The Night Ranger (29 page)

“You can trust me,” Wells said.

Wizard smirked. “How many times you lie to me already? Kill my men. Now telling me, do what you say. Now, what if I foolish enough to believe you, give up these wazungu? Out there, not ten kilometers away, creeping close and close, Awaale got three hundred Ditas—”

“Ditas? Is that what you call Shabaab?”

Wizard shook his head like he couldn’t believe Wells didn’t know. “Not Shabaab. Dita Boys. Fighters.”

“A local militia.”

“Yeah, militia. Awaale tells me I don’t give over the wazungu by sunrise he gon’ attack me. I got not even seventy soldiers and now one technical left. If Awaale come, half my men go to him straight straight. The rest of us, he slit our throats and leave the bones for the hyenas. He want this land for
himself
. You say I got to be frightened of these Americans, but they not here. Maybe I take all you wazungu and hide away—”

“You think you can hide from the drones.”

“No. You right. We gon’ stay right here. Die like men. All of us.” Wizard poured himself a fresh finger of Johnny Walker Blue and reached for Wells’s glass. Wells covered it.

“Keep me. Gwen and Hailey and Owen didn’t ask for this.”

“Anyone ever ask to die, mzungu?”

Wizard’s eyes glinted from the scotch, but his voice was steady and Wells knew better than to argue anymore. He wondered if he could overcome Wizard despite his fever, make a play for the hut with the hostages, but the Somali rested his hand lightly on his pistol.

“Been friends ’til now. Keep it that way.”

Even if he disarmed Wizard, he’d die before he got to the hostages, and they would, too. So close and yet so far. Maybe the SEALs would arrive in time and hit the camp perfectly and they’d all live. But Wells didn’t think so.

“You want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself,” Wells said.

“What that?”

“I said I’m going to learn plumbing when I get home. The basics, anyway. Expecting Anne to clear the drains is ridiculous. Can I have some water? There’s some in my pack.”

Wizard handed him a bottle. Wells forced himself to sip. He’d find a way through this night yet. He wondered how many hours he’d spent in rooms like this, huts and cells and airless apartments in the places anyone with a choice left behind. Such a strange way to spend a life, and yet he’d picked it freely.

“You Muslim, Wizard?”

“Little bit.”

“That sounds about right. Me, too.”

“Ditas, too, but they shoot us all anyway. They don’ care what Allah think. Hey, mzungu, how come you didn’t shoot me on the hill?”

“I didn’t come here for you. I came here for them.”

“But I tol’ you on the phone no way.”

“I thought I could change your mind.”

“You wrong.”

“Figured that out my own self.” Wells leaned back against the wall of the hut, closed his eyes. He didn’t expect to think of anything except the pounding in his head, but when he opened them he had a plan. He forced himself to stand, took a deep breath to clear his head. “Wizard. What if I can get rid of Awaale? Kill him. Will you let me have the
w
azungu?”

“No more Dita Boys?”

“I can’t promise that, but with your help I can kill Awaale at least.”

“And pay ransom?”

“Ransom, too. That’s ambitious.”

“They kill Samatar—”

“The guard.”

“Yah. I need something to show my men.”

And yourself.
But Wells didn’t argue. “There’s forty thousand in the pack. In a bag at the bottom. That’s all I have.”

“Forty thousand shillings.”

“Forty thousand dollars, give or take. Not too bad for one day’s work. And I’ll throw in my lifesaving idea for free.”

Wizard sorted through the pack until he found the money, bundled up and dry in a Ziploc bag. “Okay. What your idea, mzungu?”

“First things first. You have a way to reach Awaale?”

25

L
ANGLEY

T
he drone pilot was no taller than Shafer, muscled up the way short guys so often were. Like he thought he was fighting for real instead of with a keyboard. He had slick black hair combed straight back. His name was Augustine Tomaso. Shafer couldn’t believe anyone outside the Old Country went for names like that anymore. He wanted to ask Tomaso,
Was there a recent wave of Sicilian immigration that I missed? Was it for a favorite uncle? Some kind of retro hipster thing? Come on, man, I have to know. And, by the way
, what’s
with the hair?
He kept his mouth shut. Tomaso might look like a
Sopranos
extra, but he’d been invaluable so far.

The actual flying was the easiest part of piloting a drone. Unlike fighter jets, unmanned aerial vehicles were underpowered and designed to fly slowly and smoothly. The Reaper’s long wings gave it plenty of lift. Its onboard software rejected commands that might make it stall or spin out. Overriding the software was possible but rarely necessary. CIA and Army drones could even take off and land on their own—and they had a better safety record than Air Force drones, which pilots controlled during takeoff and landing. The gap didn’t give Shafer much confidence in humanity’s future.

But the pilot wasn’t entirely useless. His real job was making sense of the flood of information from the drone’s cameras, heat sensors, and radar. Both the drone and the computers that controlled it from the ground had software filters to process the data. But the software couldn’t tell a kid holding a stick from a guerrilla pointing an AK, or a wedding party from a terrorist meeting. When three pickups filled with armed men broke off in three directions, the computers couldn’t decide which was the most important to follow. Not yet, anyway. And tonight, when Wells asked for the Reaper to annihilate a row of technicals, the software didn’t know that the right move after the bomb hit would be a pivot back to the center of camp to see how the White Men reacted.

“They’re going crazy out there,” Tomaso said. “See?”

Shafer didn’t. Worse, he wasn’t sure where Tomaso wanted him to look. The pilot’s workstation was straight out of a Wall Street trading floor, a half-dozen computer monitors offering different feeds. The smallest screen, on the far right, replicated the altitude, speed, and heading of the drone’s flight against a plain blue background.
The dummy shot,
Tomaso said when Shafer asked.
In case I get confused.
The Reaper’s thermal cam fed another monitor with a smorgasbord of red and blue streaks that reminded Shafer of the worst acid trip of his life. Forty-five years ago, and his mouth still went dry to remember.

“What am I looking for?”

“They’re huddling up.” Tomaso pointed to a cluster of reddish shapes on the thermal cam. “If we wanted mass casualties, this would be the time. Put a bomb in there, it’s seventy-five percent KIA, WIA.” Tomaso knew the outlines of the mission, that the hostages were probably in the camp and an American operative was nearby, but no details.

“Not on the agenda.” Not yet, anyway.

“Looks like this guy’s talking.” A red splotch that Shafer now recognized as a man stood in the center of the thermal cam, surrounded by dozens of similar streaks. Tomaso clicked on the man, surrounding him with a white border.

“Now, he moves anywhere, we’ll go with him. It’s a long shot. Let me see if I can get anything from the optical cam. Be nice to see his face.” Tomaso pulled up yet another menu on another screen and ran through a series of commands. “Clouds still too thick.”

The red figure grew taller. “What’s that?” Shafer said.

“Raising his arms. Rousing the troops, maybe.”

Shafer wondered what this man who called himself Wizard was telling his soldiers. Probably trying to calm them after the shock of the explosion. Whatever he said didn’t take long. The clot of men broke up, and the white-bordered figure marched toward the site of the explosion.

“Checking out what we did to his trucks,” Tomaso said. “Want me to go with him?”

“Yes.”

Tomaso pulled up a menu. “I’m dialing down the therms so they don’t fry the screen when we go back over there. There’s an autofilter that comes on when you play Whac-A-Mole with the Hellfires or the GBUs, but I took it off when we went to the center of camp.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“Nah, man, I like it, it’s thinking out loud. Plus I’ve found that above a certain age, this isn’t that intuitive for people.”

“What age would that be? Eleven?”

“No offense. It’s easier if you’ve grown up with video games.”

“None taken, Augustine.”

Tomaso raised an eyebrow:
You’re old enough to be my grandpa and you’re making fun of my name? Classy.

The Reaper’s cameras turned far faster than the aircraft, so the drone flew away from the men on its screens for nearly a minute. The change in perspective made Shafer vaguely seasick. Tomaso didn’t seem to mind, or even to notice. Shafer had never felt so obsolete.
Those old Mustangs were great. Pretty as anything. But they’d hardly get off the line today.

“Okay, now they’ve met this third guy—”

—

Shafer’s phone rang. Wells. Who wasn’t showroom clean but still had a few years of useful life. Shafer hoped.

“You hit the trucks.”

“Blew out three technicals.”

“How did they react?”

“They didn’t exactly muster into squads and secure the perimeter. Lot of confusion. You’re still on the southwest side.”

“Correct.”

“The sentry—”

“Took care of him. You looking at me?”

“No. Watching guys on the hill above the trucks. We think one’s Wizard, but we can’t be sure. If they come your way, we’ll pick you up again. Give me your coordinates so we know exactly where you are.”

Wells did. “Don’t confuse me with the sentry. He’s maybe eighty meters closer to camp.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Didn’t say he was dead. Said I took care of him.”

“Like a massage, you mean.”

“Any read on where they’re keeping the hostages?”

“Not yet.”

“Tell me exactly what happened after the bomb hit.”

It was then that Shafer recounted the meeting, and Wells told Shafer his plan:
Wizard
should be ready to deal . . . and if not I’ll take him out.

Shafer wasn’t so sure Wizard would give up the hostages, but they’d long passed the point of no return, so he didn’t argue.

“What now?” Tomaso said when Shafer hung up.

“Keep tracking the commander.”

“Right. Got good news on the weather too, bro. Rain’s passing within the hour. We’ll have better visuals even before the sun comes up.”

“Bro.”

“Sign of respect.”

The three shapes walked away from the fire, toward Wells. The Reaper followed and along the way made a pass over camp. “Can’t be sure, but I’m guessing the hostages are in those western huts,” Tomaso said. “Lot of activity over there.”

Close to Wells. Maybe a lucky break. If he could take out Wizard clean and quick . . . and the Reaper’s Hellfires killed the guys in the open and Wizard’s lieutenants were among them . . . and Wells reached camp and found the hostages before someone put a magazine in them . . . and they escaped and the remaining White Men didn’t want to risk the Reaper and decided to let them go . . . Four big ifs. Each might have a fifty-fifty shot of breaking for Wells, which meant the overall odds of a rescue were one in sixteen. Not even ten percent.

But then, Wells didn’t like to play if the game was easy. He didn’t want to win by twenty. He preferred the ball at his own five, down six, two minutes to go. He put himself in these situations intentionally. Though he would never own up to that truth. He was a thrill-seeking killer, a father who’d abandoned his wife and infant son, an operative who lied with ease to further his mission. He was also the bravest man Shafer had ever met. He never blamed anyone for the decisions he’d been forced to make, or asked for relief from the memories he carried. He judged himself, and his verdicts were as harsh as any the world could offer.

John Wells was awfully simple and awfully complicated.

—

Now Shafer saw him, or a dull reddish blotch that represented him, on the thermal screen. The three Somalis had arrived near the sentry. They all burned a brighter red than Wells.

“Why’s he look so washed out?”

“Likely he’s covered in mud. Dulls the heat signature.” Tomaso clicked on Wells and a blue border appeared around his figure. Blue for friendly.

The Somali commander went to the sentry. A minute later the sentry stood and walked back to camp, leaving the commander and the two soldiers alone on the hill. For several minutes Wells stayed in place, downslope from the Somalis. Shafer wondered if they were yelling to one another. Or maybe Wells was waiting in silence, gauging the moment to attack.

Then a surprise. Wells stood and walked directly to the commander as the man stepped down the hill to him.

“What’s he doing?” Tomaso said.

Shafer wondered, too. Without audio, he couldn’t guess. No way the Somali could have seen Wells. He hadn’t needed to surrender. Maybe he’d traded his own life for the hostages. Maybe Wizard had tricked him, though Shafer couldn’t see how.

Wells walked toward camp, the Somalis around him. Tomaso kept the cameras on him until he entered a hut beside Wizard. “What now? Want me to look for the hostages?”

“Let’s stay on the hut.”

—

Then, disaster.

In the form of Vincent Duto, DCI. He laid his thick hand on Shafer’s scrawny shoulder as Shafer stared at the screen. Shafer didn’t flinch. He pinched the skin of Duto’s hand until Duto released his grip.

Duto was wearing a gray suit that accentuated his shoulders and a shirt whiter than any piece of clothing Shafer had owned in his life. He looked like a politician. A winning one. “Vinny. Meet Augustine. One of your landsmen.”

“What’d I miss?”

“We hit the technicals. Now Wells is in camp.”

“He snuck in.”

“He walked in with three Somalis.”

“Captured.”

“Didn’t look that way,” Tomaso said. “Looked like he came in under his own power.”

“Come,” Duto said to Shafer.

“It hurts me when you talk to me that way. Like I’m a dog.”

Tomaso snorted.

“Greaser,” Shafer said. “Anything happens, you find us.”

“No need to take it out on him,” Duto said.

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

Duto led Shafer to an empty conference room and waved his magic director’s key card to unlock the door, let them in. The high-security basement suite of offices where the drones were managed had its own dedicated air-conditioning to defeat the heat that all the computer equipment produced. Arctic jets of air swirled from a half-dozen vents and converged on Shafer’s bald head. At the far end of the room, strings of software code covered three whiteboards. The drone program had more than its share of comp sci Ph.Ds.

Duto reached into his inside suit pocket, came out with a silver-dollar-sized piece of black plastic. He laid the device on the table. A light on top flashed green and red before switching to a steady green.

“You’re seriously worried someone’s listening to us, Vinny? Getting paranoid.”

“Why’d Wells give himself up?”

“Truth. I don’t know. I’m guessing he’s working out a deal.”

“If he’s trading himself for them, he’s even dumber than I thought.”

“I believe you mean braver.”

“Has he said he’s seen them yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. So I’ve gotten some expert advice, and as long as he doesn’t tell us he’s seen them with his own eyes, we’re still in hearsay mode and we happy three have a free hand.”

Expert advice. Which meant Duto had talked to a lawyer. Presumably to ask what he risked by not immediately telling the White House that Wells might have found the hostages. Shafer wondered if Duto had gone to the CIA’s general counsel. Probably not. Probably he’d asked someone who would answer to him alone. “Inside or out?”

“You think I’d stay inside on this, you’re also dumber than I thought. Justin Lerer.”

Lerer had been a federal prosecutor specializing in national security and terrorism cases before leaving the government. Now he was building a reputation as the best kind of lawyer, the kind who made problems go away before they reached a judge, but who could go to court and win if necessary.

“Know what he said.” Duto wasn’t asking. “That if I wanted to be sure I was clear, I ought to call the White House soon as I hung up with him. I told him that I couldn’t do that yet. Not until we know where John stands.”

“Now you want me to believe you’re worried about him.”

“He deserves a chance, that’s all.” Duto seemed almost defensive, as if he feared that caring about Wells might be a moral failing. “He’s given a lot to this place.”

“You want a medal for not listening to a lawyer? Waiting a couple hours to make a call. Scared little toad. You belong in the Senate.”

“Keep pushing me, Ellis, and I will call the White House. Let them take over. You want to take your chances with that?”

Shafer didn’t need to answer. Wells had no use for politics, and presidents of either party rarely went out of their way to help anyone who wasn’t useful to them, much less anyone who disdained their power and its trappings. Wells didn’t even have the protection of celebrity any longer. After his first major mission, he’d become a public figure. But he’d done everything possible to keep his exploits private in the years since. CIA and Special Forces officers still knew his name, but civilians had forgotten. Besides, his three most recent missions weren’t the type anyone wanted to remember.

So Shafer couldn’t count on the National Security Advisor or anyone else at 1600 Pennsylvania caring about Wells. Whether or not they said so, they would view him as one more ex–CIA operative skulking around Africa for his own reasons. The President’s men wanted the hostages back. Some of them wanted an excuse to invade Somalia, too. As for Wells, he’d have to fend for himself. Duto’s history with Wells was often unhappy, but at least they had a history.