“I just—”
“Dr. Atwan is downstairs,” True says, crowding behind them. “She’s coming with us. Now move.”
Dano gives in. He allows Miles to steer him. The little red light picks out the men on the floor, picks out the face of Abu Khamani glaring at them as they stumble past. Aloha, asshole, Miles thinks, but he’s too disciplined to say it aloud—or maybe he’s too superstitious. They’re not home yet.
His light finds the top of the stairs. He directs the beam down. The dim red glow wraps around an indistinct figure. “Ryan, is that you?”
Ryan confirms it. “Right here, pal.”
Miles follows with Dano, the red light revealing one step, then the next. He can’t see Jameson. Wrapped in darkness and camouflage, the soldier has become invisible.
But though Miles can’t see much, he hears things. Male voices. A hard percussion of footsteps. The throaty rush of wind.
He reaches a landing. From somewhere below comes a woman’s wailing wordless cry, one that shifts suddenly to a screaming protest in American-accented English. “No, no, you don’t understand. It won’t help. It’s too late.”
Dano is energized by that voice. “Fatima!” he yells in response. He picks up his pace, rushing Miles to the bottom of the stairs. “Fatima, where are you?”
Miles tightens his grip. “Leave it to the professionals,” he warns.
True peels off at the bottom of the stairs, leaving the three hostages to make their own way to the door.
“Lincoln.”
“Here.”
“Going to pick up a few souvenirs.”
“Do it. But be at the door in ninety seconds.”
“Roger that.”
She returns to the office that she and Jameson cleared on the way in. The door hangs open, its latch broken from when Jameson kicked it. She slips off her pack, digs out two radio-frequency shielded collection bags, and loads them with the obvious storage media: a laptop, a tablet, drives, sticks. That’s all she can take. She seals the bags.
“Lincoln.”
“Here.”
“I’m going to leave a kamikaze crab.”
He’s silent for almost five seconds. Then he says, “All right. Do it. The structure of the house should support it.”
She shrugs the pack back on, slings her KO over her shoulder, and with the two bags in hand, heads for the door. It’s been a few minutes since she checked in with Juliet, who was posted to the courtyard. Time to catch up.
“Juliet,” she says over comms. “What’s your status?”
“Prepped and ready. I’ve got the canopy sliced open and our bots collected.”
“You got all the mayflies?”
“Roger that. Recovered all four.”
Good. True is concerned about the legality of the mayflies. The neurotoxin they deliver might be considered chemical warfare. Best not to leave evidence behind.
Miles follows the beam of his red light around furnishings set up like obstacles in a large room. Ahead is an open doorway with a thin slice of dusty night sky visible beyond. Jameson waits there. Ryan heads for the door but the soldier says, “Hold up. Stand on the side. Keep the door clear. We exit last.”
Miles moves up, stands behind Jameson. From outside he hears the muted roar of powerful engines. A distant jet? And another aircraft, closer.
Boom!
He drops into a crouch, pulling Dano down with him as searing light flickers in the slice of night sky. A courtyard and two parked trucks are briefly revealed, along with a canopy, sliced open, loose edges rippling in the wind.
“That was us,” Jameson says. “Just clearing the skies of cameras.”
Miles stands up again, shaking. Ryan is right beside him, breathing in labored gasps. “Hey,” Miles says. “You okay?”
“Ask me in ten.”
“Right.”
A clatter of motion draws his attention back to the house’s interior. A shadowy tide of soldiers, more sensed than seen, flows from a hallway to the left of the stairs. As they reach the door, glints from their visors and red sparks reflected from his little light give them vague definition. Miles counts four of them and realizes they are carrying a body. He gets only a glimpse before they’re out the door, but that’s enough for a mental snapshot. The body is confined in a canvas bag zipped up to the chin; a black hood covers its head. The sight makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He is sure the body is Hussam’s.
All or nothing, he thinks. Either they get out of here in the next few minutes or every one of them is dead. He grits his teeth and waits for the signal to move out.
Aircraft noise gets louder, deafening, as a helicopter comes in. No navigation lights. No spotlight. It hovers over the courtyard, rotor wash blasting dust in through the open doorway.
Miles leans over to get a better look at the operation, but it’s too dark to see what’s going on. All he can make out are shadows and glints. Then an oblong object rises into the slice of open sky, its shape silhouetted against charcoal clouds. Hussam’s corpse. It’s lifted over the wall as the unseen helicopter roars away.
With the engine noise in retreat, Miles hears something else, something closer: a woman breathing in tiny, high-pitched gasps. She sounds as if she’s just inches away. Cautiously, he raises his light.
Dano turns to look too. “Fatima,” he whispers.
She is dressed in a thin white shift. A broad Velcro restraining strap secures her arms against her body. A soldier stands behind her, gloved hands on her shoulders. Fatima wears no veil, no hijab. Her black hair hangs loose and wild, and in the red light her eyes have the appearance of unnatural black pits, haunted, in a face that is waxy and drawn.
“Dushane, are you ready?” True Brighton asks him.
He startles at the question, having lost track of her. He turns, finds her beside him, and answers, “Yes, ma’am. Are we getting the fuck out of here now, ma’am?”
“Roger that. We are crossing the courtyard and exiting through the gate, into the street. You will get your people into the back of the waiting truck. Understood?”
“Absolutely, ma’am.”
“Switch off your light.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let’s go.”
Miles can’t see a damn thing as they move out across the courtyard. All he can do is follow the sound of the soldiers ahead of him while keeping a hand on Ryan’s shoulder and a grip on Dano’s arm. Grit under his bare feet and the occasional thorn make him wince, but he doesn’t slow down. Ahead he hears shouts and the ripping thunder of over-accelerating gasoline engines racing toward their position. It sounds like this escape attempt is going to run straight into the enemy’s arms. But there’s no going back.
The shooting starts as they reach the gate. He sees distant muzzle flashes like sideways candles. Hears bullets buzzing down the street, tumbling against the walls. Answering fire erupts, deafening in its proximity. The attackers fall back.
There is no moon, and there are no houselights to be seen anywhere along the street. Blowing dust shrouds all but the brightest stars. He can see a waiting truck only by the dim red light that spills from its open doors. It’s a double-cab pickup with a high clearance and a rigid canopy enclosing the cargo bed. One of the soldiers opens the tailgate doors. “Get inside! Strap into a harness if you can. If not, fucking hold on.”
Ryan doesn’t hesitate; he scrambles right in. Miles pushes Dano after him and then crawls in behind.