blinked as if Justin’s question made no sense. “So the village can see we killed them. If they see the bodies, they will have no fear.”
Justin hated the idea of corpses being paraded around as trophies, but decided it was not his call. Even if he stopped it, he was not going to stand guard by the jeep. Sooner or later, the villagers were going to take the bodies. That is, if hyenas and other desert vultures had not already gotten to them.
“Fine. Now get the truck.”
The young man cast a glance at the jeep, scowled at the dead bodies, then began to walk back. Justin returned to Yusuf, but was met by the man’s empty gaze. “At least I got a name. That’s a start,” Justin said. “Yemen. Another hellhole.” He spat on the ground.
He thought about Yusuf’s last words. The man had said “al-Houthi.” The same terrorist group that’s close to getting their hands on Romanov’s missiles. Romanov. That man is everywhere.
And Justin did not believe in coincidences.
Did Romanov know about the leak? Did he know Houthis had this intelligence? Is this what he meant when he said he could “sweeten the deal?” He would give us this name?
Justin looked around the jeep. A satellite phone lay next to Yusuf’s right hand, along with a thin briefcase. He took both and walked over to the other side to search the glove compartment. The pickup truck growled in the distance but did not move. Justin hoped it would take a while before the young man got it working, so he could finish his search. He found another satellite phone and a large envelope and put them together with the other items. He moved on to the trunk. It had tools, rags, a couple of empty buckets, a spare tire, and other spare parts for the jeep. Nothing of interest to him.
He quenched the tire fires, which had begun to eat through one of the doors. Then he began to pull out the bodies and go through their pockets as he laid them on the sand. He found cash, Somali and Kenyan IDs — which he was not sure whether they were genuine or very good counterfeits — keys and a digital camera. One of the gunmen had a couple of gold rings that looked too small for his stubby fingers. Spoils of war? Justin snapped a photo of each dead man’s face with the digital camera, so the Service could run the images through their databases and confirm their identities.
The truck pulled up next to the jeep before Justin had a chance to look inside the briefcase and the envelope.
“The engine took a couple of rounds, but it will hold until we get back to the village,” the young man said, eyeing the corpses. “The stupid cowards,” he added as he got out of the truck. He noticed the briefcase in Justin’s hand. His face glowed with excitement. “Booty. For both of us?”
“Yes.”
The young man hurried to pillage the corpses, removing jewelry, pistols, and boots. Justin stepped aside, scrolling through the phone numbers of the satellite phones. Most names were Arabic, a few Somali or Kenyan. He did not know any, but the Service could find out as they searched through their files.
“We’ve got to go,” Justin said.
The young man frowned. He looked at the bodies. “I’m not finished. Do you want to—”
“No. We’re not loading them now. We have to go back to the village.”
The young man collected his plunder, dropping a boot here and a pistol there. Justin gave a hand to the young man. They loaded everything in the back of the truck, next to the bodies of the two young men.
“You’ll drive,” Justin said. “I’ll stay in the back.”
The young man had proven an asset on the ground, but it was going to take much more to gain Justin’s trust.
They rode in silence, Justin standing behind the machine gun, keeping a constant eye on the driver. When they drew near to the school, Justin asked him to stop. His jeep was still where he had left it less than an hour ago.
“Where are you going?” asked the young man.
“Our roads part here.”
He put his share of the booty in his knapsack and slung it onto his back. He took one of the AKs and a few extra magazines from the ammunition box, then reached out to shake the young man’s hand. “You did well in the fight.”
The man smiled, nodded.
“Ma'a as-salaama,” Justin said. Goodbye.
“Ila-liqaa.” Until we meet again.
Justin smiled. No offense to you or this country, but I hope I’ll never have to set foot again on this land.
Chapter Eleven
Justin gazed at the fiery disk of the sun setting behind a cluster of acacias. Their branches seemed to welcome the temperature drop and the soft breeze toying with their leaves. Justin did. His forehead was no longer dripping sweat. He had left the window open a crack, accepting the grains of dust in exchange for the cool draft.
He had left the village behind, unsure of the villagers’ reaction to his web of lies. Everyone must have realized by now he was not a journalist, but a professional soldier. Some may have concluded he was a spy, looking for something or someone important in the area. Maybe they thought he was a Saudi spy, since he spoke Arabic. Or Iranian, as they were known to have increased their meddling in Somalia’s affairs. Or from another foreign faction fighting against al-Shabaab. Avoiding a confrontation and an escalating hostile situation was a good idea.