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“Walked into an ambush meant for Blaze and his associates.”
Nassar turned the man’s words over in his head for a few moments. “Were there any survivors?”
“One of the cars your men arrived in was seen leavin
g the scene, but we have no information as to who was inside.”
A rebel fleeing the battle? One of Nassar’s own men? None had contacted him yet, but it was possible that they just hadn’t had the opportunity.
“Was there a white man among the dead, General? An FBI agent named Wilson was in command.”
“I don’t have those kinds of details yet. My people are just now moving in.”
“And you’ll provide me with that information as soon as you have it?”
“Of course.”
“Then I have only one last question for you, General. Do you know where Blaze and his people went?”
“I’m afraid that I don’t have the ability to share that information with you, Aali.”
It was a strangely constructed response. “Is that because you don’t know or because our financial transaction isn’t satisfactory?”
“Neither. It’s because of what Blaze’s new associate did to NaNomi. I see no profit in making an enemy of him.”
CHAPTER 51
South Sudan
THE city of Juba was thirty miles in the rearview mirror, and Joel Wilson still hadn’t spoken. Rapp glanced over and saw him staring through the windshield in a state that bordered on catatonia. Was it feasible that he was reevaluating the things he’d done? Could he actually be facing the fact that, after being duped by the Pakistanis, he’d just fallen into an identical trap set by the Saudis?
Rapp was still fifty-fifty on leaving the man’s body in the desert, but his enthusiasm for the idea was waning. The risks of counting on Wilson to pull his head out of his ass were astronomical, but the benefits might be, too. This kind of complex plotting was Irene Kennedy’s sphere of influence and he’d never seen any reason to get involved. With her out of the picture, though, a hammer couldn’t be the only tool in his box.
There was a poorly defined dirt track to his right and he took it, climbing a steep slope out of the scrub and into the trees. The change in scenery broke Wilson from his trance.
“Where . . . where are you taking me?”
“Relax, Joel. I need to talk to the asshole in the trunk before he bleeds out. Is there anything you can tell me about him?”
Wilson nodded. “His name is Malik. One of Nassar’s men.”
The road petered out in a small clearing surrounded by dense vegetation. Rapp stopped in the middle, stepping out and going around to the trunk. Any concerns he had that the man was dead from blood loss or heatstroke were put to rest before the trunk lid was even fully open. Malik swung a car jack at him with a piercing shout, missing by at least a foot.
Rapp didn’t bother to disarm the man, instead grabbing him by the hair and dragging him out into the dirt. The terrorist took another swing, but it passed harmlessly in front of Rapp’s shins.
“Get a photo.”
Wilson retrieved his phone and snapped a shot of the man’s face.
“Can you record audio on that thing?”
“Sure.”
“Then do it,” Rapp said, turning his attention to the man trying unsuccessfully to push himself to his feet. He’d been bleeding for a good forty-five minutes now and wouldn’t last much longer.
“Who are you?”
Malik spit a mouthful of blood in Rapp’s direction, answering in Arabic. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
