But they would not be getting there with any particular alacrity. Fifteen miles at five miles an hour. It didn’t take a mathematical wizard to know that meant three hours — three hours during which time they would be fully exposed to anyone who wanted to take a shot at them or their precious cargo.
The International Art Protection League’s unintentional stand-ins were more than ready for any outlaws who might try. Storm had assembled his CheyTac sniper rifle and wore it strapped across his back. Strike was, likewise, ready with her M16.
Just with those two weapons — and their proficiency at using them — they could repel a substantial force.
“So, Mr. Talbot, how is it you came to work for the International Art Protection League?” Raynes asked as they got under way.
“Friend of a friend recommended me. They pretty much hired me on the spot,” Storm lied smoothly.
“There was no interview process?
“I guess I’ve got that useful look about me,” Storm said.
Antony punctuated Storm’s boast with a loud belch. The camel had been his usual cantankerous self that morning. But at least he hadn’t tried to mate with anyone.
“And how long have you been working there, Mr. Talbot?” the professor asked.
“About two years now. And, please, call me Terry.”
“Two years. Impressive,” Raynes said. “Have you ever bumped across a man named Ramon Russo there?”
Storm did not allow even the faintest wrinkle to appear on his face. With no access to the Internet, he had been unable to do any research on the International Art Protection League. But he had faked his way through many such conversations during his years undercover. The trick was to answer the question without answering it. Politicians called it a “pivot,” and had usually perfected it by the time they finished their first campaign. Spies were no less masterful at it.
“You know, every time I hear the name Ramon Russo I think of the guy who played the part of the jock in 2 Cool for School back in the nineties,” Storm said. “Did you ever watch that show?”
“I can’t say as I did.”
“Oh, it was so funny. Every time this one character saw a pretty girl he’d say, ‘Hubba-hubba.’ So when you say the name Ramon Russo it makes me think, ‘Hubba-hubba.’”
Storm let out a belly laugh and added, “Classic. Just classic. Hubba-hubba! Hey, you want to quote movie lines? It’s a great way to pass the time. I’ll say the line. You say the movie. Okay, here goes: ‘Over? Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Nothing’s over until we say it is!’ Okay, what’s the movie? Come on, that’s an easy one.”
Storm caught Raynes looking at him with utter disdain and kept it going for the next hour, seldom letting the man cut in as he ran through the entire canon of Animal House, Caddyshack, Vacation, and other American film classics.
He was just getting into My Cousin Vinny when he saw a dust cloud rising in the distance. He cut off his version of Joe Pesci’s rant about the biological clock to say, “Looks like we’ve got company.”
STORM DIRECTED THE CARAVAN TO CLIMB to the top of a dune, where it would have the greatest visual and tactical advantage, then called for it to halt. He scrambled down off Antony, climbed to the top of one of the cargo truck’s cabs, unslung the CheyTac, and began setting up its legs. Given the cowardice of Raynes’s security forces, these bandits — assuming it was the same ones — had never encountered the slightest resistance. They had just stolen whatever they wanted, laughing the whole way. Things were about to change.
This was not, in the truest sense, his fight. It was surely not why he had come into the desert in the first place. But the basic framework of this confrontation offended his sense of decency. It was the strong picking on the weak. And to a man like Derrick Storm, that was always a fight worth having.
“What are you doing?” Raynes asked.
“In my experience, bullies are pretty much the same, the world over,” Storm replied, continuing his preparations. “Whether it’s the playground back home in America or the Sahara Desert, you need to punch them in the mouth before they take you seriously.”
The bandits continued their approach. Storm almost thought of himself like a chemist running assays to identify an unknown element. This particular test involved making one of the bandit’s heads explode like a target practice watermelon. Then he’d really see what these assailants were made of.
He was a good enough shot that, even with the raiding party closing in at fifty miles an hour, he was reasonably sure he could drop one of them at five hundred yards. He could then retarget and take out another one by the time they were within three hundred yards.
Then see how brave they were.
With his rifle set, Storm began a deep breathing exercise that would slow his heart rate. It was one of the first things an elite sniper learned: you had to pull the trigger in between beats. The slower your heart, the more of a window you had to squeeze off a shot.
Storm quickly got himself down to where he was going at least a second between beats. He decided his first target would be in the lead car, the one that was at the point of the rough V shape in which the bandits were approaching.
Storm drew a bead on the man’s head. It was a harder shot than going for center mass, yes. But it would also have a more dramatic effect — head shots being bloodier, more spectacular, and less unambiguous. A guy slumping over from being hit in the chest could have just fallen down. It scared no one. The same guy losing a chunk of brain matter before he dropped tended to take his comrades’ swagger away in a hurry.
There was no wind, which helped. Storm did some quick, rough math, judging how far the bullet would drop over the course of those five hundred yards. He set the crosshairs of his scope just above the man’s head, knowing gravity would bring the bullet down to hit him square between the eyes. He put his finger on the trigger, felt his heart. It was a rhythm thing. Storm always liked to pull the trigger after the third beat. Thump, pause, thump, pause, thump…
“Wait! Don’t shoot!” Raynes shouted.
“Why not?” Storm asked, without moving himself.
“Because I had a suspicion this would happen,” he said. “I had the workers replace all of the valuable finds with garbage.”
“Including Bouchard?”
“Especially Bouchard. That’s actually a box of sand in that truck. There’s nothing of value worth protecting. Let’s just give it to them. We’ll get Bouchard out another way.”
Storm lifted his head from his gun. The bandits were getting closer. Four hundred yards now. Whatever advantage Storm had being able to pick them off at a distance wasn’t going to last. According to Katie, the bandits had AK-47s. It was a weapon that grew vastly more effective at shorter range.
“I don’t care what’s in those trucks,” Storm said. “We have to send them a message.”
Storm moved his eye back to his scope.
“No! With all due respect, Terry, we are an archaeological expedition here to venerate this country’s great history, not a bunch of outlaws ourselves. We are here as guests of the Supreme Council of Antiquities. Part of the agreement we sign with the Supreme Council of Antiquities is that we will be law-abiding and peaceful. We’re not even supposed to have firearms. Please! There’s no point in shedding blood to protect a pile of sand. Let me just talk to them.”
The professor urged his camel toward the oncoming bandits. He raised his hands high in the air as the camel made a slow walk out.
“I don’t like this,” Storm said to Strike, who had come up from the rear on Cleopatra, with Katie trailing not far behind.