“Come on down, Cardinal,” said Jackson into his throat-mic. “Ryan and Sam will be here shortly, and we can’t afford to dog it here any longer than we have to.”
Cardinal acknowledged the order and then made one last sweep of the area with his scope to make sure that the road was clear. Slinging his rifle on his back, he started to make the climb down the long metal ladder leading to the ground as fast as he could.
Fahimah cursed. She could see a dusty brown jeep coming their way. She called Jackson over and pointed towards the jeep driving cautiously in their direction.
“Stay behind me and don’t do anything to draw unwanted attention to yourself,” said Jackson calmly to Sam as he stepped in front of her.
The jeep stopped ten meters away. Both men got out, their hands on their holsters. They were dressed in cheap-looking khaki uniforms. The men suspiciously eyed Jackson and Fahimah standing beside their battered old jeep.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” asked the older of the two guards in Arabic.
“We’re a little bit lost and stopped to ask for directions,” replied Fahimah, knowing she was just playing for time.
“You’re not allowed to be in here,” said the guard suspiciously. “There’s been trouble at the refinery tonight. There are foreign saboteurs lose.”
“We haven’t seen any,” replied Fahimah.
“You two, you don’t belong here. You’re going to have to come with us,” said the older guard as he drew his pistol and pointed it at Jackson and Fahimah.
Jackson raised his hands and stepped forward, blocking their view of Fahimah.
Both guards warily approached, their weapons aimed at Jackson’s midsection. Jackson could see that they were not professionals; most likely they were underpaid security guards employed by the refinery. It was a deadly pairing: poorly-trained amateurs with nervous hands on their guns. Holding his arms out in front of him as if he were surrendering, Jackson waited for his chance to strike. Seeing Jackson stop, the young guard stepped forward with his cuffs in his hands. With a burst of speed that neither man expected, Jackson lunged forward and smashed the two guards’ heads together with a loud thud that reminded Fahimah of two coconut halves hitting together. A second later, both men dropped to the ground, unconscious.
“Help me cuff these men,” said Jackson to Fahimah, as he reached down and threw the guards’ pistols away into the dark.
Cardinal jumped down from the ladder with his rifle clutched in his hands.
Fahimah shook her head in disbelief at Cardinal as he walked past her. “Couldn’t you see they had guns? They could have shot Nate. You could have easily killed those men. Why didn’t you?”
Jackson reached up and gently touched Fahimah’s arm. “Now’s not the time, Fahimah. Just let it go. It’s a sad fact, but killing becomes easier the more you do it. Cardinal is a true professional, he only kills when he has to. Besides, I had them,” Jackson said, winking at her.
Fahimah opened her mouth to say something, but decided that she still had a lot to learn as she bent down to help Jackson cuff the two sleeping guards.
A minute later, the ground seemed to shake as Sam’s truck came into view. Jackson moved over beside the road and quickly flagged them down. Parking the massive truck to block the road leading out from the refinery, Mitchell, Sam, and Corrine climbed down and were met by a smiling Jackson. He never doubted his friends could pull it off, but smashing their way in and out of a building with a construction truck, that was a new one.
Fahimah walked over, a sat-phone in her hands. “Yuri just called in. He’s in position and there’s no one in sight,” she said.
“Time to go,” said Mitchell.
With Sam and Cardinal leading in the guards’ confiscated jeep, Nate, Mitchell, Corrine, and Fahimah followed close behind. Behind them, chaos and devastation gripped the refinery. It would take until first light before they could even attempt to assess their losses from the night before. It was time that Mitchell and his team desperately needed to escape the country.
30
The cold gray light of dawn slowly crept up on the horizon as the seemingly endless night gradually slipped away.
At the far end of a side runway used exclusively by Mauritania’s military leaders sat a Lear jet painted the golden color of the Romanov Corporation. Parked beside it was an L-100, a civilian version of the venerable military transport workhorse, the C-130 Hercules. A company of Mauritanian soldiers with several armored cars guarded the airstrip.
Colonel Chang wrapped his khaki scarf around his face as the cool wind coming off the Atlantic whipped the reddish-colored sand across the airfield, stinging his exposed skin. It had been a long night. He stood there and quietly watched as the sea container holding the two nuclear bombs was carefully loaded aboard the L-100. With their security infiltrated twice in as many days, Chang had convinced Romanov that his plan needed to be re-adjusted. The bombs were now going to be flown to Iceland. It was obvious that the people had only been after their American hostages, but he could not risk the second and far more important part of their operation being discovered, even by accident.
His eyes narrowed as he observed a Mauritanian army helicopter descend from the gray sky and land less than 100 meters away. Out climbed the thug, Teplov, and Nika Romanov, both bandaged and moving gingerly across the windswept tarmac towards the waiting Lear jet. Chang smiled at their discomfort; to him, they were a pair of meddling irritants that had cost him dearly in loyal and trained men. He checked his watch, satisfied that they would make the new timetable and be on their way to Iceland within the hour.
Nika slowly climbed up the stairs of the jet. Her head was killing her. She began to wonder if she had a concussion from the butt stroke her to the head. Her nose had been set and purplish-yellow bruises had begun to form under her bitter-looking eyes. Looking inside the interior of the plane, Nika saw Jen fast asleep under a blanket, her hands tied securely to the chair. Sitting across from Jen was her father; staring out the window, he looked exhausted. His once-intense eyes were now bloodshot and glassy from fatigue. Nika could see that he had not shaved in days. The stress was beginning to show on them all, but now was not the time to slow down, not when they were so close to accomplishing their dreams. She carefully lowered herself into a chair across the aisle from her father, trying not to move her aching head too much, while Teplov found a seat at the front of the plane.
“Father,” said Nika gently, trying to get his attention.
Silence was all she got in return.
Nika tried again. This time her father looked over towards her; his face instantly changed from despondency to concern at the sight of the bandages on Nika’s head.
“My God, Nika! What on earth happened to you?” asked Romanov.
“Ryan Mitchell, that’s what happened to me,” said Nika, her voice bitter and angry. “He took the consort’s crown, wrecked an entire building, killed who knows how many soldiers and somehow managed to shoot Teplov in the shoulder as well.” Nika nodded her head towards the front of the plane.