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It wasn’t difficult for him to nab a vehicle. He’d found a lone Somali about to get in one of their decrepit-looking AWD vehicles, hit him over the head with his gun and knocked him out, and pulled him into a grove of trees. He took the man’s clothes, changed into them, and fell into their convoy.
No one paid attention to him during the drive in from the desert, and once he got into the city, he immediately signaled for help.
“We were just headed your way,” Dutch told him when Striker answered his call. “We picked up your twenty about five minutes ago.”
“You got Mantis?” Striker asked.
“Negative. He’s not with you?”
“No, but he’s here in Mogadishu. You haven’t been able to track him?”
“Again, that’s a negative, sir.”
Striker shook his head, willing a good reason for Mantis to be out of range of contact.
“There are six Somalis transporting Halo and Tackle in. Who’s with you?”
“Onyx, Ranger, and Diesel, sir.”
“Outstanding. This should be a slam dunk.” And it would be if Mantis miraculously materialized.
It wasn’t long before Striker noticed his team’s tail. As soon as the Somali bastards turned the next corner, they’d ambush them, get Halo and Tackle, and leave the soon-to-be-dead Somalis behind.
“Everything went like clockwork,” Striker told her. “Until we had to face the fact that Mantis was still MIA. Dutch had a mole in the city, whom he made contact with. After several hours, we were able to confirm that Mantis had, in fact, been kidnapped right outside the city.”
“What did you do then?”
“Dutch ordered Onyx to bring me back to the States, and to be honest, with the shape I was in, it was the right call. He, Diesel, and Ranger went on to look for Mantis. With the information they had from the mole, they felt confident it wouldn’t take them long.”
“Have you heard anything?”
“I haven’t.” What he wouldn’t admit to Aine, or out loud to anyone, was that the team should’ve found Mantis and reported back to him several hours ago. That they hadn’t, filled him with dread. Something had to be wrong.
He’d just pulled into his garage when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at the screen.
We found him, it said.
Striker would’ve preferred Dutch had said, “we got him,” but he wasn’t going to quibble.
Roger that, he answered. Good job.
“What’s happened?” asked Aine.
“They found him.”
“Thank God,” she said, breathing out a sigh of relief that should’ve matched his own, but something still nagged at him.
Striker checked his phone again, but there was nothing more from Dutch. There were a number of possible explanations why he hadn’t sent an update, and many of them were positive. He’d learned a long time ago not to speculate either way until he had hard evidence.
He pushed the situation to the back of his mind, determined to focus on Aine, and the fact that it was still Christmas, and they were together.
“Come on inside, baby,” he said, “I’ll grab your things.”
Striker set the bag beside the front door and walked through his condo, turning on lights and upping the temperature on the thermostat. He leaned down and arranged a couple of logs in the fireplace, added kindling, and lit the fire.
When he turned around, Aine had a gift bag in her hand.
“I’ll be right back,” he told her. Striker took the stairs two at a time, knowing exactly where he had the gift he’d thought about giving her the whole time he was in Somalia.
