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The pale blue sky overhead is clear of our drones, so it’s just us kids. The CIA recently learned that our supposed allies have been locating our drones and passing along the information to the terrorists, so the fact that the convoy is on the move this early in the morning means they’re confident all is safe.
Cue a deadly lesson proving otherwise.
In my binoculars, the four SUVs emerge from the dust about thirty meters below us, clearly heading in our direction. One Abu Sayyaf leader is riding in the second SUV, the other in the rear SUV. The vehicles all seem to be black GMC Suburbans with tinted windows.
“Target acquired,” Jordan says.
I toggle a switch on my coat collar. “Zulu One, we’re acquired.”
“Same here, Zulu Lead,” Jeremy replies.
“Go,” I say, loud enough for both Jordan and Jeremy to hear.
There’s a muffled thump next to me as Jordan fires his suppressor-equipped rifle. “Clear hit,” says Santiago. “Driver is covered in blood, bone, and brains.”
Jeremy radios to me, “Clear shot, clear results.”
I look down at a multiple collision. The second SUV slams into a gray boulder, then another SUV rams it in the rear. Doors pop open and armed men bail out, bees flying out of a tipped-over hive, and Santiago whispers, “Oh, Amy, I would love to stay up here for a few more minutes. Look at all those lovely targets.”
Jordan says, “Don’t tempt me, Bro.”
“No temptation, no nothing,” I say, stowing my binoculars in my nearby rucksack. “Time to fly.”
I toggle my microphone one more time. “Zulu One, time to break. See you at the rendezvous.”
“Absolutely, Zulu Lead,” he says. “Zulu Two and I are on the move.”
Get the job done, and get the hell out.
I check my watch.
We should be picked up and safely out of here in thirty-five minutes.
But it takes only seven more minutes for disaster to strike.
Chapter2
WE QUICKLYbreak down our gear and go down a trail we hadn’t used before, because any repetition will get you noticed. Santiago is in the lead, Jordan is in the middle, and I’m Tail End Charlie.
I look at my watch once more. Analogue, old-fashioned, reliable. It will never need a battery at the wrong time, doesn’t beep to give away your position, and has no electronics to fry in case somebody tosses a nuke into the air someday. It doesn’t tell me the date, which is fine, because I know it’s May 22.
The path we are on is narrow—broken rock and gravel—and seems too rugged even for goats. Yet we move with confidence and speed toward the safety at the other end of the trail. Like me, Santiago is carrying his MP5 in his arms, head always moving: left, right; left, right. Jordan has his pistol out and is doing the same. As the one bringing up the rear, I have to move and look over my shoulder at the same time.
Jordan says, “This sun is starting to fry me. Where are all the cedar trees? I thought Lebanon was full of ’em.”
Ahead Santiago says, “Bro, King Solomon had them cut down, years and years ago.”
Then I brake to a halt and loudly whisper, “Hold!”
Santiago and Jordan turn to look at me. I put my left hand to my earpiece.
I press my fingers together on the transmission button clipped to my collar. “Zulu One, go.”
Some static, then “…have a bit of a problem, Zulu Lead.”
“What is it?”
I turn my head and close my eyes so I can focus on what I’m hearing.
