Myles and the Senator recoiled from the noise, but still refused to move.
The pirate marched over to them. He grabbed each man by the neck and pushed their heads towards his. Then, speaking through his teeth, he said in a quiet but chilling tone: ‘If you’re lucky, I’ll let one of you out of here alive,’ he said. ‘But unless you start fighting each other, I’m going to have to kill you both to keep my men happy. And if you just pretend to fight, or try to fix it so you both survive, then I’ll make sure you both die. Do you understand?’
Myles and the Senator shared a glance. Just by their exchange of eye contact, it was clear that neither of them had any intention of following through with Juma’s request. No way would they fight each other.
But Myles also knew how dangerous it would be to disappoint the Somali psychopath.
Fifty-Seven
With a sense of ceremony, Juma knocked the two men’s heads together. He was looking as confident as ever: finally, the two men would obey. Then he raised his voice to the sky and shouted as loudly as he could. ‘Fight!’
As his men started to cheer, Juma eyed Myles and the Senator in turn. His gaze underlined his threat: ‘And if you both survive, then both of you will die.’ He turned his back on the two Westerners and started to walk to the edge of the arena. Myles and the Senator were left isolated in the middle.
The Senator murmured to Myles. ‘Got any ideas?’
‘Only that we’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Agreed,’ said the Senator. ‘Then we pretend to fight until we can think of something.’
Myles nodded.
As Juma reached the edge of the stone circle, he turned and stared at the two men.
No one was moving. Then Juma fired another burst of gunfire into the air. ‘Only one of you can leave that ring alive…’
Finally, Myles and the Senator rammed into each other. Because their hands were tied, as their shoulders collided they both lost their balance. The two men spun down to the ground.
Juma’s men cheered.
Myles and the Senator scrabbled around in the dirt. Slowly they began to get back on their feet.
Myles looked around as he stood up again, keeping his voice down. ‘Could we run into the desert?’
‘Not fast enough,’ whispered the Senator. ‘Could we steal some of Juma’s weapons?’
The men slowly wheeled around, pretending to spar. Really they were scanning all around them, looking for something — anything — which might help them. Myles eyed Juma’s Toyota. ‘His vehicles?’ he suggested. ‘We’d need to distract his men, though.’
The look on the Senator’s face said he agreed. The old man was recalling his combat experience. Myles could tell he was trying to imagine solutions. There was nothing obvious.
The two men charged into each other again. They had less energy than before. Again they tumbled to the floor. The audience enjoyed it less the second time. They were running out of time.
The Senator whispered to Myles while they were in the dust. ‘Juma doesn’t care which one of us comes out of here alive,’ he said. ‘The survivor won’t be ransomed or released. He’ll be killed. Juma wants us both dead.
Myles nodded: he agreed with the Senator’s analysis.
As the two men were returning to their feet they were both distracted by a cry from the audience. ‘Fight like you mean it!’ came the call, followed by a laugh. It was Juma’s voice.
Then the pirate lobbed a bayonet into the ring. Myles had to side-step fast to avoid the falling blade. It landed near the Senator’s feet.
Myles and the Senator both looked down at the weapon: Juma wanted to speed things up. Whoever picked up the knife would be able to stab the other.
The Senator bent down and grabbed the handle of the bayonet with his tied hands. But he refused to attack Myles. ‘Our wrists,’ he said.
As he slowly moved opposite Myles, the Senator spun the blade in his hands until it was pointing towards him. He sawed away at the bindings on his wrists for several seconds. Eventually the wire was severed and fell onto the arena floor.
The spectators started to whoop as the Senator brought his hands apart. They could see him about to attack Myles, whose wrists were still bound.
The Senator threw the blade from one hand to the other, catching it easily each time. ‘Run at me,’ he said.
Suspicion flickered through Myles’ mind. Run at a man holding a knife?
He hesitated. The Senator repeated himself. ‘Come on, man. Run at me. I’ll drop the knife and you pick it up. Run at me.’ The Senator was holding the knife down, ready to impale Myles as he approached.
Who was the Senator trying to fool — Juma or Myles?
Would Sam Roosevelt kill Myles to survive, or drop the knife as he promised?
The Senator could see Myles was unsure what to do. ‘Myles, you gotta trust me,’ he said. Then he turned on his convincing voice — the perfect all-American accent that had won over millions of voters and almost won the US Presidency. ‘We’re all going bust if we ain’t got trust.’
Roosevelt was speaking like an old-school politician. A statesman who really cared for more than himself. Something about his manner was convincing.
Gradually Myles nodded. The Senator braced himself. Then Myles rushed.
The two men collided. The Senator fell backwards. Pretending to be caught off guard, he let the bayonet fall from his hands.
Myles quickly rolled on the ground and returned to his feet. He rushed for the bayonet and grabbed it. The Senator barely moved — there was no contest for the weapon. Roosevelt had been true to his word.
As the old man stood back up, Myles quickly rubbed the blade against the wire on his wrists. He was too clumsy to break through easily. He tried to push harder, but it only meant the knife slipped out of his hands. It fell to the dust. The Senator gave Myles space, allowing him to pick it up and try again. Eventually Myles cut through and, as with the Senator before him, the binding dropped away.
As the audience saw Myles’ hands were also free they cheered again. The contest had become even more exciting.
Myles held the weapon while he stood opposite the Senator, both men still circling slowly, pretending to look for a weakness in the other.
The Senator wiped sweat from his face. He was trying to hide his moving lips. ‘OK. I’ve got a plan.’
‘Tell me, Senator.’
‘There are rocket-propelled grenades in the back of that vehicle, right?’
Myles checked behind him to confirm which vehicle the Senator was talking about. ‘Yes. Go on.’
‘OK, then you chase me over there. I’ll grab an RPG while you escape. I’ll be able to hold them off long enough.’
Myles didn’t quite understand what the Senator was proposing. ‘But they’ll kill you. While I’m driving away, they’ll kill you.’
The Senator gritted his teeth and spoke with his best sarcasm. ‘Son, in case you hadn’t noticed, they’re going to kill us anyway.’
Then Myles realised: the Senator was offering his life for Myles’.
Myles gulped, slowly accepting it was the best course of action. He mouthed the words ‘thank you’ to the Senator, who accepted them graciously.
‘Just swear to me you’ll bring this guy down.’
‘I will, Senator,’ Myles promised.
Carefully, Myles advanced, pointing the knife towards the Senator, who stepped back. The audience were enthralled.
Myles walked forward again. Again the Senator withdrew, his face bearing the expression of someone who was prepared to die. The Senator turned to check his bearings. To Juma and the men watching it looked like the glance of a desperate man trying to see how much further he could retreat. But Myles and the Senator both knew he was working out how far he had to run to get to the Toyota Corolla.