“Two down, right side,” he whispered.
“Two more down left side.”
“Three coming from behind.” Roberson entered the discussion, followed by, “Not anymore.”
Rampert made a quick move toward the vehicle, though he was certain that there were more security personnel. The two men at the table inside the restaurant made a quick move in his direction, snatching AK-47s from against the wall. Rampert had noticed though and quickly shot both men in the head. Directing his attention back toward the vehicle, he approached the right rear door. He looked inside, pistol first.
He saw the man they knew to be the Scientist, or Haqan el Lib Rahman. He was an Egyptian who was number three on the Database list just behind Zawahiri.
“Don’t move or you die,” Rampert said.
Roberson approached from behind and removed flex cuffs from his pocket, quickly zipping them across Rahman’s hands. Rampert moved into the front right seat as Samuels closed in on the driver’s side. With Roberson in the back, keeping his weapon on Rahman, Hobart gunned the vehicle and sped away under a fusillade of AK-47 fire. Thankfully, Rahman’s vehicle was uparmored and the bullets pinged off the outer shell like BBs.
They drove through the Byzantine streets of Quetta until they reached a U.S. military operating base at the border checkpoint, where they were quickly waved through the gate.
There, they loaded a UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter for the short flight back to Kandahar. Rahman went without much of a fight, as usually happened with the senior leaders of the enemy. The plan had been executed perfectly.
Sometimes that happened.
General Rampert radioed Van Dreeves in Djibouti and said, “Jackpot. Give Matt the go ahead.”
CHAPTER 88
Riley Dwyer followed the uniformed security guard through the vault door at Landstuhl Army Medical Center in the southern part of Germany.
The last several weeks had been exceptionally challenging for her, but she understood her purpose. Every day she would come to this place and every evening she would go back to the hotel on the military base.
“Hi, Matt,” she said, placing her coffee cup on the end table. “You look like hell.”
“Riley,” he said, standing and giving her a half hug.
“I’m told there’s news?”
“Yes. I got word last night they got him — the one who put the Fatwah out on Zach. They compelled him to retract it this morning.”
“Compelled?”
“I don’t ask questions.”
Riley looked away. Tears were forming in the back of her eyes. She had completely healed save for a small pale scar on her cheek. Now she looked at Matt who looked like he had been through a Mixmaster. What was happening to this world where good men like Matt Garrett had to look like he did in order for everyone else to be safe?
“Does this mean we can let Amanda know?”
“I think it’s time, don’t you? It’s been killing me.”
She looked back at Matt. “It’s way past time, Matt. Who do you think should tell her?”
They looked at each other and immediately knew the answer. There was no question.
“Thanks again, Riley. Without you coming we couldn’t have known whether to trust Amanda. Until we knew that we couldn’t risk her having this information.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s a done deal, but she’s different. There’s no doubt about that.”
Matt said. “What you’ve done with her has been crucial. You can’t deny that.” He looked at her a moment, letting the compliment sink in. “About the other thing, I’ve talked to the insurance company. They made the donation to the village and are covering Amanda’s college costs through a scholarship. When they heard the details, they were eager to assist.”
“When do we leave for Africa?” If she was anything at this moment, she was impatient.
“Not soon enough.”
Epilogue
Amanda Garrett knelt in the tall prairie grass that swayed in the stiff African wind like underwater kelp flowing with the tug of the tide. Golden husks of wheat stood tall, nourished by the river that meandered behind her. Dressed in her khaki paratroop pants, an olive drab T-shirt and tan fishing vest, Amanda smiled as a young boy approached her with a pad of paper and a pencil.
“What would you like to draw?”
The boy, no more than twelve, clearly had a crush on Amanda, which she considered perfectly acceptable. She smiled when the boy was alternating pointing at himself and then at Amanda.
Laughing, even giggling like a little girl, something she had almost forgotten how to do, Amanda said, “Okay, Kiram, let’s draw a picture of me and you.” She helped him lay the paper out on the shaved tree trunk that doubled as a desk.
Kiram’s artwork was surprisingly well done, like the coal drawings of Pervious. One thing was for certain, Amanda thought with a smile, he could make a mint drawing caricatures at Virginia Beach.
She watched him with intensity, feeling herself being pulled into his scene. She began to visualize another universe out there, ripe for collision.
Her demons apparently resolved, or at least at bay, she was free to think how she desired. Since her high school graduation, she had begun work at this small orphanage and had decided to attend Columbia University in New York next year. She had already been accepted, and they were going to give her eight credit hours for her time as part of a mission to Mwanza, Tanzania. Jake had written her every day so far.
She recalled with happiness the time she and her father had been working on the school project. She remembered what she had promised her dad; she had sworn to him that she would try to make a difference with the children of Africa.
She did not know what motivated her more; the fact that she had promised her father she would do it or the fact that she actually achieved great personal satisfaction helping these unfortunate children. It did not matter in her view what the source of her motivation was, because both were pure and gave her a good sense of purpose. She had never felt better.
Two weeks had passed since high school graduation, she distinctly recalled sitting in the chair on the football field wishing that her father was alive and would suddenly appear as the surprise guest speaker. Someone she couldn’t remember had actually talked about purpose and meaning and finding oneself.
Yes, her father’s love was a warming ray of sun breaking through the clouds after a storm. The memories were back in full clarity, easily recalled. The hard drive had been rebooted.
The little boy tugging on her leg snapped her from her wistful memory.
“Okay Kiram, show me what you’ve got,” she smiled cheerily.
“Ma’am,” Kiram said, pointing at the picture. He bowed his head as if to indicate that his work was not worthy of the eye contact.
As Amanda looked at the drawing, she was forced to take a seat on the very stump upon which Kiram had drawn the sketch.
One of the people in the sketch was definitely she; only he had managed to make her more beautiful. Her oval eyes seemed to lift off the page and hover in translucence. The face was a quarter angle profile shot, and she was looking up at a man who could only be her father. Here again, Kiram had done remarkable work. He captured her father’s strong jaw line and piercing eyes. He had drawn her eyes and her father’s almost exactly alike.