Sean’s face became puzzled, and he looked over at his friend. “For what?”
“For always saying you were just lucky. I guess you really are that good.”
“Better lucky than good.”
Tommy smirked. “Like I always say, why not have both?”
20
Up ahead, the roads on the outskirts of the city were clogged with thousands of motorcycles, mopeds, compact cars, delivery vans, and rickshaws. Sharouf hadn’t stuck around to watch the emergency crews arrive on the scene. He was certain they were working hard to clear the road of the wreckage by now. Both lanes would likely have been closed until the bodies were removed from the vehicle. Then a further delay until a tow truck could pull the sedan to the road’s shoulder. Based on what he’d seen immediately following the incident, the first responders surely would have had to cut the bodies out of the sedan’s twisted remains.
Memories of the event ripped through Sharouf’s mind. The man in the backseat with him had been the first one to take a bullet. Exiting from the back of his guard’s head, the round had flown precariously close, narrowly missing Sharouf’s face and striking the window behind him. Blood and tissue had sprayed across Sharouf, and the body toppling backward had thrown him off balance.
He never saw the driver take the fatal bullet that caused him to lose control of the vehicle.
Sharouf hadn’t been in a car accident before, but he wasn’t afraid during the event. When the vehicle started flipping, he found himself suspended in midair several times, his body striking the seat, the corpse of his assistant, and then the roof, over and over again. He’d balled up in a fetal position to protect his head when the driver’s side backseat door flew open and he was miraculously deposited on the asphalt.
The second he felt the warm pavement against his skin, he looked up to see the car tumble to a standstill on its roof. A quick glance back revealed smoke, debris, and a few cars in the distance that were already beginning to slow, having seen the incident with a front row seat.
The top of Sharouf’s skull started pounding. It must have struck several surfaces during the wreck. He winced and noticed his arm was also aching. He shook off the pain and forced himself to stand. The act was clumsy at first, like a newborn colt trying to get onto its hooves for the first time, but he was able to regain his balance after applying some focus.
Staggering toward the vehicle, Sharouf clutched his arm as he walked through the thin river of coolant, transmission fluid, and gasoline that leaked from the car and ran to the shoulder. He struggled around to the other side of the smoking vehicle and took a quick inventory.
The driver had a hole in the side of his head, and his neck was bent at an awkward angle. He didn’t need to check the guy in the back. Sharouf already knew he was dead. Some of the man’s blood still stuck to Sharouf’s face. He took the bottom part of his shirt to remove what little he could of the thickening crimson liquid.
He stole a quick look to the right and saw a lone car, a five-door, rusted-out blue hatchback slowing down on the other side of the road. The driver stopped the vehicle and opened his door. He was a short, middle-aged man wearing a tan-colored windbreaker and generic blue jeans. He was clearly a local, and his lips spat out a flurry of words that Sharouf didn’t understand.
The stranger crossed the median, still babbling loudly. It looked like he was coming to help. Sharouf looked back down to the ground and saw his pistol lying on the car’s ceiling, next to his driver’s foot. Miracle number two. He reached down and picked up the pistol, though the motion sent a fresh pain signal through his body. As the man approached, Sharouf stayed hunched over, half feigning misery until the good Samaritan was out of view from the approaching vehicles.
Satisfied the yammering man was out of sight, Sharouf aimed his weapon at him and motioned for his jacket. The stranger resisted at first, shaking his head and taking a step back. Sharouf insisted, jamming the barrel into the man’s ribs.
“I need that,” he said in heavily accented English.
Fear swept over the stranger’s face, and he quickly obeyed, sliding the jacket off his body and handing it to the gunman.
Sharouf kept the weapon trained as he slipped into the snug windbreaker. The man was almost half his size, but he only needed the covering for a minute. As soon as he was gone, he could take it off.
He motioned for the man to sit down on the ground, which he did immediately. Sharouf briefly considered shooting him, but he could see the stranger was too afraid to do anything.
“You stay,” Sharouf ordered. “Follow, and die. Understand?”
The man nodded, though the confusion mingling with fear in his eyes caused Sharouf to wonder. Still, he doubted the stranger would be any trouble.
He tucked the gun into his belt and started for the hatchback. As he approached, Sharouf could hear the dashboard dinging, signaling that the key was still inside. Off to his right, another few cars approached, only a half kilometer away. He waded through the grass in the median and back onto the asphalt before giving a tertiary check back at the wreckage to make sure the good Samaritan had stayed put. He could see the man’s legs and feet sticking out from behind the trunk, telling him that the guy was still where he was supposed to be.
Sharouf hopped into the car and turned the key. The rickety engine coughed to life. He shifted it into gear and drove away, heading back toward the city.
Ten minutes later, Sharouf was sitting in traffic on the outskirts of Yogyakarta. He’d put the window down and attempted to look casual, donning a pair of cheap sunglasses the driver had left in the passenger seat. Seven minutes ago, two ambulances, a fire truck, and three police cars sped by on the other side of the road, heading to the scene. Back in the big city, it would be easy enough for him to ditch the vehicle and disappear. It was a routine Sharouf had gone through several times. He knew how to drop off the radar. Getting back to Dubai would be tricky, but he could manage. The bigger problem in his mind at the moment was the fact that he’d allowed Wyatt and his friend to escape.
After ten minutes of sitting in stop-and-go traffic, Sharouf reached a stoplight. His intentions were to turn right and head downtown, but as he pondered how to tell Mamoud what happened, another thought occurred to him.
When he and his men finally breached the iron door in the central stupa at Borobudur, they found it empty, save for the toppled statue of Buddha, some candles and urns, and a hole in the floor. He’d run around to the back wall to see how the Americans had been able to disappear and found the escape tunnel. In his rush to capture the two men, he’d sent two of his men down after them but hadn’t paid much attention to the stone drawer that they’d left behind. Now, sitting at the red light, his memory recalled seeing something carved into the bottom of the drawer.
The light turned green, and he hesitated. The car behind him, a red compact two-door, started honking, urging him to hurry through the intersection.
Sharouf took a deep breath. There was still a chance to save the mission — and perhaps his life. While he’d been loyal to Mamoud for several years, his boss had no tolerance for failure. Sharouf feared no one, but he knew what could happen if he let down the wealthy young Arab.
The decision made, he pounded the gas and shot through the intersection just as the light turned red. Instead of turning right, though, he yanked the wheel to the left and headed back toward Borobudur.
If the Americans had found something there, they would have it with them, and there’d be no chance of recovering it. If, however, the stupa had been empty and only served to provide another clue, it could be that whatever was inscribed on that drawer could give him a hint as to their next destination.