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Authors: Peter Nealen
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and hijack our way to where they can’t say it’s too dangerous, and call them to pick the lot of us up.” There was a set to Alek’s jaw. I knew the feeling. None of us was comfortable with the situation, but we were even less comfortable with the suits back in the States playing politics with American lives. Just like Captain Van Husten had said, we had all taken the oath, and nobody ever released us from it. “Believe me, I’m not letting those fuckers off the hook.”
There was a moment of silence, as everyone absorbed the new reality. As bad as it sucked, there was no whining, no, “We’re screwed, man!” Just quiet, angry acceptance that the job was going to be harder, and likely, not all of us would be going home after it.
“If we’re going to go ahead and push on,” Larry said, “we’d probably better finish getting ready for this meet tonight.”
And with that, we got back to work.
Chapter 5
I mad and I were sitting in the Defender, which we had idling on the dirt track about a hundred fifty yards from the entrance of the fence, watching the meeting place as the sun crept toward the hills to the west. Our loose shirts hid soft armor vests, pistols, and multiple spare mags. Tiny Bluetooth headsets were hidden in our ears.
“Not a lot of activity,” I observed. I’d expected more overt guards.
“He’s being cautious,” Imad said. “He seemed like the cagey type when I talked to him.” He stopped suddenly. “There. Just inside the fence.” I saw what he was talking about. There was a man standing there, in the increasing shade of the fence and a wide-topped acacia.
“Can you tell if it’s our boy, or one of his pals?” I asked.
Imad squinted. “Too dark, can’t tell. I think he’s a little too short to be our boy, though.”
I looked at my watch, checked against the position of the sun. “Almost sundown.”
“Yeah.” He pulled out his Kimber and brass-checked it for the third time. Satisfied, he holstered it and pulled his shirt back down over it. “Game time.” His voice was already slipping into his East African accent.
We got out and shut the doors. I walked around the front of the truck to join him, and he led off toward the farm. I kept about five meters distance, to the right and slightly behind him.
The farmhouse was surrounded by a five-foot sheet-metal fence, along which grew a row of acacias. The house walls were built from what looked like cinderblock, with a dusty metal roof. There was a lot of junk piled against the inside of the fence.
We walked slowly through the gate, if that’s what you wanted to call it. It was really just a gap in the fence. There were four young men standing or squatting around in the dusty yard, watching us intently. One of them pointed toward the house, but none of them spoke. Imad nodded to them, and we walked up onto the rickety porch. There were two windows and a badly-fitting screen door. I stationed myself next to the door while Imad went inside. I leaned my back against the cinderblock wall, and watched the four young bucks watching me.
The screen door slammed, and a man spoke in Somali, greeting Imad. Maybe it was me, but he sounded nervous. I folded my arms loosely, trying to look non-threatening, while still being in a position to get to my gun fast.
The conversation continued in the house. I knew it could take a while. Members of tribal societies rarely get straight to business. There has to be a certain amount of small-talk and “getting to know one another” beforehand. I couldn’t understand more than a few words, but it seemed to be going amicably enough.
Outside was uncomfortable. Not only were the bugs coming out, including swarms of mosquitoes, which made me glad of the mefloquine that Colton insisted we take every week, but there was something else, a certain tension. The four guys in the yard kept watching me, without speaking. The two squatting near the west fence would occasionally talk to each
There was a moment of silence, as everyone absorbed the new reality. As bad as it sucked, there was no whining, no, “We’re screwed, man!” Just quiet, angry acceptance that the job was going to be harder, and likely, not all of us would be going home after it.
“If we’re going to go ahead and push on,” Larry said, “we’d probably better finish getting ready for this meet tonight.”
And with that, we got back to work.
Chapter 5
I mad and I were sitting in the Defender, which we had idling on the dirt track about a hundred fifty yards from the entrance of the fence, watching the meeting place as the sun crept toward the hills to the west. Our loose shirts hid soft armor vests, pistols, and multiple spare mags. Tiny Bluetooth headsets were hidden in our ears.
“Not a lot of activity,” I observed. I’d expected more overt guards.
“He’s being cautious,” Imad said. “He seemed like the cagey type when I talked to him.” He stopped suddenly. “There. Just inside the fence.” I saw what he was talking about. There was a man standing there, in the increasing shade of the fence and a wide-topped acacia.
“Can you tell if it’s our boy, or one of his pals?” I asked.
Imad squinted. “Too dark, can’t tell. I think he’s a little too short to be our boy, though.”
I looked at my watch, checked against the position of the sun. “Almost sundown.”
“Yeah.” He pulled out his Kimber and brass-checked it for the third time. Satisfied, he holstered it and pulled his shirt back down over it. “Game time.” His voice was already slipping into his East African accent.
We got out and shut the doors. I walked around the front of the truck to join him, and he led off toward the farm. I kept about five meters distance, to the right and slightly behind him.
The farmhouse was surrounded by a five-foot sheet-metal fence, along which grew a row of acacias. The house walls were built from what looked like cinderblock, with a dusty metal roof. There was a lot of junk piled against the inside of the fence.
We walked slowly through the gate, if that’s what you wanted to call it. It was really just a gap in the fence. There were four young men standing or squatting around in the dusty yard, watching us intently. One of them pointed toward the house, but none of them spoke. Imad nodded to them, and we walked up onto the rickety porch. There were two windows and a badly-fitting screen door. I stationed myself next to the door while Imad went inside. I leaned my back against the cinderblock wall, and watched the four young bucks watching me.
The screen door slammed, and a man spoke in Somali, greeting Imad. Maybe it was me, but he sounded nervous. I folded my arms loosely, trying to look non-threatening, while still being in a position to get to my gun fast.
The conversation continued in the house. I knew it could take a while. Members of tribal societies rarely get straight to business. There has to be a certain amount of small-talk and “getting to know one another” beforehand. I couldn’t understand more than a few words, but it seemed to be going amicably enough.
Outside was uncomfortable. Not only were the bugs coming out, including swarms of mosquitoes, which made me glad of the mefloquine that Colton insisted we take every week, but there was something else, a certain tension. The four guys in the yard kept watching me, without speaking. The two squatting near the west fence would occasionally talk to each
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